Charo, it's no suprise to ANYONE that I enjoy a good man-ass on occasion.
Just because you post a little ditty I sent you when you were still
in GRADE SCHOOL shouldn't elicit more than a mild guffaw since most
posters here have heard me talk in explicit detail HOW I PLUNDER TENDER,
TENDER ASS WITH MY MASSIVE TOOL.
I didn't say *I'm* a massive tool. That title belongs to Informant.
No, I'm talking about the PYTHON in my pants that desires NOT the love
of Francine, but of FRANK.
However, while I will not dismiss my early 90s love for pop-R&B,
I dare you to find one person, ONE PERSON other than ME that you've
talked to about your trip to a BACKSTREET BOYS concert a few weeks ago.
Going to a concert like that is a cry to NAMBLA that you need a t-shirt,
pronto. It's also PROOF that girls aren't high on your list of priorities,
Honus.
I, however, have no qualms embracing you in TRUE GREEK STYLE. Just
don't try and attack me with a part of my lifestyle that I LOVE. You
don't see me jumping all over your Dukes of Hazard Trading Card collection,
DO YOU?
Now, since you've asked more questions than BEA ARTHUR ON SPEED, allow
me to answer them:
I am a beautiful creature. GLORIOUS IN EVERY WAY AM I. I would never
sully myself by removing MY LUCKY MOLE. While you try in vain EVERY
day to pluck that pencil thin mustache from your MALFORMED HEAD, I bask
in the beauty that is the Mole. The Mole, incidentally, is God. I am
merely its humble vessel upon which it resides. Any latent Godliness
I embue is FROM WHAT YOU CALL THE G SPOT.
Why does any man grate his nipples while looking at Judd Nelson?! BECAUSE
THERE IS NO GREATER PLEASURE. His soft, rebellious eyes. The scene where
he talks about the cigarette scar on his arm... MAGIC. While you gaze
LONGINGLY at your Web*ster Thermos, I take pride that I'm looking at
a REAL man... a man that DOESN'T BACK DOWN TO ONE-DIMENSIONAL TEEN OPRESSION.
As for YOUR looks, Jonas, I can only assume that having JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE'S
BABY BATTER ON YOUR FACE CAN ONLY IMPROVE YOUR APPEARANCE. It also explains
why girls initially repulsed by your big, dry lips and unmanageable
hair flock to you now. For there is nothing DUMBER than a trend-following
TEENAGE GIRL.
Go back to your mustard collection, Pierre. Go work your piddly job
that earns you less than my UNEMPLOYMENT CHECK. Go do anything but try
and think of yourself as a flamer. You are a flamer in the RAGING HOMOSEXUAL
sense, but anything else is a figment of your dulled brain pan.
Go hang out with the rapists. And the retards. And Informant.