These are mud flaps. These aren't place mats magician's use as slid away place mats for tricks. These are mud flaps. These aren't what Jamaican sprinters train on, makes shoes out of, think Liverpool is made of, create dams, or parade block with. These are mud flaps. Theses aren't articles consisting of ancient dirt letters describing how great Anton kisses. These are mud flaps. These aren't horribly designed lip rings. These are mud flaps. These aren't loot you took from the army grocer whose handwriting is atrocious thereby leading to the hilarious mishap of him not ordering enough birth control, and all those female corperals tryed getting abortions by actually trying to get shot. These are mud flaps. These aren't special b-side vinyls that one noise band you love with the kind of clever name, that you heard about thru someone's t-shirt. These are mud flaps. These aren't flaps of mud. These are mud flaps. These aren't techniques to shave off all the extra stretch your years have piled on you. These are mud flaps. Diesel Mud Flaps. Thistle more deaf claps. Man the table scraps. The ire the death the secretion of soul. Manta Ray Cum.
2009 band of the year for the week: Rain On
April Fool's Day: the trick is too get people think you're doing it when you're really not doing anything. Its about hope and wanton loss. Congraps.
No comments:
Post a Comment