Deep and Soulful Confessions.
You've seen them in Target or Wal-Mart. Those awful leaky-nosed brats in long t-shirts and baggy shorts, their skinny legs sticking out below like toothpicks. They're chasing Little Bro or Sis down the aisles at high velocity, screaming something that may or may not be a low-grade obscenity as their pink freckled cheeks peel back from their faces. They knock an old lady down. Hell, they nearly knock you down.
You're wondering why they don't call store security when, out of nowhere, the little sons of bitches start skating.
That's right, skating. They have little fucking wheels in the bottoms of their shoes. Some moron finally invented the one thing that might possibly make having children a way to lower the population. Skates with wheels. Friendly low-maintenance death in sizes 10-6 and an assortment of cool-kid colours. They call them Wheelies, oh my children.
And I WANT a pair.
Just think of how spiffy I'd look around campus.
You're wondering why they don't call store security when, out of nowhere, the little sons of bitches start skating.
That's right, skating. They have little fucking wheels in the bottoms of their shoes. Some moron finally invented the one thing that might possibly make having children a way to lower the population. Skates with wheels. Friendly low-maintenance death in sizes 10-6 and an assortment of cool-kid colours. They call them Wheelies, oh my children.
And I WANT a pair.
Just think of how spiffy I'd look around campus.