absolutely sane

If you were to carefully coat the whole of your pants in some of the less dainty urine pastes offered by those fly-by-night grocers, you would find that the second coming of Gary Cole would be slightly less exciting than, say, a pickle up your bottom. This is because the plumper sluts furnishing aforementioned tinkle have it within themselves to guzzle the nectar from the blooms of the stinkweed, filthing up the urea and rendering it wretched, greenish and horrendously generic. Piddle, especially in it's paste form, must be well-liked by a wide variety of gentlemen. If it is not, God bless the user. In application, it is recommended that you carefully doctor the colloid, frenzily whipping it into a soft foam, before applying it to your denims and linens. Raymond Burr, may he rest in peace, often expressed a thin desire to liken his tinkle paste to the pleasanter Wellington crusts that you might find in upscale New York cafes. I couldn't agree less. Heeding such a metaphor would certainly cause vast and catholic digestive disagreement, encouraging all parties involved to vomit. I find that the paste should most resemble a soft beard, something like Kris Kringle's, both in color and texture, but doubtlessly more nasally-pleasing. I dare you to find evidence to the contrary. Evidence of sin, that is. In summary, nobody but Jesus cares about your sad tantrum, so arise from your corner, slap on a smile and get to gettin'. Pants don't pissbutter themselves.