I just ate a couple Ding Dongs.
I know where all of you think I’m going with this. I’m sure you all think I’m going to wander off on some disgusting diatribe about how I ate the Ding Dongs at an alarmingly rapid rate, causing me to vomit a 10-foot high fountain of sugary Hostess creme mixed with stomach acid. You probably expect me to detail for you how the vomit splashed all over the Dean’s nice suit, and I got kicked out of school, forcing me to spend my days sleeping under benches and drinking the bitter fluid that drained out of a nearby septic tank. You think I’m so predictable that I’d go on and on describing how my love for Ding Dongs causes me to engage in unnatural acts with them until the back of my jeans are stained with filling and my hair is slicked with a malodorous substance of unknown origin. I’m certain that you expect me to elaborate on the irregularity and looseness of my bowels, and ponder why there is so much blood in my stool (seriously, the toilet looks like I dumped a bunch of Chef Boyardee in there when I’m through with it).
Well forget it. That’s not what I’m all about. I’m better than that. I just wanted you to know about how I like Ding Dongs. That it. I don’t need to gross you guys out to get laughs; there’s no need to get bizarre. I don’t even like that kind of humor. You guys need to get a life. Seriously, just grow up.
Also, I killed a rat with a hammer.