You know what I hate, what I really really really fucking hate: fake people. That's right, mannequins. They stand there with their perfect physiques and there perky tits that will never sag and well, fuck those bastards and their smug smiles and their perfectly matched clothing. (shakes fist).
Also, I have come to realize that no one really comments on my page. Except for the lovely Kathryn (thank you). So I have come up with a plan. For every comment that you don't leave on the blog, I will punch you in the face. Or maybe something worse. Don't test me. I'm unstable right now. Who can say what I might fucking do? Who can say?
There is a fake mustache on my living room coffee table and it isn't mine.
He's a funny guy. That's why we keep him around. I don't know why we keep him in chains, though. I think it might have something to do with him being a sexual predator, but I'm not entirely sure. That doesn't seem like reason enough to me for keeping someone in chains. Maybe I'll ask. If I get around to it.
George: that's my fiance, Susan, may she rest in peace.
Look out. I hear we're playing shadow games now.
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale...
That's right ... coming soon ... the exploits of J.S. Krol on the 22nd anniversary of his birth. There will be strippers and drunk chicks and professional wresting and maybe, if we're lucky, he'll pay another bum to dance for him.