Epically bumping this thread from the dead for this piece of horseshit:
Struggling to remove a Charleston Chew from it's wrapper, wondering what the hell happend to this place. This basement used to be bright and dusty, now it's just dark and lonely. Everything's been re-arranged and nothing's where it should be, and theres only one light that swings from the ceiling. Outside I hear obnoxous laughter. Must be a real happening party. I hear Linda Hammilton's voice, she excalims, "I've got the governor on speed dial. 464-442-4624 if he wants to talk to the governor." They all start to file in, perfectly inconvenient, gathering around a lone trash can. They expect me to entertain them like it was 2005. It's not like that anymore. Life happens. All the jokes have been told and all the impressions have been done. Leave me alone. That Charleston Chew tastes pretty good right now. Momentay heaven. Linda tells me I need medical insurance. "I know", I sighed. "It's a big decision. Don't make one just because the TV says so. Only you can make that choise". The neighbors kids are setting up shop using their makeshift bunks. I explain the dilema to my cousin, morosely, slumped down Indian style on a pile of splintered paint sticks. Defeated.