dallas got a soft machine; houston, too close to new orleans; new york’s got the ways and means but just wont let you be

You know, Internet, I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and, truth be told, I really think that, should I ever opt to open a whore house — or brothel, to be less vulgar (although really it’d just be a house with whores in it, and I’m a firm believer in truth in advertising) — and should I open this whore house brothel in a rural area, I can’t think of a better possible name than The Country Cuntry.

I had some really bad gas last night, possibly due to the red kidney beans I ate for dinner, and I passed a bunch of it in bed whilst I slept. So much gas did I pass, in fact, that the stench which formed beneath my tightly tucked-in covers made my eyes water when I awoke, blinding me as I stumbled johnward for my morningly squirt.

And not only that, but I’m sorry to say the plastic of the action figure I always sleep with absorbed some of the stank, and now that particular Stormtrooper shall forever more be relegated to bathroom detail in my Death Star diorama.

But I bet you knew that already.

Happy New Year, Internet. Now go eat some black-eyed peas and cabbage.