Spiffy ass tie, Russ.

And hey Ricky. I think you're wearing the shirt I shoved in the blender, that one time it was spewing margarita mix all over the kitchen and I couldn't get it to stop.

Most of the time I like to forget I live there, too. As in, I don't wanna be in your pics anyway, homos.

I stand behind my tie.




Literally. BAHA.

Fail Whale.

Still cracks me up.

Whaddaya call that? Paisley? Shiney lavender paisley. Assert that manhood, Russ.

I am all man, bro.

Lies and complete & utter bullshit.

Don't those mean the the same thing, jerkoff?

Yes. But your above statement is such a crock of shit... that it needed to be stated twice. Well, now three times.

I dunno what you're talking about, bro.

...hey, have you seen the Hello Kitty barrettes anywhere, fag?

Har, har. You're hilarious.

I think I remember you doing that. I still don't understand why just pressing the 'off' button wasn't the first solution that came to mind. Why are my clothes always used to clean/plug/stop things around the house?

Don't you worry, I'm sure there are some truly blackmail-worthy pics of you laying around somewhere.

Because a) I was blitzed out of my mind and b) does it matter? You'll still wear them afterward anyway.

Careful. I know where you sleep.

What can I say, that shirt smelt pleasantly of lime afterwards.

Stay out of my bedroom, you rapist.