Looking Class

     Just a tiny Redditor with a megaphone. Mega alone drinking a beautiful cocktail of Faygo-Patrón. So it goeth, broeths. Springtime has arrived again; oh wait, a thunderous cloud is forecasting its arrival at Fuck You O'Clock. Welp, time to lock myself in the (b)log cabin again. What a miserable state of affairs!
     Head over to my weather-proof gambler's den (stop snooping). Drop a couple quarters in a day-baseball contest. Judge, you mongoloid fuck: smack some long dongs all over these red socked racial realists. Who shall be my pitcher on this sunniest of sports matinées? You look quite dandy, Mr. Jacoby Junis (and I like your name). Slide snugly into my coveted top spot and throw those 98.3 mph fastballs quickly and—oh, can you not hit any batters? Can you throw an off-speed sinker to lead-off hitter Bubblegum Jones? He has a propensity to swing at garbage below the zone. Please, K that fat slobbering Chaddington Bear so hard he spits out his chewing tobacc-gum.
     Hey, as long as it is bat-ball season, the snoreswing references will continue to manifest in this testosterone-soaked vagina monologue. Like I said hours ago, I threw some 💵s at King Draft and hoped, in his gracious graciousness, he'd throw me a few money-colored bones back. Times passes, blah blah blah. Instead, this absolute King Dick fucks me in the ass and doesn't even spare me a dime (?)
     Aaaaah, well; yeah; um. It's OK, though. There's a #WNBA game I've researched for the past ten seconds I'm fully confident about betting $100 on. Tell me that I shouldn't do the thing. I'm begging you guys to take this fat hundo from my broke-ass and put it to good use (education, porn subscriptions, Rocket League crates). Spongebob voice: 10 minutes latah. So, before I typed all that nonsense I realized I have negative $2.84 in my Draft Killmyself account. FUCK. I'm out of here, the DFS God Himself is after me and oh fuck he's here and I only have enough to p—BANG.

Not sure what dis is but I guess I'll hit Publish?

Amorous Roast

     Writed too hard and failed a few languages. What is up, my brown excretions? What is up, my Israeli Gaza Strippers (one tip = one like!) Something something, let's get to the Americanistic, unrealistic, spastic quixoticists in the midst of the this written tryst. So, where we again?
      It's probably Monday—it's probably the unofficial first day of the week. Might hit up a bar later with los amigos, mi compadres. Tres idiotos, lol. Los huevos on those brothers.
      I think that's 5 spaces. Blogger dot com autosaving and thus saving this masterpiece from the darknet lingerers. So where at at? We doing this thing? We gf-bf or just waifu-Facebook-liker-extraordinaire.
      Y'all stupidheads don't even smoke crack. It's 8:04 on a Monday and I'm Bloggering like a 2005 Emily Gould. Referenced all over her adorned white bosom. Like seriously, if you haven't fucked a-cups in your lifetime, get a Lifetime O—eh too easy.
      Spellchecked this whole damn post and. Like, what's up with. Periods are the new em slashy dash'ems. Trashy mash'ems by Girl Talk and his decaying ilk. Lamb sent me a hot smash'em and I upvoted it and it magically became the top post on iFunny dot app.
       Aight, y'all are tired of my overhyped writtenisms. Write write wrought writhing white flight out of this blogged soggy ghetto. Whom even grammar-checks anymore? We just look for those red squigglies and peace it. As a 100-year-old centenarian-grammarian-aquarium, I miss the days went we could shoot a minority just for misplacing a subject modifier. Fucking millennials, am I riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight? C U N T. This Tuesday, my bizzle.