In the words of our immortal drawstring compatriots and ambassadors of overexpressive hip gyrating melodies: Don't talk. Just listen.
There are moments, dear fans, when despite my obvious skills at divining the motives of assorted coons, it's clear to me that commentary is simply not needed to interpret the fuckshit. In other words:
There are moments, dear fans, when despite my obvious skills at divining the motives of assorted coons, it's clear to me that commentary is simply not needed to interpret the fuckshit. In other words:
I AIN'T EVEN GOT TO TELL YOU WHAT THE PROBLEM IS HERE.
She be like:
and I be like...
So help me, this baby ain't got not NE'ER type of a chance...
PS: Expect to see the Cat AND his Hat on Maury - 'cause I'm 10 THOUSAND percent sure he IS the father! *starts doing the Ricky Bobby for good measure*
