Another shorty post because I have some manly cleaning to do this morning (as penance for rocking Phoenixville the past few days).
There are no visable bruises so I can exclude mechanical bull riding with strippers, but my thighs are killing me this morning:
A. I went strolling too far looking for the WAWA after the lights came on the Bash
B. I got lucky, and whoever it was is counting down the days of my return to feel the pure awesomeness of my three inch love cannon.
C. My wife started the "hobbling" technique last shown by Kathy Bates in Misery but decided she needed someone to handle the kids when she goes to a garage sale on Thursday.
D. Someone took advantage of a rather tipsy Drizz and made me dance.
If it was D, I apologize for any blindness I may have caused as this white boy just doesn't care about the decency of others having to watch my lanky body go into motions that should only be seen in the privacy of my shower while rocking out to Cher once he gets a few car bombs and shots inside him.
I'll pay you all a dollar for the bad beat in December.