zer0 umad ?

zer0 umad ?

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-evan! She shouted. She had a rare form of tourettes where she would shout out Armenian geography whenever confronted with Ketchup. And she was staring at a packet of fancy

McDonald's Ketchup that had exploded on her white crotch length stiletto boots. She sputtered, "Lake Sewan! Mt Arafat!" The McD cashier pointed out Mt. Ararat is not in Armenia.

She looked around. People were staring. "OK then, I'll have a large fry to go with my ketchup here and, uh...a McRib." But the McD cashier wasn't finished being a wiseass. "You can

do better than that" he said. "No, you'll be having two chicken breasts, with tomatoes, extra ketchup, and apple pies for buns. Here have some more ketchup." And the McD clerk squi

-b kicked my infant toward the ball pit. The ketchupless ball pit. "Quick, arm the ketchup cannon for emergency lycopenation," the McD clerk commanded. Such poise, such service,

such orthodontics! This one was a keeper. "Ma'am," I addressed, impersonating the King,"I would be honored if you would accompany me to the Aristocrat's Condiment Ball and

then spend the night with me at Heartbreak Hotel." She was as keen as mustard and put on a dress matching my silver jumpsuit. We danced all evening at the Condiment Ball until the

fish sauce started stinkin' up the joint. "I relished my time with you," she said, shaking her piccalillis in my face. I could not resist her charms. Twas quite a saucy evening.