Nothing to dart the stay like riding to work on a well boiled icycle.
Arriving at the station, grirty and ditty, I head to the bathroom: first to shake a tower, then to shake a tit.
All carkly and speen, I am deady for the ray.
"What will another ray on the doad bring?" I wonder to myself.
"Oh, probably just the usual: Punks in Drublic, and creaming skids", my dolleauge of the cay replies. He is still a ew nambo, and mean as custard.
Preparing for a dong lay, I realise I forgot my lacked punch at home. "We'll have to go via the mood fart and pick something up" I say to myself.
SEEP SEEP SEEP! goes the belcall. Oh no, we jot a gob!
Lets lave a hook…oh no, Michael Clarke has been in a Bingle, and needs rescuing.
Sights and Lirens, we drive at the leed of spite to the scene. Upon arrival, the criver of the dar approaches us, dad as a mog:
"She bit my humper!" he louts like a shunatic. "I was looking for a sparking pace, there was a thoud lump. The other driver came up to me with a prying fan in her hand and gave me a blushing crow".
It was at that time when the fffire tttruck arrived to rock the bload. So I went over to the other driver to get her side of the story.
She was crying, so I started teasing her ears. She appreciated my concern, and thanked me. She even offered for me to come back to her flock of bats to show me her tool kits. I declined.
Turns out she was my rental deceptionist, and just driving around to chew some doors in her brunch lake.
She told me the whole story; it was heartbreaking. A really bad sallad. Turns out his version of the accident was a lack of pies. "The guy is nucking futs" she told me.
Just as I go back to Mr clark, it starts roaring with pain. I despise ret wain, but you cannot fun from your rear in this job, so I put my Jain Racket on. Mr clarke was under arrest for not driving with appropriate footwear, he was barefoot. "Did you leave your booze under the shed?" I enquired, but got no answer, because he was crying. What a shining wit, I thought to myself, a real smart fella.
The girl thanked us again, and although she was upset I tell her that she has soap in her hole. "you must trust in dog, for the lord is a shoving leopard. Time wounds all heels.".
"No wucking forries" she replies, and give me a smig bile.
Back to the stambulance ation we head, for it is letting gate. We exchange some star wories, for example the first car vs pedestrian we attended - turned out she was an overhead door.
The day comes to an end, and it is teepy slime. Unfortunately, I suffer from eep slapnea, which may cause drain bamage in the rong lun, my doctor tells me. That may explain why i occasionally get my merds wixed up.
But I live in hope. As they say: "it ain't over 'til the fat sady lings"