One Sentence Story, what again?
Sycamore and Perth broke the seal on a liter of Cheapasso Tequila, while...
Griff busted through the door and said...
"My asshole burns! I had some jalapeños last night and now I feel like I've been shitting battery acid!"
Sycamore stood, bemused, and thought to himself...
Is this a viable alternative energy source or is Griff talking out his ass again, what to do?...
While T-Money the Round Mound of Sound pondered, Perth looked to the sky.
He exclaimed, "Dear God! Don't let me perish in this fog of flatulence! I've got Casey and little James to think about!"
(EDIT--Typo)
He paused. "Am I retarded? I didn't mean to say 'parish'. I meant to say 'perish'."
:)
Father Flanagan contined, "Don't let me parish perish in this fog." Perth calmly lit one last cigarette...
as the drunken priest thought to himself "contined? What the hell was me thinkin'? I mean to say 'continued', yes. I don't even know what 'contined' means! Me brain ain't be workin' this evenin'."
"Aye, tayin op lat n watchin snatch wasda las ting I shoulda don, tain't elped me accent mush edder."
In burst Dave. "Sure, I like DOGS", he said to much confusion.
Okaythen you'll take thsmokes thfekindag thgreat cloud of gas n begone then?
Thdealwasyaboughthowyashawit.
In all the confusion, Sycamore thought he was back in the days of his band, so he started screaming with all his might.
A bedroom light turned on in Spokane.
Causing one lone man to ask,
Is that coming from Philadelphia? Those people are always so fucking loud.
Allan Iversons Mom lept to the defense of Philly shouting down the unemployed grunge rocker....
In her ghettofied style, Ann Iverson proclaimed, "He just doin what he gotta do...ummm, you know what I'm sayin?"
The Queen Mum spinning in her grave had this to say,...
"My hat, you stupid git! Where's my bloody hat?" then the grand lady rotated yet again, sniffed, and exclaimed, "What are the Irish up to now ?"
The Irish government was locked in talks with American lawyers, planning to sue the hell out of the IRA, now that they apologized for civilian casualties.
Deep into the lengthy discussion, the American legal team asked the group if they would like any take-out for lunch. The Irish leaders replied..
"How about a drinking contest? How many pints of Guinness can you down?"
hol yer gob thmatter athand is r coontersuit aginst er majesties hoose fer har pressman, har grate lards, har oppresoon, thfekin dag, far we came ta fite ferthrights of thworkinman, thsmall farmer too, ta protect the proletariat from thebosses and thr screws,.... a fekit jus givem thdamdag anbe doon withit.
As the impassioned Seamus pounded his fist on the heavy walnut table -as if on cue- in walked Dave, arms raised in delight, once again professing his grand affection for DOGS. Seamus stared at the intruder and said in a low whisper...
emulating Samuel L Jackson from "Coming to America," "Who the FUCK is this asshole?!"
Michael Pallin enters the room in full Roman declaring, "He's no Brad Pitt!"
At which point Brad Pitt bursts into the room and screams "And you're no Michael Pallin!"
Then, Allen Iverson burst through the door...
"Where's my fuckin' wife?"
[delete tripped over David]
Michael Pallin or some reasonable facimile thereof queried. "Is everything Zen, Allan?"
"Who do you think I am, mother fucker? Gavin Fucking Rossdale? I don't give a fucking fuck about zen! Now where's my fucking wife?"
Something was going to have to be done.
In comes Pat Croce, proclaiming, "I feel great! And Allen, you can too!"
*BLAM* *BLAM*
"I been waitin' to do that, you know, for a long time... I don't need to take your shit, you know, now that, you know, you don't sign my, you know, pay check any more."
"We're talking about a paycheck here. A paycheck. A paycheck. Not volunteering. A paycheck. We're talking about a paycheck here. Not volunteering, a paycheck."
No longer would Pat live in a van down by the river. An Irish wake...
..was out of the question, as it implied an open bar and a large tab. Instead the joyful group, which by this time had closely bonded, quickly moved to...
ChiChi's. A celebration of food ensued.
Little did they know that the "ground beef" the restaurant was serving was actually dog meat.
But FRESH dog meat, so they were spared the cramping and vomiting that plagued the con agra supplied Don Pablo's on the opposite side of the highway. The Chimichanga Chihuahua Fajitas were sizzling and the Mango-glazed...
Saint Bernard was as tasty as ever. Ignorance, it seems, is bliss.
Griff ordered the Fried Ice Cream to top off a great dinner.
However, the double shot of Triple Sec wasn't settling so well
Cooling his fevered brow against the damp chill of porceline, Griff rededicated himself to...
...buying every available issue made of the Turkish version of Playboy.
but little did he know that the Russians had planted a bomb nestled between the exquisite
glossy breasts of Ms. March.
Mhich annoyed Wr. Warch to no end. His tequila saturated brain smitching m's and w's lead to...
...his embarrassment when he went into the local CVS and asked for a package of "W&W's."
Suddenly, umop apisdn made much more sense to him.
He retired to the closest sofa, hanging his head over the edge, righting all that mas mrong. Just as he slipped into unconsiousness....
Succubus appeared and fucked him silly.
Sexual healing the last of the booze from his system solved one problem but...
the syphillis was a bitch so he went to the doctor and said
, "I've been with AI's wife can you..."
"help me? They say once you go black you never go back...and I believe it."
"There is an experimental therapy but I'm reluctant to bring it up. It involves a slow incremental transition from righteous black women like Aretha Franklin, through a series of lighter women to Halle Berry, followed by a series of soulful white women like Natalie McMasters, unfortunately to be successful you have to complete the therapy with a souless white devil woman preferably Martha Stuart." Mr March grew pale,...
"Well, I do know Tipper Gore..."
To which the doctor replied, "Jesus Man! I want to help you, not kill you!" So Mr. March oiled up and slid on out the door, only to run into...
...the Rock. Mr. March found himself floating in the English Channel with a dolphin...
...and luckily, florescent orange inflatable water wings. His aquatic companion chirped an extended warning just as...
...the dolphin began to hump his leg.
*BLAM* *BLAM*
Once again shots rang out, this time from a passing speedboat headed for the coast of France. The lifeless corpse slipped under and sank to the depths, leaving only two orange rings bobbing in the vicious wake. The dolphin scooped up the ineffective PFDs on his nose and high tailed it after the assailant, blow hole spewing and tiny teeth bared.
He stopped, unsure of what to do and called to Mr. March, "Fa Lov Pa..."