walk on water

so i moonlight as a teenager. impounded by sick anguish wrought of bad intel's buzzkill baby, mine homies and i invest our potential energy in a stroll. going to continue, for a time, in present tense to disarm any latent tendencies toward skepticism you might have demoted to dormancy during election season. better brandished in the hands of rock n roll biographers and their antidrug co-conspirators is embellishment, i says. a fool, then, is not to be made of you. names have been altered for the fact that characters constitute liiike totally 1/3 of total stuckupkid readership, in total. i thought it was funny to call somebody "farter."

ch 1- end: chad is butt dust in the wind

to preface, if conflict in writing truly finds inspirational basis in war stories, anything i say about chad owes a mighty stylistic debt to grampa dave's tales of the leaky latrine. so back to the lab again..

we barked menacingly up the phone tree and, as it was foretold, that tree fell on us. when called upon to speak, fhase said feter called and said other feter wouldn't be driving. farter probably quoted something that illmaculate learned at community college. bones, thought i to myself, were to be picked. payment of moral debts would have to be deferred 'cause feter was at farper's house, so we resigned ourselves to the fate of doc gooden and soviet nuclear missiles and did our darndest to get hopelessly lost in the snow. "into the mild" was a short film and, after parting ways with the bfswede fuarei, we ended up at safeway sizing up the selection of sandwiches. appetite for adventure sated, the brothers dimm sallied forth into the snow, out the gates of the bricknmortar bazaar that for so long catered to the penchant for lager larceny that saw some weight ascribed to my name in deez streets.

proctor district told no tales, a trail of slushy tears tight-lipped defiant even under duress of deep freeze. i got holes in the soles of my shoes 'cause i use them as bike breaks and them shits are qualified applicants for the louisiana levy club. we were only about a mile from home but nothing's a cakewalk when there's no cake and carl icahn's making moves toward courtship coup of the aquifer you discovered in the bottom of your hi tops. wheat, jake schumacher's hair and patience were all wearing tragically thin. the pace we set was accordingly brisk, baby.

we were just passing mason middle school (home of the mustangs) when my humongous muscles drew solicitation. somebody's rwd sport utility hearse was toiling in the snow, and seeing studly steeds such as we, they ascertained a potential boost for their buggie. the events that would follow merit a part 2, and i'm inclined to give it to you