How to Eat Cape Cod

His sexually-charged persona (three hundred hours of community service) certainly doesn't lend itself to the Juan, but I'm sure there's enough rough and proper stuff beneath the surface to see his extra-busy hand try itself at good ol' fulfillment and all that jazz. Hopefully his shoehorn isn't too persuasive. Though much grander, the next's shoehorn is outweighed by a weightier mind, and only rarely overpowers his hands when the tricks convince and the moment is right. He knows what he's looking for. The last knows too, but his is a harder thread to weave... Or so I believe.

So all this boils down to me and my steam, standing on some sort of mountain and chesting my pride rather aloofly. And I don't care for your verdicts. Or the shapes you twist your pricks. Or even how you clean your specks and spicks. I don't even care for proper sentences. I'm just a lonely country boy with nice ears.

So one, I predict, will die in a sea-side shack near a pier. Here's hoping, though.

Ah screw it.

Here's a breath at the top of my lungs and a bedside end a significant amount of time later.