Happy Tax Day

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Remember being a boy in middle school? (If you don’t, yr either a whimen or have dengue fever) Well, I do. I remember having an insatiable fire in my chest, one in which was magnified by the onslaught of pinchi (Mexican slang for ‘fuckin’’) hormones, along with crumbling relationships all around me (my girl, my girl, and my girl). This fire could only by tamed by two things; rubbing one out to Danny Glover Angel’s in the Outfield playing cards, or, a fucking CONVERGE show.

Being all of ninety pounds, I’d get tossed around the room like some Taiwanese concubine (Jane Doe baby), or at least a Carpaccio salad with Katrina style presentation. Enough of the similes, metaphors, analogies, mammograms, obscure culture references that no one’s getting, and let’s get to the point.

Just this past month, I satiated my urge for blood curdling breakdowns, to be packed in a room like sardines along side chiseled Brooklyn brodudes that smell like Creatine, muscle butter (a logical progression of muscle milk) and Meshuggah mescaline. The result was multiple stage dives at all the appropriate parts, a ripped white tee that exposed my tit for seventy five minutes, and the discovery that my scream sounds like Bing Crosby doing a jack-knife into the deep end (even more so through my customized earplugs.

Please visit exhibit A and B below as proof of the prior (with the longer video, you have to wait for the breakdown three minutes in… duh.)

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