Tuesday, February 21, 2012

The End.

These too corn fritter quaffing fun boys bro-ing down might signal the end of times. The rivers of hot magma melted man jewelry will wash over civilizations like vegetable oil engulfing a bacon wrapped pickle. Run for your lives, and find respite in Hidden Valley Ranch. The horned taquitos of the apocalypse are baying on high. Both human, divine, and deep-fried, these high chiefs of fallen dippin' sauce beckon with barbed wire tattoos, and greasy digit tips. The age of earth and the ultimate fate of the universe hang in the balance. The short bus is leaving to Flavor Town with one extra simpleton. Holy-moly stromboli!

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