Sh*t Little Debbie Says

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Damn f***ing right, we’re soaking tonight! Meet the EB-f***ing-MB at his and we pedal up the Regents route to the K-school. It was gonna be Edgfield and the farm and f***-all, but the big Altoona put the kibosh on it. Already 30 goddamn minutes in the tub before Herniapet finally f***ing arrives for another 30 minutes. One hour is plenty in the tub, despite the endless draw at the swimsuit shop window. Bullsh*t Bravinheart shows in the lobby and we aim it for f***ing Florida. Dave is “inguinally yours”, so he’s on the motor. Los Tres arrive to 4 pints of HUB already set up with stools at the bar. Nice touch, Pet. Then, like a f***ing freight train from Georgia, Little Debbie at the bar lays down the f***ing law. She sets the sailor’s mouth precedent, we christen the bow, and all go out to f***ing sea together. Man, the sh*t Little Debbie says. Since there is no goddamn, f***ing way we are done, we decide to continue on to the Standard. However, there is a matter of moon-roofs, Japanese luxury wagons, and “four makes a trinity?” to settle before we go. I think you’ll find the answer coming out of the Subaru chimney. With newly imperial lungs, Los Tres bid the supply chain with the leather interior goodnight. We three then fulfill our promise by setting a new Standard for late night wisdom and assigning cured meat homework. Ride home just past curfew as the garbled text train rolls into the station: GOME – MOOR – IAGO – HAISM.