On the tour, around the world special diets and supplements were used, natural of course, good, simple food. So what if they were not in the cooked books, or the small pressings of re-issued prescriptions like microwaved media. Why can’t people just acknowledge that Armstruth was simply doing what he was told, to eat nothing too complex, allow the supplies to go in one end, be processed, then leaving the back end in tiny brown envelopes. There is no proof, and there is no flaming cigar syringe that proves he had any type of metabolic tantric relations with Usada Dope, the Nigerian immigrant that was purchased by a French Tour de Bovine route farmer, that hoped the annual traffic would help sustain his family.
Armstruth thought he was doing the right thing, when he stopped on the side of the road that day, and it all changed. As a result of believing what a simple dairy farmer had suggested would be a good remedy for his ailing pistons and pumps, believing that the cream was not frozen, it was warmed. It is really cream, and not cow shit with alfalfa in it and that is healthy because Pharmataint, the global authority on all things good for humans says so. Then after watching the 9 year old sistah lift the cows tail and Dairy Queen swirl one glorious mound of love into that beauty. I must admit, it was impressive to see the chase care footage show him knock that bitch out with one strike, and the round house delivered to the farmer – Bruce Lie approved.
That is not an ice cream cone you best be serving to some wise guys in Brooklyn. Even if you think it may go off like apologizing for calling them just slimy, and cunty, but not fat. So Pratatoe applies the FYLM (Fuck You Lie to Me methodology, invented in Staford by the same team that invented the Senate Sock, the enhanced congressional fleshlight found within all first world governing quorum facilities, including the public speaking chambers) principle.
*all re-enactments of the following parts of the Armstruth dialogues are meant to convey the appearance of a drug fuelled good guys dinner, in Brooklyn looking for guerilla footage of the elusive Zitizilla, a gargantuan fucking ape, with the ability to disguise his entrance into the Times Square Anal Bead Cinematography festival with daft integration, and limited repercussions. Please note, the extension of the mind required to imagine a giant mobster ape, of any ethnic background, eating a deli sammich, scratching the proverbial balls, may be elusive and should not to be attempted by anyone without two thumbs.
[the table is covered with reports from the UBS-Whorebird HNW Division, we see the Bogota emeralds outlining the pictures of the Kwanzaa tree from O. Pratatoe’s holiday trip. Sparkling Eunuch Springs water bottles remain, they are placed next to the CrewRig Insta-Adrenaline brewer strategically replacing the BO$E system for this segment]
O. Pratatoe: You’re a pistol, you’re really funny. You’re really funny.
Armstruth: What do you mean?
O. Pratatoe: It’s funny, you know. It’s a good story, it’s funny, you’re a funny guy – like how the fuck you think you going to tell me, you was wanting to make sure she is dafriend still, an ‘pologized?
<lighter heard, bong rips>
Armstruth: What do you mean, you mean the way I talk? What? In circles, and always under the guise of not totally admitting fault, cause that would mean the bugs in the room youse gotz in here are gonna be all fazoole and shit?
<huge breasted 1920’s cigarette girl comes by, tray is filled with elastic bands with the FYPM emblazoned across them, hand gesture, with a sweet follow up ass slap and kissing lips sound>
O. Pratatoe: It’s just, you know…fuck look at dat azz…mmmmm, hmmmm…yeah, you’re just funny, it’s… funny, the way you tell the story and everything… called her a whore, but not a fat whore. That is bullshit, what a fucking joke, that you would not remember saying it, and yeah, prescilly portant to someone he knew was.
Armstruth: Funny how? What’s funny about it? Like you think I am not being sincere here?
Balls Lebowski (Voice, producer, off-set): Armski no! You got it all wrong!!
Armstruth: Oh, oh, Anthony. He’s a big boy, he knows what he said. What did ya say? Funny how?
O. Pratatoe: Jus…seems De Niro healed, know? Not analyzed-really. Not healed, and not telling the truth…you seem full of fucking shit, and a selfish fuck looking to get back into the circuit because your gravy train is now Purina dog food boiled in the kettle with some shallots from your fucking spice garden you fucking gamboom? You want me to get Van Fraudde to come over and show you how we play Two Nipple Monte?
Armstruth: How much for dee beetle girl?
<mimic best Belushi impression, and pretends to eat O. Pratatoe’s calf like a chicken leg>
O. Pratatoe: Just…Animal House?
Armstruth: You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it’s me, I’m a little fucked up maybe, but I’m funny how, I mean funny like imma not doing the blues like a brother well enough for you, I amuse you? I make you fucking laugh <hard glance to camera> Imma here to fuckin’ amuse you? What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?
O. Pratatoe: Just… you know, how you tell the story. Keep lying. Hol’lying it up for the new rubber band sales person cause she is all “hearts on my door” and “I love you” and shit, playing the media whore with 38 abortions on your record – 3 of them francophone, speaking cows man.
Armstruth: No, no, I don’t know, you said it. What the fuck does “the only path back to wealth is his ability to placate now” mean? How do I know? You said it. How the fuck <holds up hands in papal fashion, clasping manicured nails purchased by donation tenderly to not wash off the glaze, shits expensive yo> – so many deserters, and now my Pratatoe appearance is gonna be like fucking a stranger in the ass?
O. Pratatoe: [long pause] Get the fuck out of here, ArmedTruth! Owl Grove
<throws gang sign, concealed by the wiggly box shit some techie puts over the film>
Armstruth: [everyone laughs] Ya motherfucker! I almost had you, I almost had you. Ya stuttering prick ya. Balls, was she shaking? I wonder about you sometimes, Poe-taught. You may fold under questioning if those motherfucker’s at UBS-Whorebird get snapped into the wood shed behind the lake during the Vig Split ‘n Spitt Cookout at the grove.
THIS POSTS FREE O. PRATATOE LEARNING THINK GOES TO: