(no subject)
Last night I dreamt that Ray Charles was putting me though a grueling training montage.
Dangling from a tire swing, Ray Charles demanded that I Jump from swinging log to swinging log to improve my grip and balance. "But Ray Charles," I said "these logs are 10 feet above my head and about 50 feet in circumference. I will surely die if I try."
"'Taint nothing atall, son. It's all in the fingers." Said Ray Charles, leaping from his tire swing and flipping jauntily between the massive logs, using no better grip than pinches of bark. "This man is dead and blind," I thought, mounting the tire swing while his wassive shades winked in the distance, "My pride demands that I become at least his equal." Burning heart music wailed though my mind, and just then, rap sensation P-Diddy was slouching though my training thicket, and I leapt onto his shoulders, springing off of them to reach my first log. The first step is always the most important.
I think that this combat theme was spurred on my the friendly tussle that JD and David got into yesterday over a third of chicken, which JD won through the blackguardly tactics of biting and punching in the balls. After a heated shouting match over "The hidden code" of male fighting, the conversation settled into the subject of brawl tactics, a topic that I consider myself a bit of an armchair general in. The Ray Charles element, on the other hand, was obviously a visitation from a freed spirit, intent on conveying to mankind the parting message that we the living should be stomping P-Diddy.
Dangling from a tire swing, Ray Charles demanded that I Jump from swinging log to swinging log to improve my grip and balance. "But Ray Charles," I said "these logs are 10 feet above my head and about 50 feet in circumference. I will surely die if I try."
"'Taint nothing atall, son. It's all in the fingers." Said Ray Charles, leaping from his tire swing and flipping jauntily between the massive logs, using no better grip than pinches of bark. "This man is dead and blind," I thought, mounting the tire swing while his wassive shades winked in the distance, "My pride demands that I become at least his equal." Burning heart music wailed though my mind, and just then, rap sensation P-Diddy was slouching though my training thicket, and I leapt onto his shoulders, springing off of them to reach my first log. The first step is always the most important.
I think that this combat theme was spurred on my the friendly tussle that JD and David got into yesterday over a third of chicken, which JD won through the blackguardly tactics of biting and punching in the balls. After a heated shouting match over "The hidden code" of male fighting, the conversation settled into the subject of brawl tactics, a topic that I consider myself a bit of an armchair general in. The Ray Charles element, on the other hand, was obviously a visitation from a freed spirit, intent on conveying to mankind the parting message that we the living should be stomping P-Diddy.