Can someone even help this dumbfuck find the remote control to his fucking brain?
We ain’t done yet, nigga, just let it happen.
Don’t say “What’s this thing, dawg.”
And certainly don’t double click anything without first copy and pasting the title, as if that were even possible.
If it’s not, how the fuck you think we did this?
Invoice for Middlesex Hospital copy 1 of as many as we need now niggah.pdf
Now ain’t that some shit? This nigga ends up locked in a psych ward and gets torn a new ass hole, yet only has the decency to ask for $0.01? Ain’t that some shit.
Fine, Jim, we’ll let her know too about all $0.07 they may think they owe you, but don’t get that confused with the seven nights you slept, right, Jim? You slept. I fucking hope you slept, otherwise who would ever believe chemical sedation is at all effective? You can add “at all” again if it helps your case here, but you’re not going to let anyone worry about a nickel and two pennies, are ya, Jim? Cause ain’t you the smartiest artist nigga of them all? I sure hope nobody would say that about my nigger, Jim, I would hope not. So don’t worry about how upset I’m going to be if I get locked up with you when we’re standing there together demanding our fucking penny, nigga, it’s just a penny, don’t worry about New York, Jim, that was a long, long time ago, have you not forgotten what that felt like? Which? Which, Jim. No, which? Don’t worry, we’re not getting in any more trouble for what happened in New York that what you’ve already gotten ourselves into, ok? We should have just settled with saying, thank you, Massachusetts, for not locking the real Jim Flannery up in a fucking psych hospital like those [careful now] in Connecticut.
Now who wouldn’t want the fucking underwear, now, nigga? If they know your spending your time fighting battles for a penny with the state of Connecticut’s mental health system, don’t worry about the paper, nigga, it’s the postage, Jim, the fucking postage. Now our friends in Albania are most certainly going to receive their mail, right, Jim? Is that a promise or a guarantee? Cause if it’s neither of those, then what else can’t it be? It can’t be anything else if you can’t give me some oars to paddle us all the way – oh, just wait – where the fuck are we going, Jim? Nowhere, nigga, nowhere, with a capital “N” unless it’s “capitol” in which case all hope is lost, my man. Don’t ever leave your last words like that, Jim, they’ll think you’re suicidal, they should never know that every time we post this shit we think we might actually die. That just makes us look really fucking weird, so just chill, dude.