My Name Is, Uh, Señor Greenwood, and I’ll Be Your Substitute Teacher Today
Now, I should say that I don’t speak Spanish, but I do speak un poquito Spanish. Is that bueno with everyone?
Now, I should say that I don’t speak Spanish, but I do speak un poquito Spanish. Is that bueno with everyone?
Every time I’ve been to a dinner party with our president, he sits next to my problematic uncle, and they talk practically in unison.
When I go to work people assume, just because I drive an ice cream truck, that I must really love ice cream, or that I sell ice cream.
My music isn't something you stomach for the sake of increased brain function. Save that for the cod liver oil.
The farmer at the pumpkin patch is threatening to stop selling me any more pumpkins because he thinks what I’m doing is “fucked up.”
A slew of multiple-choice questions that are, at best, only tangentially related to your actual performance or knowledge in a professional capacity.
Is it so terrible that I want transparency? And the permanent ability to login to his Twitter whenever I'm feeling a little fucking insane?
Climbing out of my grave, I savor the autumn air before dusting off my outfit: an oversized cardigan, plaid scarf, Uggs, and Lululemon leggings.
Some of my other ubiquitous work is "Call Your Mom" and "Single-Line, Semi-Erect Penis and Balls, With Hair Sprigs."
I come from a long line of well-known, obnoxious sounds. My father was the blast from a cruise ship, my uncle was the exhaust rattle of a Harley.
I haven’t thought about you, but I’m sure you’ve thought of me plenty between the scars I left on your psyche and my popular, unprofessional TikToks.
Boxer is our farm goat and he loves meeting people. Don’t be alarmed if he tries to bite the screen since he doesn’t fully grasp what a laptop is.