You're a very nosy fellow, kitty cat. Huh? You know what happens to nosy fellows? Huh? No? Wanna guess? Huh? No? Okay. They lose their noses. [flicks knife, cutting open Jake's nostril] Next time you lose the whole thing. Cut it off and feed it to my goldfish. Understand? Understand!?
All I asked was, "Where's you get the midget, Jesus."
Part of the perks of my White Privilege is having a 'see-through' Irish pelt. For six decades and change, me and that lucky old sun have been at war with Hickey Lad taking the pasting to his pallor.
Days at Rainbow Beach from digging sand pits to flexing for the babes, waist deep in the mighty Kankakee on burning hot days casting the line of my Zebco, Fins McCool, to the mouths of Smallies, quaffing that superrogatory quart of ice cold Drewrys and having a nice lie down in open field for some day time Rapid Eye Movement deprived night-night, yelling encouragement from grandstands and sidelines sans UPF 50, or Quaker State, and just walking around under the blaze and bake of Old Sol have added a bumb to my porcine pug smeller.
I have what appears to be one big-ass Basal Cell Carcinoma occupying my schnozzola.
This will be addressed by a lovely Greek American plastic surgeon.
The alternative, would be searching out celebrated Pédophile et cinéaste, Roman Polanski, and piss him off - Ainsi !
Change A Comin'!
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