his little, wet, salamander-colored life-form, by his own existence, took from me my passion. My wife made me get rid of the scuba gear, you see; she didn’t want me to “get some awful fucking decompression sickness and have [my] guts pop out through [my] eye sockets” and leave her with our son, William, all alone. William, more like, Will-I-Ever-Be-Free-Again?
We’ve got some great ideas for sexy and hot festival outfits that are perfectly on theme.
It’s so great, I actually can’t imagine what my life would be like without my beloved crack, I really can’t!
Look, man, I admit maybe I shouldn’t have drunk that whole bowl of ayahuasca brew that uncontacted tribe in Paraguay sent me, but I swear to you I’m not messing around here. Call me crazy if you want, but that UFO came down in the field by my house in 2012 and when the little aliens came out they told me to shoot John Lennon’s abused son, Julian Lennon.
It continued until the outbreak ended and I returned to my dorm to realize that I, Diego Guerrero, have become the last surviving Elderite.
All across the world, it’s not that unusual for some people to have strange fetishes. Feet, hybristophilia, lactophilia, even coprophilia. Of course, whatever gets your socks off and gets you turned on really isn’t anybody else’s business. However, recently a phenomenon has been sweeping cities across America: asphalt fetishes. “I Came From The Streets” — a breakdown of tarphelia. Signs of the modern fetish first began appearing in America in the 1930s when many roads began to be paved as
RACHEL BERRY: Freezing federal funds? Pardoning rioters? Detention center in Guantanamo? Donald Trump has gone too far this time.
Call it what you want, but there’s nothing like being blown to smithereens to calm me down after a stressful week.
“Rainbow Road? Mario, an undeniably Mexican name? Women driving? It’s ridiculous they expect our kids to play this indoctrinating, woke nonsense.”
Marty was an average fish; he worked at a travel agency and dealt plankton on the side to make ends meet. He had a wife and 1000 kids; they all played Go Fish together on Sunday evenings. His home was adorned with fancy eggs and it had these beautiful seaweed curtains on the windows. He had everything that a suburban fish could wish for — white-picket fence and all. And, much like Job, he lost everything. On that fateful day, he was attending the reef’s fishtivities, celebrating a year of being kelp-neutral.