You sick sons of bitches. I mean you walk in that door, on your two legs… all fat and cocky and lookin’ at me in my chair. And you tell me its all in my head? I hope that both of you have sons… Handsome, beautiful, articulate sons, who are talented and star athletes and they have their legs taken away. I mean I pray you know that pain and that hurt.
No one lives forever, no one. But with advances in modern science and my high level income, it’s not crazy to think I can live to be 245, maybe 300. Heck, I just read in the newspaper that they put a pig heart in some guy from Russia. Do you know what that means?
Dear Lord baby Jesus, lyin’ there in your ghost manger, just lookin’ at your Baby Einstein developmental videos, learnin’ ’bout shapes and colors. I would like to thank you for bringin’ me and my mama together, and also that my kids no longer sound like retarded gang-bangers.
Hey. I’m Ricky Bobby. When you’re workin’ on your mysterious lady parts and stuff, you should have the right tools too. That’s why you should use… MayPax. The official tampon of NASCAR.
I’ve sent in my application to the Real World. So I’m hoping to hear back from that. I’m putting A LOT of my eggs into that basket, the MTV basket. I’m also thinking about getting a gun, and dealing crack. Being a crack dealer. Not like a mean crack dealer, but like… like a nice one. Kinda friendly like, “hey, what’s up guys? Want some crack?” I’m just waiting on those two things to flesh themselves out.
