Nov 27, 2006
Say word you wouldn't smash Shirley Maclaine. Imagine you and yr boys all rickety on space wine, listening to Smash Mouth's greatest hits with potatoes in every pocket. Imagine Ms. Maclaine rolling up in a Free Tommy Lee Jones T-shirt rolled up at the midsection all bliyowwwww like she was smacking her asscheeks on the cover of King. Man, she rolls up on you smelling like apple butter and Red Kool-Aid and her titties like Blip! Her bling is riding sidesaddle, son. That's whassup on that shit. Unnnnnnnggggghhhhhhhh. Imagine her rolling up on yr boy like who the fuck is you, nucca and he's like damn, baby, it ain't gotta be all that, bitch. She knows what's really hood though. She runs a single delicate finger over yr fade and slips you a sip of that blaze technology (read: evil eye 40 oz.) and she's all like I'm fittin' t'ride on you, man. Don't front.
You'd smash-- her calves looking like milk fat.
You'd smash-- her wrinkles like little waves running your fingers to the promised land.
You'd smash-- her hummus like fingerskin as wavy as her thin red hair.
You'd smash-- her eyes looking like good fish grease.
You'd smash-- her grip on you; you'll wriggle around with every thought fixated on escape but to no avail. You'll keep coming back.
Yeah, kid. You'd smash. Pepsi smash.
Submitted Posthumously by Jeff Laughlin at 9:30 PM