You don't want to know about my weekend. You have absolutely no interest in the carefully reconstructed timeline of Groundhog Day or late-night sushi or trying to clean the filthy, filthy kitchen floor mats in my Concrete Bunker, the porn at Agent Provocateur, my epic grouchiness at having missed aerials class, or what I think of Amy Chua's Day of
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Did he also dance kind of like a satyr might?
I am laughing through my projectile vomit.
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Which is good, I guess?
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Do you have a larger version of that image? I have an inexplicable desire to print it out and hang it up in random places, like women's bathrooms. As a warning.
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Is there any, um, rule against penis display inside DNA? Because seriously, if I saw that shit, I'd have a real hard time not flipping out and asking a bouncer to toss him.
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bad in that he seems to have become a REGULAR.
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This picture does capture the horror, but it is sadly missing the inexplicably-placed bar towels.
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If that was hanky code, then the next time I see a person in a nightclub with many bar towels tucked into his waistband, I am going to turn around and run in the opposite direction.
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I think.
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Right pocket: liks to drink at bars.
Middle: Just, walk, walk, far away.
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Good Jeezis. Once was enough.
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that's him exactly.
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