Or You Could Do The Same Exact Thing With Garlic Or Curry or Horsemeat
Had major Twirling Hamburger Syndrome yesterday. You've had it, don't lie.
As you know, Twirling Hamburger Syndrome begins by staying out late, getting blitzed, then stumbling into all night GrubSteak diners run by Brazilian transvestites. Bacon bleu cheese burgers with double bleu cheese and a mayoniasse forehead IVs are ordered. Burgers are aten -- yes ATEN, cabs hailed. Wads of money and gum wrappers and club flyers are flooped from pockets -- lost forever. Pants are ripped on sharp corners of asshole cab doors. Keys are fumbled, grumbles are mumbled. Suit jackets are shed in haste, arms all inside outey and tossed on waggly tailed dogs. Shoes become bedwear. Dreams are had of Judy Densch and old roommates giving speeches about pee stained bunkbeds. Brain linings are punched out by flaming Mike Tysons. Skulls are squeezed, bladders stretched to the max. Suns are risen, heads over pillowed. Texts messages about birthday dinners are received. Showers are skipped, outfits reused. Rides are offered, deodorants forgotten. Lovely birthday dinners at restaurants called The Stinking Rose are attended.
That's when you notice that the two hamburgers from earlier are having an orgy in your armpits. Squeezing and clamping only turns them on and forces out more stink. There is only one thing you can do and that is go new wave dancing, arms overhead, twirling, yelling out Echo and The Bunnymen lyrics and spraying your hamburger sex stench on all the fancy haired kids.
See? KnowWhuddI'mSayin? Yeah. FUCKING BRING ON THE DANCING HORSES YOU BITCH! BRING THEM NOW!
Now Lulu;
That's all for now.
Don't get caught sitting by the fridge waiting for the weather to change.
Your Mom's New Crush,
Terry Bradshaw
