"Trust me Wally, I could Scheherazade the living bejeesus out of the information superhighway with tales of crazy strumpets all up in my shit like undigested kernels of sweetcorn.
For instance, back when I was in short pants filming Fast Times at Ridgemont High, there was one young chica that was always throwing herself at me like Hindus under the bus at the Ratha Yatra festival.
I'm talking about Jennifer Jason Leigh.
Hot damn, she was one crazy lady, always purring at me suggestively with those big banjo eyes, stroking my leg between takes and generally looking to get scribbled on with white ink by the almighty Penn.
She was some primo trim back then and would probably still trap a thick one now post-Jaeger bombs, but I've been around the world like Lisa Stansfield and seen more shit than an on-call proctologist at a curry festival, and best believe I can spot damaged goods. Poor JJ was crying out for a daddy figure, probably cos her own pops was some type of cold emotionally unavailable douchebag.
But like Sir Mix-A-Lot once said, "don't call me dada!"...I got no time for crazy girls with their Freudian fucknuttery. She got the message and soon moved on from her fixation with me and started up with Forrest Whitaker.
God damn he wrecked that shit son, imagine an F18 stealth fighter jet smashing through a side of beef. It was unseemly.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that having some basketcase all on your jock like genital herpes ain't no thing to be boasting about to all and sundry like a Dickensian town crier with ADHD. Think of it like Pizza Hut - we've all been there, and it's nothing to get too excited about really."
I guess what I'm trying to say is that having some basketcase all on your jock like genital herpes ain't no thing to be boasting about to all and sundry like a Dickensian town crier with ADHD. Think of it like Pizza Hut - we've all been there, and it's nothing to get too excited about really."
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