Ma’am.
“Talk to me, bud.”
Hey, Garcia. You layin’ your rap down in hopes of snarin’ a fox?
“That was Pig.”
Oh, right.
“I’m just making a new friend.”
I like her haircut. There was a plan there.
“You’re just kinda off, aren’t you?”
Little bit. Cop a feel.
“Man.”
Squinch on that booble.
“What?”
Check on the meat. Sometimes, the meat is rotten. Gotta check on the meat.
“Don’t talk to me in front of girls anymore.”
Probably a good call. Dude?
“Are you still here?”
I’m in the process of going, but dude? Dude?
“What, man?”
I don’t think she’s wearing a bra.
“What are you, 12?”
She’s free. She can live. She can love. She maybe can’t run without holding herself down or that would hurt, but she can live and love. She’s easy in herself, Garcia, and in the fact that she’s a woman. She’s probably a Wiccan. Ask her about her menstruation; it’s holy to them.
“You said you were leaving.”
I say lots of things. CUP HER YUMBOMBS.
“Get out, man!”
What about the First Amendment?
“Doesn’t apply here.”
It should.
It’s no hanging matter,
It’s no capital crime,
actually, it is.
I hope Morty knows I was just quoting Stray Cat Blues, I mean a lot of Rock Stars slept with underage girls but it takes Mick to sing about it.
morty knew.
Hey, that is – well, never mind, you don’t have to know who that is.