If I hadn't got side tracked with the silly rant below, about politics (assholes,) I would have sooner gotten to Juan's need to play Maria Von Findrich's guitar, which had been designed, approved and mass marketed by Adam Levine. Go Adam. Damn nice guit-box, for lite lucre. It was among Juan's fascinations.
Buttwhack Morgan was the first to notice the stranger approaching, a whole side of BM's giant handlebar mustache pointing to the fatigued intruder, the five dear comrades sharing their variegated afterglows from respective coitus and other treats. "I think some sumbitch is approaching," he observed.
"Vy ziss good be da' 4th horfman de la apocalypse, by Yeezus!" the three Von Findrich sisters croacked out all at once. (Why, this could be the forth horseman of the Apocolypse, by Jesus)
Stan and Donnie were two good Americans. They didn't jump to any rotten bigoted conclusions. A life together making dupicate house keys in a two by nothing small business taught them to judge not and let people get their duplicate keys. "Hey, asshole, what the fuck you doing here?" Donnie called to Juan, as he reached expectorating proximity, as snuff dippers from Harvard might say.
Maria's guitar grew hot and began smoking as Maria tried to play and sing a tune. "Ouch, Dis ztingking guitar is burning mein fingers off," she complained.
Juan snatched the guitar from poor, smoldering Maria Von F, snapped the ax into playing position against his vertical striped pantaloons, and launched into his Paul Anka songs. He started with, My Way.
Buttwhack Morgan was the first to notice the stranger approaching, a whole side of BM's giant handlebar mustache pointing to the fatigued intruder, the five dear comrades sharing their variegated afterglows from respective coitus and other treats. "I think some sumbitch is approaching," he observed.
"Vy ziss good be da' 4th horfman de la apocalypse, by Yeezus!" the three Von Findrich sisters croacked out all at once. (Why, this could be the forth horseman of the Apocolypse, by Jesus)
Stan and Donnie were two good Americans. They didn't jump to any rotten bigoted conclusions. A life together making dupicate house keys in a two by nothing small business taught them to judge not and let people get their duplicate keys. "Hey, asshole, what the fuck you doing here?" Donnie called to Juan, as he reached expectorating proximity, as snuff dippers from Harvard might say.
Maria's guitar grew hot and began smoking as Maria tried to play and sing a tune. "Ouch, Dis ztingking guitar is burning mein fingers off," she complained.
Juan snatched the guitar from poor, smoldering Maria Von F, snapped the ax into playing position against his vertical striped pantaloons, and launched into his Paul Anka songs. He started with, My Way.
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