They are all such small fry! Or is it small fries? No time to debate. The plural of moose is moose, and fascists are on the loose. But, if fascists were on the lease, would you run and hide like meese? Even small fry are a pain in their fat, fascist ass. Into the fray! At BK, you can have it your way! you can be straight, you can be gay. This ain’t Chick Fil-A!! En garde! What am I, chopped liver? Your dad’s a hamburger! Your mom smells like a pizza. But only I stole the Mona Lisa. Some say I’m repetitive and derivative. Translation: pretty groovy. I truly think all guys are good-natured. When I rushed Omicron Mu Gamma, I had to choose a born again name, so I picked “Fratboy Slim”. I dated a girl who was 4 foot 9 and had a blacklight poster stuck to her ceiling that read ” Women who think they’re equal to men lack ambition.” I used to lie on her bed and look at it a lot, especially when we did reverse cowgirl. Her antifascist ass was definitely close by me, but hard to see compared with the poster, which shone like the Ten Commandments. How did she get that poster on the ceiling? Could she fly? Was she a witch? Peanut brittle may look frail, but it can kill you, depending, like, on what the nutty professor says. My grandma used to say, don’t judge a book by its cover, but that was in the 20th Century, and what even is a book? I hear there was even a phonebook, and before you could call you needed the number but like before that you needed to know alphabetical order. Ain’t nobody got time for that! If it was useful, like designed for real life, you and I might have asked for like a size queen phonebook. Just arrange all the entries by cock size, and it’s a buyer’s market. These are the things that keep me up all night.