Needless to say, the fairy went a-running from your little Johnny G. like a porter who'd just seen a ghost. Crystal had fire in her eyes--this skirt was served over-easy, just the way like I like 'em. "Say, Crystal, you're a choice piece of calico. What say we split some chopped tuber chips and get to know each other, vertical-wise?" She started digging around in her pocket for something, by chance revealing a few jagged C-Section scars--here was a dame with experience. But before I could get a taste of my old pal Mr. Pepper spray, that jelly bean of a manager shoves a paper bag in my hands and tells me to scramola. Well, when I got that grub my face lit up like a porter who'd just seen some hot white tomato. I shot a look back at Crystal: "Our future, kitten. It's written in the stars. Not the sun-- which is actually a star, but dangerous to try and read."
Well, ma and pa, I got to tell you that sometimes the Man Upstairs isn't always so busy emptying his bowels on the apple of your eye that he can't feed all of those starving Orientals. That's what He must have been doing that night, because when I got back to my Cavalier what did I find? Not one, but two orders of steaming hot potato filings in that paper sack. That chow might've turned my anus topsy-turvy by sunrise, but I'll tell you this: even though my gut exploded like a porter full of lit dynamite, I was still dizzy over that dame. If the boys in blue didn't know my mug, I'd be down at Mac Donald's pitching woo at Crystal like some sort of out-of-control woo-pitching mechanical man. And if someone made a moving picture out of that idea, I'd go see it.
Honest, ma and pa, I'm feeling about as guilty as a porter caught red-handed in a watermelon patch about not seeing you two this year. But Uncle Bad Luck's been breathing down my neck all year and touching me in places where uncles shouldn't tread. I'm hoping next year at Florida State will be a little easier on the old bones. If you two can get together enough scratch to buy your little Johnny a Christmas gift, please send me a Nintendo Wii. I've heard some wop named Mario needs help saving the galaxy, and I got nothing better to do. Point your peepers at the included Best Buy ad to get the skinny. And if you could pick up some component cables, too, that'd be aces.
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
Can't tell a drinking fountain from a urinal? We've got you covered. Brush up on your drinking fountain enthusiast -- or sipper -- vocabulary and learn to talk and swap sips with the best of them.
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