I am a variant man. I am a variegated man.

I am a variant man. I am a variegated man. I'm a vagrant man. I'm a homely man. I'm a cocooning man. I'm a distracted man. I'm a distributed man. I'm a

person man. Hit on the head with a frying pan. Lives his life in a garbage can. Who came up with person man? Degraded man. Person man. Triangle man hates person man.

Kendra turned to me and screamed, "BEST KARAOKE NIGHT EVERRRR!" She stumbled to the bar for another Long Island. After polite applause, the next crooning nerd took the stage.

The next crooning nerd that took the stage was nervous, he look around and starting to sing a Barry Mantilo song, and Kendra turned to see with her long island in hand when

The roof caved in under the weight of its karma.

The caving in of the roof revealed a night sky populated by the stars of distant galaxies where aliens roasted space chesnuts and flossed their teeth with space floss.

Some of those space aliens liked to frolic on the beach in their space thong bikinis. Not all of them had the bifurcated posteriors to carry it off. Live and let live I say. Still

waters run deep, and space aliens with no discernible buttocks tend to run a little stiffly. Their beach volleyball games were always a little off, thong bikinis or no. But they

bullshit with the best of them, even though their brains were mashed potatoes. To the untrained vagina, buttock-less space aliens were Latin Lovers on steroids, Don Juans on

Molly who lolligagged the whole day on your areolas the way the ET Fever had you. Perhaps, counter to the trend, your augmentations included extra breasts for this very reason.