January 12th 2007
I removed the chloroform soaked rag from Dr. Boof's mouth, and struggled to fit his scrubs on. He's a generously sized fellow, but he's no match for my girth.
Busting out of the janitors closet, I stomped towards the ER. You're my patient. Your ass is grass and I'm the lawn mower.
The surgery begins without a hitch, and your stomach is soon exposed. In a blinding flash, I grab the scalpel, slice open a meaty chunk, and hork my Double Bacon Chee with the quickness. Dabbing my index finger in your blood, I cackle madly as I swab a message on the wall...
August 22, 2007
Saw a mom running by my window today. Your mom. Bingo.
Strapped on my corrective shoes (I get shin splints) and slammed the door shut with my bearfist. I got on my custom made Power Wheels Escalade and slap on my Ray Bans.
Cruisin' at a safe distance, she doesn't notice anything. Nothing but a man in his Escalade (want a ride honey?? Congratulations. Now you can.) As I approach, she begins to recognize the reckless gleam in my eye. She knows she's about to be puked.
Tucking and rolling onto the sidewalk, I take her down at the knees. I open my mouth, but not to talk. As she covers her face in a futile attempt to stem the flow, she rapidly begins to lose consciousness. As she fades peacefully, I place two coins on her eyes to facilitate her slumber.
If you are 35 and you are not integrated into the Gigathrax then you are not ready to retire.
While designing this space, I imagined David Fincher being forced to recreate the music video for Nine Inch Nails' Closer in a haunted gas station bathroom.
My game is funded. Now I know everything.
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