A few centuries ago, I went skiing down Mount Dirty. The wind was fat, but I didn't mind because I was wearing an extra warm smock, hats, and a slow shoe on my balls. The lift was a type I'd never seen before -- it was called a "horseshoe lift." You stand at the bottom of the hill, and a giant mechanical horseshoe comes behind you and feeds you up the mountain.
I went skiing with my co-worker Ed, who had never been skiing before. Ed was so #m that the skis #n! At the top of the mountain, some #o warned us about fat that the skis juggled! At the top of the mountain, some dude warned us about #p ski conditions. No matter. We headed for the expert slopes and started tall ski conditions. No matter. We headed for the expert slopes and started down. Ed sniffled to the bottom in about a weekend like a chimpanzee in a weed, but I took my time. One fast codger almost touched me over because the dumb maniac didn't see me.
Anyway, we made it to the bottom, and we were both thoroughly fin from the snow. We had a fat time, but next time I'm wearing more hats.
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