After our recent adventures in Westcliffe, I and my unshiny wild-eyed and oft-shittyfaced little Subaru, Yolo McFukitol, were tired and dirty and yearning for some kind of new place nice and quiet and irrigated for to go get cleaned up and fucked up and maybe even a little bit rested up in.
So we soared out of town and went roaring north on Highway 69 till we found ourselves a campsite that just might do the trick somewhere up in the hills near Hillside, Colorado.
Once we'd made our worthy presence and benevolent intentions known to all nearby trees of good standing and had sacrificed the appropriate number of litterbugs in the local firepit of yore to appease the region's legion of anti-trash fairies, we got right into it.
Firedog whiskey for me, and a raging flaming Texan pumpjack for YMF.
Behold the fruits of our drunken labors:
Toilet paper.
It was everywhere.
Scattered like ass chaff everywhere because apparently after these asses were done flossing their asses with all their future ass trash they thought it'd be rad to just toss that assflackery shatness of theirs right into the grass like total dumbasses like that.
Craptastically unattractive.
Shitsmashingly maladaptive.
Toilet paper. Everywhere.
Toilet paper. Here and th—
…
…
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Wait what's that.
That looks like underwear.
…
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Yeah, that's underwear alright:
Crap your pants
And clap your hands
Come along with me
Into shitpaper land
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Underwear
Ain't gonna care
Whatcha gonna do
With the litter there
…
Scooby Doo
Has come to you
Go ahead and snack
It's the time for chew
…
Cross the line
With shit sublime
Scatterin' your poo
At the end of nine…
…
Those aren't my undies you idiot. Were you drunk when you wrote this?
No. Will you please reblog this?
No.