I don’t want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.
Oh, puh-LEEZE. Your crane style is no match for my monkey kung-fu, donkey donkey donkey donkey
Yes, that’s Haley, as in Haley’s Comet comin’ straight fo yoo, foo. Does it make sense to convert a 1957 Nash Metropolitan into a station wagon? Not at all. Does it peg the cool-o-meter like the Night Rider pegging the speedometer on a lonely Outback highway? Hells bells yes, son. Now sit down.
That’s nice, Dan. Now why don’t you go off and play with your little friends for a while while the grownups talk?
So, you think just because you’ve spawned, that now you can dismiss my carefree, sorta-bachelor living, non? So you think that diminutiveness equates to worthlessness? Then feast thine eyes upon the Bee break, the most awesomest break ever to wear the Scat Pack stripes! I told you, don’t mess with a man that’s been to Mopar Nats. I will accept your surrender anon.
Oh, like yawn. What is that, a Chrysler? Wow. A Chrysler wagon. What did they make, like 23 million of them?
Go back to the Amish country, beard boy. Swimming with the sharks gets you bit.
http://blog.hemmings.com/index.php/2007/01/
