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The correct answer is your hopes and dreams.
Posted at 01:05 PM in This Week in Suburbia | Permalink
And one of the elders saith unto me, “Fear not, for these are the seven pierogies of Le Grange. You know what I’m talk’in about. They gotta a lot of nice girls there. I hear it’s tight most every night but I know I might be mistaken.” Na Newt, Na Newt, Na, Na, Na, Na, Na, Na Newt, Na Newt. And the first pierogi was broken, and the trumpet sounded and Herb Alpert was cutting it slick. Then the second pierogi was broken and the trumpet sounded and Lee Ritenour was flicking the Fusion and then the third peirogi was broken and the trumpet sounded and it was Pat Methany going American Garage all the way to Arizona and then the third (wait, I lost count) oh, the fourth pierogi was broken and the trumpet sounded and it was Sting signing an Ipod of all things and so forth until the seventh pierogi was broken and the stage be set with musicians from all over and then I saw the Hollywood Bowl and then shit, I saw a bright red cloud b/c F’ing Hugo, no relation to the car, as in Chavez, pressed the other red button and before I could say Christopher Columbus the big oil leak busted open in the Gulf and the BP said, “What?”
How is that, Rorschach enough for ya? I always know what to tell my therapist. She likes my insurance.
Audubon Ron |
May 16, 2010 at 07:00 PM
Also acceptable: handsome Greek man doing your laundry as you drink red wine on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean.
Suburban Kamikaze |
May 17, 2010 at 05:37 AM
I see a heart attack breakfast. I am SO there. Sorry, that's as deep as foolery gets.
May 18, 2010 at 10:53 AM
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