It’s a Twister.

Sure looks stormy, doesn’t it.

See, we wuz after dis guy what kidnapped his two kids inna nasty custody battle. Da mom wuz a real skank, too, if he’da just waited they’d probly have given his da kids anyhows, but I guess his lawyer didn’t have no confidence or sumfin, cause he just picked em up from day care one day and they’re off.

So’s Sly’s all lookin’ at dis scrap of what I guess masta been diaper hangin’ from a cactus. I dun wanna know how dat got dere. The day wuz real hot an sticky like, like melted ice cream an dog and honey and that grody gunk dat’s ya get on the bottom of ya shoe all mixed up togetha.

But den I sees over to the west dat dere’s dis windstorm comin’. And I go runnin to Sly, and he’s like ‘Oh noes ah dun no wut to dew!’ and so I’m like “Stay calm, Slylock! If we do not take shelter immediately we shall surely be blown away, like unto the tumbleweed!” an he’s like ‘Gosh ur rite Max ur so smart.’ But I go “No time for that now! Swiftly, take your pickaxe and spade, and dig for us a makeshift shelter, in which we may ride out the fury of nature!”

So he does, an we crawl in, and there’s this huge sandstorm, but we’re ok cuz we’s in the hole, and when we get out Sly goes ‘Wowee Max you sav’d mah butt’ and I’m like

“What the hell are you doing with my blog?”

Oh, uh, hey Sly.

The Final Word.


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