Gonna buy me a Corvette.
Gonna buy me a custom ride.
Get de big screen HD teevee.
Get de bedroom full o' bong high.
I gonna buy me a lizard.
Always can I smoke this yard.
Gonna get me the warehouse
With the alligator guard.
Sure, doesn't look too frisky, but neither would you with all of that fine second hand smoke wafting about your nostrils. I actually met Weird Al once as a wee lad at some typically-Midwestern-excuse-to-stuff-yourself fest in downtown Cleveland. He signed my cassette copy of In 3-D, quite a thrilling experience.
"Good job remaining vaguely topical via a week-old news item and an album that came out during the halcyon days of the Reagan death squads."
Believe me, such journalistic excellence doesn't come without nearly a minute of hard work, two if you count picture fishing in Lake Google. Next time, I'll be sure to write a 38th generation take on The Kanye West Automated Diss Machine. Or maybe something on politics. Did you hear? Obama is -- gasp -- an assembly line politician! Teabaggers happily slit their own throats in the temple of their very exploiters! Children use curse words! This blog sucks!
A roller coaster ride on a car that only goes ten feet into the atmosphere is about as thrilling as le lit chez Randal.
I was going to add something else, and sadly I don't remember what it was, but trust me, it was comical.
Oh! Some chick all hot n' bothered with her texting nearly knocked herself over colliding with the electro anti-klepto gate on the way in this morning.
Remember gang, keep fucking that chicken.