Where am I and what is that smell? Is that me? It's like BO and the scent of fresh cat shit had a baby. And it died.Perhaps my bi-annual beard washing should be upped to tri-annual.
And no, I'm not Sib Hashian. Or Rob Tyner. Stop asking for autographs.
Please scratch my head. I've got an itch something fierce. Or take off my handcuffs and let me do it. Okay, so you're not going to remove my restrains. That's probably a good idea, since I've got a fresh BM in my pants and I'm ready and willing to hurl it at you like I'm a crazy, circus monkey.
So if you do scratch me, you might want to put gloves on. I've been known to chigger-up in the summer months.
As soon as I get out of here, I've got a twenty-four ounce Budweiser & Clamato Chelada chilling in a dumpster behind the supermarket with my name on it. You should try it. After test-marketing it in Arizona, Bud has widened distribution to include California and Texas. And you know, after a hard day of rummaging through trash cans, yelling unintelligible gibberish at tourists, and standing by the highway off-ramp with a "Will Work For Drunk" sign, a gentleman can find true relaxation in a cold, beer and clam-juice cocktail.
Beats drinking anti-freeze like in the old college days.
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