—Well, I know what it’s supposed to mean, yes. But when you get home from picking up your weekend supply of Pringles only to find the sneaky little fuck floating snout up in your martini pitcher, his wee armadillo cheeks stuffed with your giant Mezzeta olives—well, let’s just say the only “dancing” you’re likely to see anytime soon is the porcelain Hustle, which if you’re lucky will end with a flush and not with a half-hour of mopping up Tostitos Scoops and barely digested millipedes.
BECAUSE OF THE ALCOHOL POISONING!
Heh. Guess it’s Gibson’s for you, pal.
I am beginning to realize that there is far more mileage to be gained here if we never see the promised dance. Heh.
TW: “perform”. Yep.
Keep him away from the hair clippers
You know, at this point – I’d take the picture of him vomiting. I’m easy that way.
yeah, you would carin, always delighting in the suffering of others.
Hey tight ass Jew (see last night’s Apprentice) buy some F**king Baked Lays.
So what’s a little dillo in the drink as long as you have the reprocessed potatos all to yourself? If you really want him out of the pitcher, you might try mothballs in place of the olives next time around.
[bang! bang!]
Dance, you cotton-pickin’ varmint! DANCE!
[bang! bang!]
-Did I hear My name taken in Rodential vain…. well never mind…. at any rate there goes dinner…
Ya right. More excuses for the big A. I’m beginning to think you live vicariously through the antics of the “Dillo”. Well suck it up and grow a pair. Either the “Dillo” dances or the crowd gets ugly.
TW “policy” like a new one please.
The ‘dillo wouldn’t dance in Paris and you see what happened. Are you really ready for this?
and sqlserver can say this, because, ya know, you’re all family.
“If you break wind and it calls the dog, you might be tight-assed.”
[/Jeff Foxworthy, if that redneck thing hadn’t caught on]
A plumber once told me to never, ever flush an armadillo.