Whel frenz, I was ther. Bakster’s buk
pardy. He prefurrs I refur to him az Mastr wich emplys sum Roilty
capasite. So far az ledership I’d rank him sumwher just behind General
Custer.
So, he throes this BBQ to anowns his
latest markitting asolt on the gollabul! I red sum ov it. At lest the
pichurs ar gud. His artist frends demonstraded wye thay mak a livin
drowing insted of trhowin a rop!
His mother an stepfodder was ther. He
putt the ol man tar pappuring the wel howz- his mother was a soprise.
I’d herd him tel peppel he was an orfan to get simpathe.
Bumbling Black mus be a pirromanyak! He
stokd the campfhire with enuf wud to bild a hunting loge, then primd it
with a galon of gass. He lit it an blu the hud offe his pikup!
By dark the blaz had burrnd doun to the siz of a smal apartmnt complx!
Garre shode up luking 4 a yodeling dawg. I awdishunned but I’d breethd enuf somoke to fog ten akers of cotten, so he passed.
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