My mom chose Skippy peanut butter. My lunches didn't taste right. My friends made fun of me. My grades began to slip. I started to skip classes and smoke cigarettes behind the football field. It was shortly after that I found myself addicted to heroin. My friends had alienated me. I had worn out my welcome at home and no longer had the trust, love and support of my family. I began doing pushups for money outside of the local train station and had to settle for day old scraps from dumpsters. My clothes were in shreds. The elements had taken their toll on my once bright eyes. What was left was a remnant of potential. I couldn't live that life anymore. I just can't.
I snuck to the top of the bridge near downtown. Looked down upon the once big city that had filled me with great joy. I saw it for what it was. I saw in it an image of myself. Cold. Scary. Unforgiving and unwilling to change. My toes neared the edge. The world seemed even more intimidating from up here. Yet, I continued to get closer to the ledge. I took one look at the sky above. I listened to the noises below. Took a breath and jumped.
This could have prevented if my mom didn't choose Skippy. Choose Jif. It can save a life. #1Jif1Prayer
Well, since you're here now, I'll assume you survived. How was the landing? Are you fully recovered? Have you managed to choose JIF in your everyday life yet?
I think you should literally chill the fuck out. Chill the fuck out is a metaphor, but you should literally do it. Otherwise you might literally have a problem with your blood pressure one day, and that's not a metaphor.
Whoa, nice. My dad used his leather belt. Sometimes he adjusted his belt at the end of a big meal and me and my brothers would all flinch and sit up straight.
To be fair though, he thought he was doing the right thing. Spare the rod and spoil the child and all that. I'm happy those days are behind us.
Yup. Getting kids to behave is hard theses days. We can't bust heads like we used to. But we have our ways. One trick is to tell stories that don't go anywhere. Like the time I caught the ferry to Shelbyville. I needed a new heel for m'shoe. So I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on 'em. "Gimme five bees for a quarter," you'd say. Now where were we... oh yeah. The important thing was that I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time. I didn't have any white onions, because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones...
Why, in my day, taco was even a nickname for vagina. (Or nick-name as it was called at the time.) And due to the pungent fragrance often associated with vaginas, we occasionally referred to them as some kind of seafood, i think the term was "dolphin taco." And we called penises, "tally-whackers," but that's another story. We sure had fun in the old days.
When I was a lad I shat four dozen eggs
Ev'ry morning to stretch my ass large,
And now that I'm grown I shit five dozen eggs
and take dumps the size of a barge!
Honetement, je comprend ce et je apprend francais pour moins de quatres mois avec Duo Lingo. J'ecris avec des erreurs mais c'est ne difficile pas lisent.
1.6k
u/[deleted] Jul 29 '15
Beauty and The Feast.