Eh, you know what? I uhhhh used to be all uhhh horned up at this kinda talk, heh heh heh. Nothin' I liked better than doing a set at The Stand and then finding some young lady to fart in my pale Irish face. Ya know, catch a breeze from her ass and call it a night. Now I'm old, heh heh heh. You catch me on a good night and
maybe I can squeeze some blood into my lil Irish pud to show it's exciting. All these farts floating about, that's a young guy's game. I'm on the sidelines yelling now.
"You go get that fart, Joey!" Heh heh heh. I got old man nose. It gets a cup of ovaltine fart from the grandma next door and it's good for the month. Heh heh heh. The married guys out there uhhh they know what I mean. I remember girls' meaty farts like I'm a Desert Storm veteran sniper thinking about all those skulls I saw explode. I can't talk about it with my wife because then she'll be
"You can smell my farts, Billy" but it's not the same, heh heh heh. It's like PTSD. If I catch one more meaty fart maybe I'll end up going on a rampage. I have suppressed anger according to my therapist. Therapist? Geez, that's lame. Men never used to see therapists. You'd tell your boss to stick his job and uhhhh spend the weekend drinking before turning up on Monday like it never happened. At least that's what I guess happens. I studied under David Foster Wallace. I'm going to be on Broadway, heh heh heh. Ol' Billy on Broadway.