...not like, are Dogs

Senor Sanchez aka: Dirty, came riding into town on a pink moped. Got drunk on Shirley Temples and drops a cold lunch after eating a New York Taco. Left Fire Island on a flying camel.

Not a moment goes by during the day when Mr. Distraction taps me on the shoulder and wants to have a word with me. After all the Vixen got more corn than Orville Redenbacher.
Life, even when me be feelsing about as excited as a giraffe masticating leaves, has a tendancy to draw me thoughts torwards the altar of the goddess Yoni Yum Yum.
There be so many places me cain't go cuz the Monster just gets really Scary. Donut shops- watchin a gal munchin on a bear claw or workin a cruller just about messes me up fer the morning. Ball games (aptly named): a foot long with plenty of mustard? Who cares what the score is! Me just prays it ain't a Chicago chilli dog.

Having sex can be lotsa things, but iffin it ain't makin ya feel like the world is crashing around you and don't make everything else seem small and ridiculous than yer just sport fuckin. Now that ain't so bad. In fact it's a helluva lot better than Couch Bombing or a Western grip with a Stranger.

Go out and get nasty.
Get plastered and have yerself a ball. Just don't ferget the Coney Island White fish and watch out fer the Hindenberg.

Iffin this post don't make sense to ya then yer safe and sound. Stay at home and enjoy yer favorite chips with Juanita's special bean dip.

Me no Moses gettin biblical.