If you want to have a good time: bust out the old yo-yo and "walk the dog".
If you want to have a bad time: imagine a group of middle aged men dressed as Waluigi meeting in a cheap motel, writhing on the floor, eating overly ripe plums off a dirty carpet, moaning in dark ecstasy.
I was fired from Twitter this morning. I was responsible for the clattering in the walls, the sighing through endlessly branching florescent-lit hallways, the garden of forking paths dripping dark tendrils into the depths of the earth, silently drinking the ferment I grow out of.
All this time trying to nudge an injoke out of an untouched inflight magazine as the tray sighs dreamily "table of content." So I storm off yelling turbulence for one and get a wink from opposing winds. I rough up my tie.
In preparation for the long winter I am slathering my body with butter but for some reason my butter churn is feeling snugger than it did last year and don't tell me that's not how butter churns work or that snugger isn't a word I have to live my life on my own two buttery feet
YEAH! BURN THIS MOTHERFUCKER TO THE GROUND! I shout from inside the burning house that I refuse to leave because I can't bear to abandon my collection of potatoes that look like shrunken heads