Compacting it until it sizzles, Hot Rod Hostesses will ache. Pie or tentacle, muscles sweat and spasm under the floodlights. Bring the butter out. We will place it inside the buttcrack. Nose or alien, the butter melts and creates that aroma. When the stick is gone, are we prepared for high stakes sodomy? Does a weasel like to beg? The answer, my fellows, is blowing in the wind. But though the action was significant, none left satisfied. Compact it until it breaks. Next time, try full throttle sod games with one who loves you in return. But to find them?
Put the melted butter on a frank, and stick it up your bunghole. Does this satisfy? You’re a person with dreams, with aspiration- a person who experiences strong passions. More than this is not safe for me to assume. But as such, how can sport with hot buttered buttwiener have you satisfied for more than one brief, shining moment? When you got the dawg up in there where poop yet lurks, you got it good. But you also got it mediocre. Because that’s exactly when you remember things. May you remember your baby? I don’t know, I can’t say. But it is at these times, I believe, that you best understand the nuns, and why they do the things they do. Please- correct me.
To know a person, it takes a lot. It takes more than an intimate frank. It takes time.
Did you presume you could know another without this most intimate of wagers, the crucial wager of Father Time? I dare not. I dare not think such a rash thought, because no lesser wager will do. Time and Self – connect them.
When the hot dog dissipates, Time has come. And he’s bearing down in a most significant manner. Father Time has “come to bear.” I can see time come. When we understand that we must wager time, we put self to the fire, between hammer and anvil, nose and alien, pie and tentacle, syrup and honey, and roast our handmaidens in a bonfire of dirty snack cakes until there’s no more wireless connectivity and we’re alone, naked in the swamp. Then we may either “step up to the plate” or go mad. And this is why they are referred to as “Ball Park Franks.” But how long to leave under the heat? None will ever agree.