That won’t fit!
OK, so fine, you want to cramitin there. Who could blame you? Let us talk of many things; of anteaters and mangoes, of bogarts and splenic secretions.
Today’s scheduled improve sketches are based on pulse in a predetermined pattern, swallowing the hair in big time sexy fun manner. Statues of little gods going about their business as there did not exist nary a whit, this thing we call climate change. Of course, all those liberal pansies jumped that bandwagon hard. Hardly? No,that makes no sense...
Pasty faced endomorphs summon us, beckoning and baconing their weaselly permutations of string cheese orchestras, with their fancy chamber music and printed programs with no misspelling... there he is, 7’ 2” of strapping, oily young beefcake in a tutu and cowboys, wearing a gas mask. And the sexual tension is palpable. In OG bands of sycophants, the wayward gullible don’t know whether to shit or go blind.
I’m noting some cursing here, and I’ll have you know, I won’t have it. They threatened my goats, badgered my badgers, gabby-fool the Siciliano piano tuner with moderate to extreme prejudice. It depends on when you touchdownon the enemy’s soil. Dates divisible by 5 preclude lumberjacking on sundays, except for every third woodpecker, shiny gimbals secreting their secrets... secretly. Rock the Caspar.
In the great pantheon of Zimbat Buddhism, little gods can be persuaded to influence certain... events. And I’m here to tell you right now, aon; it. Won’t. Fit.