"Can I smell your forehead?"
Don't. Okay? Just don't. That kind of shit is the weird kind of shit that I do not like. When guys do stuff like this, like, ugh, I don't even want to know where that shit is coming from. Smell my fucking forehead. What do you think this is? A clinic?
It has been like the clown show apocalypse around here lately. That would make a good title for a node quest, I do believe. That aside, there have been all these nut jobs wandering around the town just down the road from the camp where I am employed for reasons I cannot explain since I am in my thirties and done with this shit a decade ago. I just don't understand it. Mighty disconcerting! I need something.
Earlier today I was "conked out" by a family that lives in town, thrown into the back of their 1968 Rambler, and taken to a cabin up in the mountains. There, I was taken out of the trunk, dragged into the cabin, and interrogated for hours about "what really goes on at that camp." Between you and I, we need to keep this on the down low. I've told you some of the things that go on at the camp, kids being neglected, put at risk, left for dead in lakes, and so forth. You know what I'm talking about. You are an accessory after the fact (someone ought to node that), so don't go getting all high and mighty on my gorgeous, perfectly round, and succulent ass (with perky hole). You are just as guilty as I am now. Check the U.S. Legal Codes in your jurisdiction.
Are you one of those guys who sits around in just a Hawaiian shirt with no pants on, cheap flip flops, surrounded by pizza boxes, looking listlessly into your computer screen, dreaming of friendship, and wearing a hat you made out of "things you found around the house"? Jesus Christ. Do something with your life. Some of you fools have so much nougat built up on and around your balls that ain't no one ever going down on you again. Ain't no one stupid enough to believe that shit is peanut butter.
I had this guy come up to me once, in the mall, when I was barely wearing any clothes at all. He says, "I would like to read you pages out of my journal." I mean, what the absolute fuck, people? Clown show apocalypse (circling back).
Could you guys try a little harder to be friends with me? I mean, I am hot. Don't you like hot girls who can melt butter on their thighs in twenty seconds? That's me, babe. You can put warm queso between my perfectly round golden globes. I have guardrails in between there to prevent burning. They are invisiline. I paid sixty bucks for them. Bought at a discount off the back of a truck. If you can get shit off the back of a truck, do so. I got a Gucci bag for six bucks back in 1996. You could have the same kind of experience that I did. Think about that for a minute. Three-inch long nipples. Fucking unreasonable.
I went through a period about ten years ago where I did a lot of those medical experiments in exchange for fifty bucks and a cookie. It wasn't because I needed the money. It was because I needed meaning in my life and that seemed to be the best way to add that shit. And now, I have some things that we will need to talk about before we get into the proverbial bed together. Some things may shock you if you are not warned in advance. Just saying. Nothing to be worried about.
I am sure that you have similar things in your past. Perhaps we can talk about them over dinner. I hope you know how to satisfy a woman. There will be tests before the main event. You should know this in advance before meeting me. Sign up sheet is in the cafeteria.