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"my favorite a.c. replacement /
is an ice bucket and a fan adjacent.
Bethesda! Methuselah!"
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scorn my libido, there is no denying
that Will is the kind of guy who
understands this: that when you stumble
upon a pile of twelve computer monitors
on somebody's back porch, there's only
one thing to do-- dive on top of them
and start flailing, brother. When you
see a manhole, don't take any chances
slide! Because victory, not unlike
severe flesh wounds, is temporary.
because we were drunk. To make sure
others were clear on the situation, we
announced: "We're knocking over
trashcans because we're drunk" in the
manner of a spirited anthem. A police
officer, apparently oblivious to said
warning, asked us to replace one of the
trash cans upright, which we did. This
was followed by the throwing of the
trashcan into the street and running.
Stupid? Yes, but stupid with style,
boys, stupid with style.
show in a warehouse wearing orange cop
coats and much hilarity ensued. that
ruled. also, this man is a true Red Sox
fan rivaled by few others I know, which
is about as good a compliment as one can
get.
other.
then all you punks. That's right, his
shot is like money in the bank so call
him the bus driver cuz he's taking all
you girls to school. GO SOX. YANKEES
SUCK!!
leather jacket, and he looks far sexier
in it than I do. But then again he is a
far cooler cat than I can ever aspire to
be.
it's a Borges story, fever delerium,
and the airs of a song coming up out
of "old, weird america." We're talking
our man as elongating tripod; shapes
pouring out into other shapes and not
quite fitting; and tiny little heaps,
tiny tiny little heaps in discrete
series. He's a collossus of poetic
cognition, but he should probably stay
off that shit for awhile (he smokes to
ease the pain). And ladies, have you
seen him move? I say, have you seen him
move?!? Faw-king crazy, cholo.
Providence, thick with the imminent
bursting forth of spring's fertile
bosom, my thoughts are spirited away
to you, Will. In my mind's eye, I see
you, pipette out, hoss presented,
though, mind you, coyly, in an Olympic
Ski tuck, your mammoth tongue flopping
in the wind, Old Navy jacket wrapped
tightly around your torso. ELBOWS OUT,
KNEES HIGH, old boy, like we said in
the old days! Oh Will! won't you
emerge from the thicket of adolescence
and romp with me in a field of
pansies? Hark, I smell taco shells!
Maybe he emergeth. Anon, sweet Will, I
cometh! Alas, I am deceived. It was
only mine own fart that I hath
smelleth...
which is actually the inverse of
reality, where I have like a million
friends and he doesn't have any. But we
both burn with the obstinate longing of
the Red Sox fan, so our fates are
irrextricably linked.
and if you're lucky enough to hang out with
this dude when he's actually showered and
clean and shit, you'd swear he could pass
for some part-time MickyD's employee of the
month.