People are overlooking an unreported fact in this story: that pen is stocked with Mr. Case’s jizz. It is not just an ordinary $450 pen but a writing instrument capable of impregnating anybody who touches it.
It is a shame some common pervert was named the Scene’s Creep of the Week when there is such a compelling nomination to be had from one Kenny Jaeger. Dude, back off gently from the coke, ‘kay? And lube up those fingers or else the friction you create from micro-blogging on the Scene’s pages may spark a fire the likes of which has not been seen since 1871 Chicago (or at least 1969 on the Cuyahoga…). And, what the fuck is that avatar of yours? Some sort of stone etching from the Mound Builders version of a Dick and Jane book? Cripe.
Clueless private dicks! She's due north of Newbury and has been for about a week and a half. She's been holed up in Pickle Bill's in Fairport Harbor, chowing down AYCE Maine lobster, rib and shrimp like an Ethopian the day after Ramadaan. If you go to the back of the resturaunt, she's holding court there with a bunch of similarly salty wenches, all of whom are wearing "Got Milk?" lobster bibs with nothing on underneath except acid-washed denim mini-skirts or leopard-print gym shorts. The "big event" is when Casey staggers from the bar about 3 pm, calls herself "the catch of the day," and does a spread-eagle dive into the nearest table of blue-hairs. It is quite a sight - think 1990 Motley Crue Groupie meets Caligula
What, you mean she doesn't LOOK like a child murderer? Not everybody can be Anthony Flippin' Sowell....
She's not planking. She just took a spill from wearing on the "oh-so-Spic-and-Span-clean" linoleum with her come-fook-me pumps. It is understandable that she'd lose her balance, what with slipping off the smegma-laden stripper pole, which we all know was a handrail from the grand opening of the Arcade mall way back-in-the-day. Anyhoo, another dose of 'X should liven her up.
Kinda curious that the developer, MMPI, shares its acronymic name with a common psychological assessment. Methinks MMPI needs to sit on a couch, look at some inkblots, before it explains how it will magically transform a big gaping hole into a den of commerce. It's not like its Lady GaGa.
Cute, but it's not a hop-skotch grid and you are under arrest....
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