deadbeat chad: da sequel

photo credit: some laughable chad in the making, i'm sure. don't meth around.

so i still moonlight as a teenager, the machinations of hormonal foolhardiness of whom had bundled yours cruelly in a laundry list and scooted me into a hearty batch of mountain-brewed gobbledygook astride a quorum north end's finest rudeboy retinue. beautifuldoable bitch this whole existential ordeal proves so often, eh? layer up to repel her onslaught of bitter ba humbugs. we were hypothermic. hell rell is hypotalented. fair is fair.

so like i said in part 1, we were sequencing the beats on a hasty retreat and beat street was heavily knee deep for the tires. dude in tj maxx's freshest fisher price my first finger painted hoody hailed us and nailed us to the mission charter. huffing and puffing, we gave mighty effort to the cause of excavating the relevant accoutrement of his rwd chumptruck and found our proud effort mightily ineffectual. shout out to john kerry.

a single failure, we soon learned, would do naught to deter our dazzlingly draped friend in his dogged pursuit of swisher sweetness. cars cost lest in puyallup. cars move less in the snow. eureka, though, isn't just a likely name for a daughter of mos def. a treasure trove of options arrived at our disposal, the best of which evolved into more fruitful locomotive enterprising. an accord or camry (man all ya'll look alike) made able volunteer, peter made as if buff and the rest of us were down for the dislodge. as promised, eureka!

"thanks, yo. do you like weed?"
"does hell rell look like a pug?"
"who is hell rell?"
"that's deep. i'll smoke."

brief politicking revealed a partition 'twixt my party people. whether covert operatives or subject to tinkle testing at their bible study group, my friends stood ill at ease over my casual acceptance. in no mood for slash and burn swagriculture, my brohorts poo-pooed the prospects and elected to stick around only by virtue of good principle and amusement at the emergence of a new cast of characters from the corner cottage from whence the pilot of the swisher shuttle was come.

the ants come marching 2 by 2; hurrah, hurrah! the first two were interesting as all hell. HELL IS INTERESTING (ALL)! girl azn and white guy. she introduced herself with conventional pleasantries and a gorgon's head gallery of inadvertently menacing facial expressions. tasked as her talent agent, i'd meditate at the fork in between casting her as one of the inkwells of hemoblobulic lubricant that quenched uma therman's hattori hanzo during her running of the gauntlet in the geisha house and selling rights to her likeness for use as a glob of gonorrhea in osmosis jones. options. i'm a young phil jackson these other bloggers pitino. i gotta slick mouth. you might wanna roll with me. shout out to jerry. real talk.

the other guy looked pretty normal. a cute girl who reminded me of the friend girl from daria stepped out onto the scene with stephen culpepper. their being hella less wizened than the ice grilled sourpuss and the normal looking guy had me bullish on befuddlement. still though, nothing but the snarl affixed to the face of the oriental billy girl gruff threatened market share for a phantom menace. shit was shot and we cast our lot inside the shelter of the peculiarity party, eager for deliverance from winter's shitshow of shivered timbers. scant our knowledge of the truth, of our haphazard encampment in the venomous snare of ch_d(_), preeminent poobah of the codpiece consortium.

part 3's a futureweapon. izza promise. i've got finals tomorrow, mayn. good night; let no bed bug sully your surface.