Music o' mystical wonderment in the H.G.
This here is the Wahoo Kid with another rompin roundup of tales from Hampton's Ghetto. As promised, the Wahoo Kid will start this here entry with the answer to last week's trivia question:
Q: How many no-talent assclowns does it take to equal Yoko Ono?
A: Total the women Gene Simmons slept with, and take that and multiply it by the # of times Britney Spears has shoved someone's junk up her butt and that should give you a pretty good estimate.
But enough about Yoko and Britney. Unlike those composers o' trashy tunes, there was some kickass music in the big H.G. Yep, the Eagles, they of the singin, and not the football playin variety, wowed the crowds. Everyone stood about to Take It Easy, gettin Peaceful Easy Feelings, watchin for a Witchy Woman, and feelin like Desperados. It was a glorious evening In The City, but before you knew it they were Already Gone. Yet the evening nearly didn't take place. As I entered the Coliseum facility where the Eagles would be rockin later on, I became entangled in a traffic jam o' mythical proportions. There was folks goin this way, that a way, upside down, right side up, and everyone was a honkin like it was a gonna change somethin. Guess what: It don't! It was about that time that a fella named Bitchass Muldoon suddenly busted through the mess with his Hummer H2 conglomeration. Ole Bitchass seemed to think that with his vehicle that approximates the size of a Golden Corral, he'd just be able to trample everythin in his path like Grave Digger at a Smart Car convention. And who was in his path but yours truly, the Wahoo Kid and my little ol hatchback.
Well as I braced for the inevitable collision and the certain demise of my trusty 87 Escort, fate stepped in at the last doggone second. Turns out that Bitchass Muldoon in all his enthusiasm had forgotten the cardinal rule of owning a Hummer H2, namely that you get a mere 7 gallons to the mile in that gas guzzlin whorehouse. Well his dadblamed needle had dropped faster than Paris Hilton's IQ, and just as he used a 94 Miata as a ramp towards a Knieval-esque launch, his expected 10000 horsepower had dropped to a mere 9.6V turbo power. With a look of sheer panic, Muldoon frantically tried to swerve, but once you're in midair, well, swervin does about as good as watchin Lifetime: Television for Idiots. That joker bounced off the ground like a fly bounces off a swatter, and I'll be damned if the Hummer didn't shatter into no less than 218 pieces right there on the spot. When the dust cleared, all that was left was half a passenger seat, one right side tire, and a rear view mirror: all a blazin in the night. Oh, and Bitchass, who was burned like a flame-broiled hamburger. Wasn't nothin else to say other than: "Yep, I made that whopper my bitch!"
This here has been the Wahoo Kid with another rompin roundup of tales from Hampton's Ghetto. Tune in next time when the Wahoo Kid questions how much wood a woodchuck could chuck, if a woodchuck could gangbang itself.
Q: How many no-talent assclowns does it take to equal Yoko Ono?
A: Total the women Gene Simmons slept with, and take that and multiply it by the # of times Britney Spears has shoved someone's junk up her butt and that should give you a pretty good estimate.
But enough about Yoko and Britney. Unlike those composers o' trashy tunes, there was some kickass music in the big H.G. Yep, the Eagles, they of the singin, and not the football playin variety, wowed the crowds. Everyone stood about to Take It Easy, gettin Peaceful Easy Feelings, watchin for a Witchy Woman, and feelin like Desperados. It was a glorious evening In The City, but before you knew it they were Already Gone. Yet the evening nearly didn't take place. As I entered the Coliseum facility where the Eagles would be rockin later on, I became entangled in a traffic jam o' mythical proportions. There was folks goin this way, that a way, upside down, right side up, and everyone was a honkin like it was a gonna change somethin. Guess what: It don't! It was about that time that a fella named Bitchass Muldoon suddenly busted through the mess with his Hummer H2 conglomeration. Ole Bitchass seemed to think that with his vehicle that approximates the size of a Golden Corral, he'd just be able to trample everythin in his path like Grave Digger at a Smart Car convention. And who was in his path but yours truly, the Wahoo Kid and my little ol hatchback.
Well as I braced for the inevitable collision and the certain demise of my trusty 87 Escort, fate stepped in at the last doggone second. Turns out that Bitchass Muldoon in all his enthusiasm had forgotten the cardinal rule of owning a Hummer H2, namely that you get a mere 7 gallons to the mile in that gas guzzlin whorehouse. Well his dadblamed needle had dropped faster than Paris Hilton's IQ, and just as he used a 94 Miata as a ramp towards a Knieval-esque launch, his expected 10000 horsepower had dropped to a mere 9.6V turbo power. With a look of sheer panic, Muldoon frantically tried to swerve, but once you're in midair, well, swervin does about as good as watchin Lifetime: Television for Idiots. That joker bounced off the ground like a fly bounces off a swatter, and I'll be damned if the Hummer didn't shatter into no less than 218 pieces right there on the spot. When the dust cleared, all that was left was half a passenger seat, one right side tire, and a rear view mirror: all a blazin in the night. Oh, and Bitchass, who was burned like a flame-broiled hamburger. Wasn't nothin else to say other than: "Yep, I made that whopper my bitch!"
This here has been the Wahoo Kid with another rompin roundup of tales from Hampton's Ghetto. Tune in next time when the Wahoo Kid questions how much wood a woodchuck could chuck, if a woodchuck could gangbang itself.