Son, tell that MC Oroville of yours to lay off the revelations. Any occasion to seek communion among the unlit, tithing their Social Security checks for CENSORED. Hang on, son, we still have cranberry sauce? Sir, all lack expired last week. Well, sir, every slot machine light hints the guests to a corresponding buffet item. You just hush and explain the color scheme. This is California, son! Fortune country! Sir, I don't understand your notions of atonement. High above the pit, the captains of local radio jingles are held captive by candidates for mayor.
Day after Christmas? Buffet! Sundays in July? Buffet! Waitress for drink orders the rest is on you. Ballet the Chevy Silverado, speedboat in tow: beat their ass to that buffet! Buffet past the cherries and 7s and screams-yank go the Laotian fishermen, logo-less caps low, yank go the ladies in muumuus and drugstore monocles, yank go the douche buckets, yank go the PE coaches-ahoy! Hamburger casserole! Apple cheesecake dumpling pie! Baked macaroni! Butter flavored butter! Instant mashed potatoes! Eat! We are anti-weather. Buffet! Buffet up Oro Dam, air slick as olive oil.
