I'm More Self-Absorbed than Bounty!
I'm a User, an Loser, and an Abuser, so spread my ass-cheeks and get ready to swallow 'cause mama's about to give you a semi-liquid blog posting suited to fill the bellies of pathetic, slithering worms such as yerselves.
Update #1
My squirrel-killing fucker car finally went and fucked itself and it is officially dead. I got its death certificate notarized by my lawyer pal the Cap'N (we call her that cause she likes to go "crunch crunch"). So now, while I've been driving the Ford Expedition owned by my boyfriend the Hatmaker and cruising down near the Missouri border for some hitchhikers I've been stopping off at all the best car places, you know, Marengo, Ottumway, Bentonsport, Fond du Lac, just looking for a replacement when my man-whore takes his S.U.V. back over my cold, lifeless, trembling body with my gun.
I found a really terrible one in Fairfield - the home of Fairway, the Meditation grocery store with the good meat counter. It was a 1987 Volkswagen Golf with Tibetan prayer beads and a seat cushion made from the scalps of vanquished sherpas. But the fuckers wanted too much money for it - it's hard to barter with those T.M.ers when they don't know the value of a good piss-bath or even a good old fashioned spanking, the way Roger does.
Sometimes I laugh outloud for no apparent reason except for that asshole Jeff.
Update #1
My squirrel-killing fucker car finally went and fucked itself and it is officially dead. I got its death certificate notarized by my lawyer pal the Cap'N (we call her that cause she likes to go "crunch crunch"). So now, while I've been driving the Ford Expedition owned by my boyfriend the Hatmaker and cruising down near the Missouri border for some hitchhikers I've been stopping off at all the best car places, you know, Marengo, Ottumway, Bentonsport, Fond du Lac, just looking for a replacement when my man-whore takes his S.U.V. back over my cold, lifeless, trembling body with my gun.
I found a really terrible one in Fairfield - the home of Fairway, the Meditation grocery store with the good meat counter. It was a 1987 Volkswagen Golf with Tibetan prayer beads and a seat cushion made from the scalps of vanquished sherpas. But the fuckers wanted too much money for it - it's hard to barter with those T.M.ers when they don't know the value of a good piss-bath or even a good old fashioned spanking, the way Roger does.
Sometimes I laugh outloud for no apparent reason except for that asshole Jeff.
posted by Cootersnack at 2:20 PM
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