I had the sort of evening a gentleman doesn’t talk about. I figure if a gentleman can get away with that shit I probably can too. Oh boys and girls and whatever you are, yeah, I’m talking to you in the back, what’re you? A gremlin? Those are my zagnuts, spit em out and go back home. I’m waiting. No, g’won take your time. Ok.
Oh boys and girls, the things I could tell you if I wasn’t pretending to be a gentleman. And I don’t just mean the gossipy stuff y’all are either dying to hear or make up your own stories for. Ok, I do mean a little bit of that, but mostly I mean the weird sort of shit that happens to Haredawg Drools all the time. Usually not good for gossip and is so far from joy I can’t even use the letters Jay Oh or Why (You try telling a creepy tale without one vowel and a sometimes vowel).
Gentlemen don’t talk about because --- well, I don’t know, I’ll ask one if I see one. They don’t talk about Drools type things because 1) That sort of shit doesn’t happen to most people and probably especially not gentlemen who’d have no frame of reference anyhow and so a lack of appreciation and 2) For this one Gentleman would ask ‘what would Haredawg do?’ (wwhd and/or wwHDD) and the answer is, of course, keep your mouth shut because no one is going to believe you anyhow.
If I were actually a dawg and not just playing one, um, everywhere on the www, I’d be wagging my tail. I’d also be looking over my shoulder (which most dogs don’t really have) and perhaps barking at the shadows. Seeing how I’m really just a guy, I’m just going to wag my tail. Y’all could give me a zagnut, but I’m still not talking. A zagnut, at least, would explain what the hell the Drools is about. Grown ass Women Rule, Haredawg Drools.
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