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(posted to r.m.h. on June 15, 1999)
Whoops, Im late with this, so I guess I owe the bar a round or two. My baptisim by slime was a simple matter realy. After having partook(is that a word?) of many a libation, eaten some pretty dang good ribs and yard bird, inhaled some nicotein, and pretty much sated most wants, I began to wander the camp, soaking in the sights. As it happened, the slug camp was catty-corner to the SENSless camp, so that was my first stop. Well, after introducing myself, a disembodied head emerges from the tent next to the pickinect table and says,"Hi, Im the tuberdude. Did you ride?" To which I reply(talking to a head is kinda weird, when there is no body) "Um, no, Uncle Sam wouldnt let me." "Well, Yer Small BS number 42(Which I just figgered out today, you can Ignore the email, DP).
There ya have it. Ill never be the same. Now why do I have this
adversion to salt with my TeKillya? |