Oh, and because my computer practically caught on fire and stopped working as I was beginning to put this Phriday together, I had to resort to my backup – a shitty laptop from the 1970s. Because it has no monitor and the keyboard is roughly the size of a small pocket calculator, I'm going to skip writing my obnoxious, cookie-cutter comments. Please, dear readers, do not kill yourselves over this gravest of tragedies!
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
Were you enjoying your day? STOP! There is outrageous crap going on you need to know about!
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