They all say never look a gift horse in the mouth.

I always say never lick a gift horse in the genitals.

Frame of mind I guess.

I’ve been known to dream things up and imagine some crap that totally isn’t possible. I’m having a hard time with an imaginary crap thought lately. Maybe you can listen to my dilemma.

What I really can’t imagine is a bongo player getting mad by getting let go from a band. I mean, how can that even happen? Can a bongo player actually just get mad for getting fired at a band meeting and be like “Dude, how can you do that to me? I made this band dude. Good luck finding another bongoer that meets this bands musical shortcomings. I’ve been bongoing with you since you got bored with your own music and hired me. I’m irreplaceable dude. Fuck you guys. I’m the sweetest bongoer ever. You can quote me on that.”

I can totally see this happening in my head, but it’s totally not something that would ever happen. In real life the band probably would only fire the bongo guy cause they got another weed connection. Either that or they genuinely didn’t like his bongoing. The band could have been bong-going in the wrong direction. If they were a really classical band maybe they didn’t like how he wrote his bongo sheet music and they couldn’t follow it.

If any of you are in a band and you want to kick out your bongo player, please let me know. I think I can help.

p.s. If you are the sweetest bongoer ever, please leave a comment. And also tell me the name of your band.

I imagine it’s hard to work at Starbucks just due to actually having to wake up to smell the coffee.

Is one of the many things I’ve read on a shampoo bottle while taking a poop.

I really wish I could set up a farm of plants. Oh yeah that’s actually just called a farm. I want to have a farm to grow things I would enjoy and enjoy not paying for. One example would be weed, but it is illegal and I don’t want no jail time. Another would be okra but it’s completely disgusting. Hmmm, what next.

If I was going to grow something that I would enjoy for free, it would probably be a plant that grows lapdances. God knows how it would work or look. Actually God probably doesn’t even know what a lapdance is. If you begin to think about it, it sounds amazingly weird. Nobody wants to pay money for someone to imitate having sex with you through chafing pants and undergarments. (By nobody I mean nobody who has ever had sex before. Coincidentally strip clubs aren’t usually full of virgins. I think that’s a legal thing.)

These aren’t some plants that I wouldn’t pay attention to. This is a garden that I would take immaculate care of. I would plant them in plenty of soil and make sure they got a generous amount of sun. I would make sure that they were watered properly with free shots of cheap liquor. I would make sure that they got all the nutrients they needed, like cocaine, misguidance, verbal abuse, physical abuse and an alcoholic father. Believe me, these plants would grow into some serious dank lapdances.

Imagine this, I’d have some friends friends over and we’d have a little buzz on. Then i’d ask them if they wanted to try some of my homegrown lapdances. After much explanation that I wasn’t going to be personally giving the lapdances, we’d bust out the end result and have a grand old time. And no one would pay.

The End.

*Guy at work just walks out of the bathroom I’m waiting for*

Me - Hey do you know my friend Curtis?

Them - Curtis who?

Me - Curtis E. Flush!

*They turn red and walk away*

*I laugh and urinate*

Edge Parsley is an extreme full name. X Games all over it.

That’s a short post. I’m actually on the laptop in bed. Forgive me.

I don’t vote because my cat doesn’t tell me who he likes.

Either he’s super private or needs more schooling.

I hope you enjoyed your free hour of hookers tonight. Hopefully you know that daylight savings time is best used hourly with hookers. Who knows, maybe you even got the good hookers this time. By good hookers I mean not smart. I think the smart ones would figure it out mid-massacre or at least when you’re taking your last putt.

Smart hookers. I really am stupid.

But not stupid enough to not trick hookers into a free hour of jammin’.