The 5 People You Meet Up Erik Estrada's Bunghole

Some excerpts from Mitch Albom's new tour de force:

"Sal Muncy?! I haven't seen you since college! Wow—it was with you that I learned how to satisfy a woman."

"Are you kidding me, you asshole? You always finished faster than Usain Bolt on steroids."

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"Will Robinson? What are you doing here?"

"Hey, anything is better than hearing that damn robot yell your name any time there's even a hint of danger. In a way, I’m still Lost in Space. Get it? Haw haw haw!!! Oh crap—Ponch diarrhea just shot out my nose! Ahhh! PONCH DIARRHEA! DANGER! PONCH DIARRHEA!"

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"So let me get this straight--you’re   Ted Nugent's willy?"

"Wang Dang Sweet Brown Tang!"

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Then I saw a badger and feared that I must tred lightly.

"Relax," spoke the varmint. "I was Aesop's favorite."

*          *          *          *          *

"Erik Estrada? But...? How...? is that even possible?" 

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference 4 Pi Days make!

Top 5, last time I got some:

1. Overheard in 1958: “That right fielder of the Tigers looks like he’d have some mighty dee-lish spleen juice!”

2. Mountain bikers who wipe their bums with liquid nails

3. Links pertaining to, but not directly referencing, pepper-stained ovaries

4. Seaside gentlemen who seem exceedingly sensitive about their whiskey-scented urine

5. Final French fish that isn’t a rock reference?

 Top 5, week of:

1. Fillmorian structure applied to the vomit on my dick
2. Vlad Putin’s moobs as a cornerstone of broken Lego
3. Spanish werewolves trying to act all merry merry merry and shit
4. Compound words for acts of increased sexual capacity

5. "Al Kaline’s spleen juice is so runny it’s dropping faster than Erik Estrada's death bed turds!" 

A Surrealist Dog Takes A Shit

Need to go out. Go to door. Wag tail. Wag more damn it! Somebody must let me out! Molten spleen of the right fielder emanates a Dickinsonian nectar.

Someone coming. Grabbing a leash! All is well. The beating pulse of arterial splendor casts lightly upon one’s shelter.

Outside. Must walk. Can’t shit too close to house or walk ends. Volcanic frequencies flash aft, as if emanating from the sun.

Have traveled around 2 corners. Must pull leash. Stop walking! Time to squat. The brightness of odorous limbs claims royalty per heaven’s lost pastries.

Ah! Oh…yessss! Finally dislodged the bastard! And in 4 separate places so the human has to move his bag all about the knoll as he searches for my waste. Plaid dexterity is gaseous upon contextual power.

Back inside. Feel something under my tail. One last job: Must wipe ass on carpet. Lucidity is never superficial in the wake of secession.

Fini.