These things, these fucking things...they can't be found anywhere. Gentlemen, men of gentle nature and things so ripe and delicious that their personalities blend together into an irridescent ooze similar to that of the Ghostbusters film where you touch the stuff and you're literally fucking Gisele, Marisa Miller and Miranda Kerr at the same time with some hydra three-headed cock. Thats the type of feeling the group creates when together. It's this aura that floats around the room and if you breathe it, you're done. Off you cruise into the subconscious cacophonous audio stream of sarcastic innuendo, a web of mussels in a seabed with their black mouths open, chattering about shit only hilarious motherfuckers love to cackle and bubble. These things, these fucking things...they can't be found anywhere.
We are the ultimate coffee klatch, showing up like writers to one big table, the philosphers of olde to discuss nothing more than pussy, because it all comes down to such a fickle sensitive bald beast of a locker. Our waitress will fill out her white doily blouse like she's ready to go in the back and pump. She'll bounce over to our hearth with hot capuccinos as our caps of Chivas and Jameson emerge from tin flasks inside our wool houndstooth overcoats. Toasting one another for shared nights rued with delight and fancy and Sharpies and wigs and miniature skateboards and rubber masks and broken rubbers and shattered bottles on road signs timed to diamond-cut precision-tossing or just luck of the retarded yet wicked double-bounce jump killer shatter blam who's your daddy mother fucking yea! That feeling is impossible to find, I'm telling you....like the ends of double rainbows and girls that love anal. We as a group are the most mesmerizing of personalities and ridiculous of humor and satire. I know if we were one fertilized egg there isn't a woman in the world who could give birth to us. Although she'd be the luckiest bitch alive to have done so, she must die in our honor while pushing us out. And out we would burst, a medusa whose face is so pure that it blinds only the nicest doctors and nurses forever. Each snake-like hair has its own Kevin, Chris, Mike, Tim, Noah, Joe and Justin head that spurts out dialogue harmonious and collaborative to all other tendril-yapping heads yipping words delivered rapid like raving lunatics with tourrets whom each just slammed three adderall apiece. These things, these fucking things...they can't be found anywhere.
My gentlemen, so gentlemanly in your ways, I wanted to thank you...to thank you in ways most original and awkward and fantasmagorical and fresh-to-the-taint like a models panties pulled straight off after hours on a tennis court, and ultimately for your efforts in my move. The help lingers long and the love runs deep, unlike the light switch chris swears Im hung by. And so I do hope each of you, my minions, equals, brothers and fellow comrades for the verbal beatings we do impose, call on me when you need an extra set of paws to rape a task too big for just one. No matter what the errand might be, if it surrounds itself with the wolf pack we are, then I'm in. I'm in for the memories, the sweat, the beers, the smiles, the stares, the laughs, the drives, the outfits, the jealous glares....the girls, the guys, the games, the dares, the golf, the cab rides, the guys trips and pregnancy scares....these things, these wonderful fucking things...they can't be found anywhere.