two foot long plastic candy canes hide in ambush over your head.
barber pole stripes in
lucky charm secondary colors lick lips, plot to stir you up like a
tornado lamp. but you gotta ask for it, pull and chew on the end til its all damp with
head juice, and then it clogs and crusts over immediately, pluggd up in hypus interruptus.
stories of 200-pacs devoured by vanloads of ravers are told in hushed tones to gaggles of the little paper straw versions.
accept no substitoots.
singular: "pixy stik."