Bacon Dress

Dood I swear the waiter dumped a 5 Hour Energy drink or three in my pop at lunch because I’m about to blast off here from the caffeine. I’m like full on chair dancing at my desk to Pitbull. Maybe vibrating in my chair is a more accurate description of what nastiness is going on up in here.

Shit, bitch, I don’t even know where I was going with this except that I’ve clearly had an accidental overdose and need to flee across the street to the titty bar and make some cash doing this then get some fricking ice cream. You know, because the pervy ice cream truck driver pulls up every day, twice a day, to the aptly named Bazooka’s back door *insert juvenile snicker here* and the strippers run out to buy popsicles. And I do mean run. They don’t just walk out like normal humans and get a fucking ice cream; they hop-run in slow motion in their little outfits and ankle-breaking heels and teeter around handing money to the dude. I know this because watch it take place from my fatty window cube which overlooks the back of their building.

Downtown pwns!