I love to ride my two-wheeled cycle bike
Even though it hurt my pee-peeOnce upon da time, dare lived da young boy in a country by da sea. Dat boy love to ride his two-wheeled cycle bike. He rode it from veranda to veranda, eating peanuts and drinking sugary tings. Dat boy was not ordinarily boy. He was Mustachio. And now dare is da problem wit dis transportation of moving da legs to da pedals. I will tell ju of Mustachio’s misadventured piteous overthrows, and about da ting dat ju sit on and how it cuts off da main vein. Thelw ena krasi! Hoo-wee!
It all happened when Mustachio was riding happily down da boulevard towards a hot woman’s cooter. I was eating da Tom’s Hot Fries from in my basket and my headphones sounded like da metal which is many times heavy. I felt A-okay and da woman felt squishy like normally good. I told her da magic words, “Mou aresis poli!” But! My plunger was too too soft and bent at da moment, and not able to do duties to her plumbing in da basement. Mustachio’s lady was proud dat Mustachio picked her to do boinking on, but she was so sad dat his flower needed sunlight, and not da fertilizer. Oh brothers!
I rode to home, uncool and still not a owner of da boner. Mustachio wanted to put blame. I thunked very hard and came to da decision. Pointing da finger at mi favorite hardcore music and my delicious crispy spicy hard chips, vowing to partake no more in dose so I could partake in da busseta. So for five straight weeks Mustachio trained. I stopped listening to da Lincoln’ Parks and I started listening to da Moby, whose tunes are like da fresh garden salad to my pica. I then ate da mustard flavor of pretzels instead of da Tom’s No Erection Fries. Da mustard is okay. I wish I had da corn dog though. Ti nomizis gia tin theoria sinthesis tou Hendel? Ka-ching!
Of course Mustachio’s blame was false. Dis was known when I asked the same girl pame spiti mou to hide my sausage. When she got there it was already hiding in a really tiny way. I was at da end of my sex rope when I hopped on mi bike and Ouchee-wa-wa! Dare was a ting dat poked Mustachio in his taint. Aha! Mustachio’s contraption for going places was pinching da area between his brains and his peepee. Holy Mac N’ Cheese!
How could friend and bike do dis to Mustachio? I always pumped da tires wit air, and greased da chains, and massaged da de-railer, and Mustachio never switched da gears unless he was pedaling. Den I guessed it. It was Mustachio’s seat dat betrayed him. Da seat, very old and hurting, had been da piece of driftwood from da Mediterranean water. I carved it into someting knobby yet pleasing to sit on in da spandex short pants and now it was da object of Mustachio’s dismay, causing Mustachio’s factory to not have tiny sperm-men working at it. Needles to say, Mustachio chopped off da old bicycle seat and burned it to da ground. I’d rather walk, tank ju. Pou einai i stasi?