I always considered myself a “sharp” person. Little did I know that this would lead me into a potential job. Behold yours truly, the seller of knives.
I am now a knife salesman. I sell knives. I’m going to be richer than red velvet cake. I’ll see you later as I drive down the street in my Rolls Royce.
After my bout with the jobbers, Glenna, Laurel, their friend Luke and I went to eat at La Hacienda. I do love Mexican food. I also love Mexicans. Mmm. No I don’t. I ate a good six pounds worth of nachos and salsa. I hate it when spicy salsa burns my mouth. For some reason I feel like the only remedy to a hot mouth is more hot salsa. Instead of gulping water savagely to neutralize the fiery blaze on my taste buds, I continue to fuel the fire with more salsa. Interesting.
I will be leaving momentarily to get my hairs cut. I hope my hair dresser enjoys my greasy ass hair. I know I do.
The other day I realized something: Band-Aid is racist. The company is built on white supremacy. How do I know?
Have you ever seen an Hershey’s colored bandaid? No. Band-Aid didn’t even think about that. And what would they have called it? Shame on you for discriminating, Band-Aid. Of course if you’re a zebra, giraffe, or a tiger, they’ve got you covered:
But sorry, Afro Americans. You’re SOL.
Clay Aiken a father? Could it be? Could it be that the former Idol contestant is actually straight? When I heard E! reporting that he had impregnated his record producer James Foster, I was shocked. “There is no way that singing, dancing sprite is not gay,” I said. I kept listening. “Foster was artificially inseminated by her long time friend—” I stopped listening. I knew it. Gay.
WELL, it’s time for me to get ready for twerk. Adios, childrens.