STATELY, PLUMP GUY FIERI CAME TO THE STAIRHEAD, BEARING A BOWL OF PEPPER JACK - ilxors knee deep in guy fieri nanowrimo project

nanowrimo username: KER-SPLOOSH
password: fieri

has been created

― Me order! Me Fieri! Me run Flavortown! (jjjusten), Wednesday, November 14, 2012 4:01 PM (1 minute ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

STATELY, PLUMP GUY FIERI CAME TO THE STAIRHEAD, BEARING A BOWL OF PEPPER JACK

― idiot man-child (strongo hulkington's ghost dad), Wednesday, November 14, 2012 3:59 PM (3 minutes ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

CALL ME DONKEY SAUCE

― beef richards (Mr. Que), Wednesday, November 14, 2012 4:00 PM (2 minutes ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

SO WE EAT ON, OLIVES IN THE FRIED POUNDCAKE, BORNE BACK CEASELESSLY INTO THE JOHN

― the little prince of inane false binary hype (Alfred, Lord Sotosyn), Wednesday, November 14, 2012 4:00 PM (2 minutes ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

MRS. DALLOWAY SAID SHE WOULD BUY THE SPICY BURRITO PEPPER JACK CHICKEN BLASTERS HERSELF

― beef richards (Mr. Que), Wednesday, November 14, 2012 4:02 PM (47 seconds ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

A SCREAMING COMES ACROSS TEX WASABI'S. IT HAS HAPPENED BEFORE, BUT THERE IS NOTHING TO COMPARE IT TO NOW.

― idiot man-child (strongo hulkington's ghost dad), Wednesday, November 14, 2012 4:03 PM (48 seconds ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

HIS BELLY WAS CHURNING LIKE MAD AND YES I SAID I'D FART I SAID YES I WILL YES

― the little prince of inane false binary hype (Alfred, Lord Sotosyn), Wednesday, November 14, 2012 4:03 PM (35 seconds ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

we need a plot

step 1: plot
step 2: add donkey sauce to the plot
step 3: profit

I don't wanna write a book I just want to post one-liners

Started here: worst sounding sushi roll at guy fieri's southern bbq & california style sushi restaurant tex wasabi's

guys we just rip off something in the public domain and add guy

the best books are just sequences of one-liners

I don't think we should worry about a plot yet; I plan to just start writing and see where the words take me

guys we just rip off something in the public domain and add guy

like i said, we need a plot. grab on to something, add donkey sauce: boom.

I AM SEATED IN A CHAIN RESTAURANT, SURROUNDED BY HEADS AND JALAPENO POPPERS. MY POSTURE IS CONSCIOUSLY CONGRUENT TO THE SHAPE OF MY VINYL BOOTH.

― idiot man-child (strongo hulkington's ghost dad), Wednesday, November 14, 2012 4:07 PM (2 minutes ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink

fifty shades of guy --?

if we did that it would be all scenes of guy s&ming chicken wings

fifty shades of guy

gd it xp

ive got a nice wistful beginning up there right now

omg

supernatural romance is still popular, right?

but really think of all the sauces

i look forward to ruining it with abject awfulness

i think fieri needs to go on a hero's journey, best exemplified by rocky IV.
Bobby Flay: I will crush you, etc...

keep with the vampires

anthony's bourdello of blood

how do we put this somewhere where we can all access it?

i can access it

or we could make a google doc

Guys all the work is being done on the tex wasabi thread right now. you're over-thinking this

over-thinking is what nanowrimo was supposed to avoid i thought.

we need to get past the opening sentence, that's all thats going on over there

Guy leaned back, crossing his arms and staring intently at his itinerary. It had been weeks since his last show filmed, and already he could feel the familiar tightness in his gut that always came over him when it was time to hit the road. Where would this trip take him, and how many times could he walk out the front door of his unassuming ranch home, knowing that this could be the last time Lori would put up with his endless schedule. To his children, he was already a stranger, a wraith that flitted across their memory like a blip driving an obnoxiously red convertible into the sunset.
He looked at the crooks of his arms. Where had all these lines come from? In his mind, he was still the mild-mannered 3 time restauranteur with a dream, but he knew that young Fieri was long gone, lost along with his original name. In his press releases he claimed to have renamed himself to honor his grandfather, but in reality had just wanted to fool people into thinking that he could capably cook Italian food. Just one in a series of lies and manipulations, the open door to a deeper and darker life than he could ever have imagined.
The door creaked open, and Alan, his manager strode in.
“The hookers are here Mr. Fieri.”
“Send them home, Alan. Make sure they get paid. I just need some time with my thoughts.”
Alan nodded and returned to the outer foyer. Alan was someone that could be counted on. For years, Guy had referred to him as “Alfred”, because he was like Batman’s butler in Guy’s world, someone to not only dispense with the mess and irritations of being a rising star in the basic cable food critic industry, but also to act as confidant and cheerleader. He had stopped calling him Alfred eventually because Alan said he found it annoying, but he missed those early days. Even Batman sometimes has to send the hookers away. Even Batman.

whoa thx for no paragraphs ilx, that makes my head hurt

I added another para on the excerpt but yeah we need a google doc maybe

(how does this work, I don't even know)

Like a moth round a buzzing diner sign, his thoughts abruptly turned to bowling shirts. Dice? Hula girls? Flames? Flaming dice with hula girls? Sateen? Cotton? Rayon? Every detail mattered. Every shirt said something about the day ahead - would this be a wild and crazy day? Would this be a chilling on the back patio day? Would this be a cruising in the cherry red ragtop day? His brow knitted in thought as the anxiety of choice beat down upon him. Leaving was hard enough...but choosing the right shirt was almost harder.

Fieri closed the closet door labeled "Bowling Shirts" and opened the adjacent closet door, labeled "Disembowling Shirts."
The contents were identical.

if only the customers in my store knew that i was mostly trying to get rid of them so I could continue work on my guy fieri opus

The calls came less often these days, but when they did, they were never about things related to food. Yes, there were closets full of wrap-around sunglasses, shiny shirts, and oversized watches and manly jewelery. But the salad days of cutlery endorsements and bakeware samples had been drying up for years. The last contact the food world had made was a Vice President from Applebees making clear threats of what might happen if Fieri kept expanding his restaurant empire. Times square had been the last straw, and the raging bile in the call still left his head reeling. “We made you Fieri, and god damn it you had better realize we can break you just as easily.” For gods sake, all he wanted was to make the food world a little more crazy, give it a little more zing. He never thought of it as a viable option, just a fun place to have for a while, duck some money in for accounting purposes and get out while the getting was good. Now, it was an anchor around his neck. Other TV chefs had stopped taking his calls, and even Rachel Ray went out of her way to tag him in a twitter that just said “Cocksucker @therealfieri #stomachpump”. Alton Brown had actually driven by one day and hucked a water balloon full of urine at his kid, and then claimed to be in Omaha on the day in question. It was fair to say that these days, even his own self-reflection had turned darkly inward.
Times Square had been a mistake. Not in a financial sense, but in a deepls spiritual one. Who could have known that the people would fill all 500 seats, day in and day out? He had called in favors with some old friends in journalism and even gotten some heavy-handed negative reviews rolled out, but people just started booking further in advance. Nothing seemed to stop or satiate them, but he knew it wasn’t the food, it was the horrible need for adventure, the drive to blog about how they shit themselves on the train on the way home. The very human desire to mock and belittle, blown up to a grandiose scale with his basketball head lolling on the end of the pike, raised over the ramparts for all to see. Worse, they tagged him in every facebook slander, every twitter photo of a bespattered toilet set so that his name would pop up when you moused over the image.

754 words and counting

wait no 847 w/vegemites contrib

I've run outta steam

I saw the best line cooks of my generation destroyed by celebrity, bloated hysterical bowling-shirted,

dragging themselves through the williamsburg streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

frost-tipped hipsters burning for the ancient three hundred seventy-five degree connection to the starry dynamo in the timesquare machinery of night,

who simulated poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high bloodpressured sat up smoking pork shoulders in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating terroir,

who bared their brains to Alton under the El and saw Bourdainian angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through the C.I.A. with radiant eyes hallucinating Child and Beard-light tragedy among the scholars of grease,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the waffle house,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear but only when the cameras were rolling, burning their money in Frydaddies and listening to Mama Deen through the wall,

who got busted in their engineless convertibles returning through Austin with a belt of skirt steak for New York,

who ate chickentenders in paint hotels or drank donkeysauce on Seventh Avenue, death, or purgatoried their torsos shift after shift

with ambition, with entitlement, with cackling nightmares, lolcohol and guts and endless wings,

incomparable reverse sunglasses streets of shuddering liquid nitrogen and flat-topped flambé in the mind leaping towards next-exit signs of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless 1080i world of Station IDs between,

bless you, son.

*bows deeply, pukes on shoes*

dude thats fantastic

how do i shot google doc

WHAT SPHINX OF BLONDE DYE NO. 5 AND MAC BRONZING POWDER BASHED OPEN
THEIR SKULLS AND FED THEM WASABI AND PIE?

GUY! CROWDING! CHEESE! THAT'S MONEY! TACO MEAT AND ENDLESS DOLLARS!
CHILDREN SCREAMING FOR MORE DONKEY SAUCE! BOYS SOBBING FOR BIGGER PORTIONS! OLD MEN WEEPING IN THE TEX WASABI MEN'S ROOM!

guys I wrote a chapter:

NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO Camp

At the lake shore there was another rowboat drawn up. The two No Can Beato This Taquitos stood waiting.

DAVID PAGE and his GUY FIERI got in the stern of the boat and the NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITOs shoved it off and one of them got in to row. FOOD NETWORK sat in the stern of the camp rowboat. The young NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO shoved the camp boat off and got in to row FOOD NETWORK.

The two boats started off in the dark. DAVID PAGE heard the oarlocks of the other boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist. The NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITOs rowed with quick choppy strokes. DAVID PAGE lay back with his GUY FIERI's arm around him. It was cold on the water. The NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO who was rowing them was working very hard, but the other boat moved further ahead in the mist all the time.

"Where are we going, GUY FIERI?" DAVID PAGE asked.

"Over to the NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO camp. There is an NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO lady very sick."

"Oh," said DAVID PAGE.

Across the bay they found the other boat beached. FOOD NETWORK was smoking a cigar in the dark. The young NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO pulled the boat way up on the beach. FOOD NETWORK gave both the NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITOs cigars.

They walked up from the beach through a meadow that was soaking wet with dew, following the young NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO who carried a lantern. Then they went into the woods and followed a trail that led to the logging road that ran back into the hills. It was much lighter on the logging road as the timber was cut away on both sides. The young NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO stopped and blew out his lantern and they all walled on along the road.

They came around a bend and a dog came out barking. Ahead were the lights of the shanties where the NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO bark-peelers lived. More dogs rushed out at them. The two NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITOs sent them back to the shanties. In the shanty nearest the road there was a light in the window. An old woman stood in the doorway holding a lamp.

Inside on a wooden bunk lay a young NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO woman. She had been trying to have her baby for two days. All the old women in the camp had been helping her. The men had moved off up the road to sit in the dark and smoke cut of range of the noise she made. She screamed just as DAVID PAGE and the two NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITOs followed his GUY FIERI and FOOD NETWORK into the shanty. She lay in the lower bunk, very big under a quilt. Her head was turned to one side. In the upper bunk was her husband. He had cut his foot very badly with an ax three days before. He was smoking a pipe. The room smelled very bad.

DAVID PAGE's GUY FIERI ordered some water to be put on the stove, and while it was heating he spoke to DAVID PAGE.

"This lady is going to have a baby, DAVID PAGE," he said.

"I know," said DAVID PAGE.

"You don't know," said his GUY FIERI. "Listen to me. What she is going through is called being in labor. The baby wants to be born and she wants it to be born. All her muscles are trying to get the baby born. That is what is happening when she screams."

"I see," DAVID PAGE said.

Just then NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO cried out.

"Oh, GUY FIERI, can't you give her something to make her stop screaming?" asked DAVID PAGE.

"No. I haven't any anaesthetic," his GUY FIERI said. "But her screams are not important. I don't hear them because they are not important."

The husband in the upper bunk rolled over against the wall.

NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO in the kitchen motioned to GUY FIERI that the water was hot. DAVID PAGE's GUY FIERI went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin. Into the water left in the kettle he put several things he unwrapped from a handkerchief.

"Those must boil," he said, and began to scrub his hands in the basin of hot water with a cake of soap he had brought from the camp. DAVID PAGE watched his GUY FIERI's hands scrubbing each other with the soap. While his GUY FIERI washed his hands very carefully and thoroughly, he talked.

"You see, DAVID PAGE, babies are supposed to be born head first but sometimes they're not. When they're not they make a lot of trouble for everybody. Maybe I'll have to operate on this lady. We'll know in a little while."

When he was satisfied with his hands he went in and went to work.

"Pull back that quilt, will you, FOOD NEWTWORK?" he said. "I'd rather not touch it."

Later when he started to operate FOOD NETWORK and three NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO men held NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO still. She bit FOOD NETWORK on the arm and FOOD NETWORK said, "Damn NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO bitch!" and the young NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO who had rowed FOOD NETWORK over laughed at him. DAVID PAGE held the basin for his GUY FIERI. It all took a long time.

His GUY FIERI picked the baby up and slapped it to make it breathe and handed it to the old woman.

"See, it's a boy, DAVID PAGE," he said. "How do you like being an interne?"

DAVID PAGE said. "All right." He was looking away so as not to see what his GUY FIERI was doing.

"There. That gets it," said his GUY FIERI and put something into the basin.

DAVID PAGE didn't look at it.

"Now," his GUY FIERI said, "there's some stitches to put in. You can watch this or not, DAVID PAGE, just as you like. I'm going to sew up the incision I made."

DAVID PAGE did not watch. His curiosity had been gone for a long time.

His GUY FIERI finished and stood up. FOOD NETWORK and the three NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO men stood up. DAVID PAGE put the basin out in the kitchen.

FOOD NETWORK looked at his arm. The young NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO smiled reminiscently.

"I'll put some peroxide on that, FOOD NEWTWORK," GUY FIERI said.

He bent over the NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO woman. She was quiet now and her eyes were closed. She looked very pale. She did not know what had become of the baby or anything.

"I'll be back in the morning." GUY FIERI said, standing up.

"The nurse should be here from St. Ignace by noon and she'll bring everything we need."

He was feeling exalted and talkative as football players are in the dressing room after a game.

"That's one for the medical journal, FOOD NEWTWORK," he said. "Doing a Caesarian with a jack-knife and sewing it up with nine-foot, tapered gut leaders."

FOOD NETWORK was standing against the wall, looking at his arm.

"Oh, you're a great man, all right," he said.

"Ought to have a look at the proud NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO. They're usually the worst sufferers in these little affairs," GUY FIERI said. "I must say he took it all pretty quietly."

He pulled back the blanket from the NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO's head. His hand came away wet. He mounted on the edge of the lower bunk with the lamp in one hand and looked in. The NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO lay with his face toward the wall. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk. His head rested on his left arm. The open razor lay, edge up, in the blankets.

"Take DAVID PAGE out of the shanty, FOOD NEWTWORK," GUY FIERI said.

There was no need of that. DAVID PAGE, standing in the door of the kitchen, had a good view of the upper bunk when his GUY FIERI, the lamp in one hand, tipped the NO CAN BEATO THIS TAQITO's head back.

It was just beginning to be daylight when they walked along the logging road back toward the lake.

"I'm terribly sorry I brought you along; DAVID PAGEie," said his GUY FIERI, all his post-operative exhilaration gone. "It was an awful mess to put you through."

"Do ladies always have such a hard time having babies?" DAVID PAGE asked.

"No, that was very, very exceptional."

"Why did he kill himself, GUY FIERI?"

"I don't know, DAVID PAGE. He couldn't stand things, I guess."

"Do many men kill themselves, GUY FIERI?"

"Not very many, DAVID PAGE."

"Do many women?"

"Hardly ever."

"Don't they ever?"

"Oh, yes. They do sometimes."

"GUY FIERI?"

"Yes."

"Where did FOOD NETWORK go?"

"He'll turn up all right."

"Is dying hard, GUY FIERI?"

"No, I think it's pretty easy, DAVID PAGE. It all depends."

They were seated in the boat. DAVID PAGE in the stern, his GUY FIERI rowing. The sun was coming up over the hills. A bass jumped, making a circle in the water. DAVID PAGE trailed his hand in the water. It felt warm in the sharp chill of the morning.

In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his GUY FIERI rowing; he felt quite sure that he would never die.

Missed a couple key substitutions.

how can i still love this godforsaken website after twelve years

hahahahaah

My onion rings are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than my cars' red;
If snow be white, why then my chicken are dun;
If hairs be wires, bleached wires grow on my head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in these leeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my gobhole reeks.
I love to cram my maw, yet well I know
That farting hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a donkey go;
My food still served when dropped upon the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I cook my pork too rare
And thus your GI tract impair.

omg

fuckin' brilliant, jj

YESSSSSSSSSS

I love to cram my maw, yet well I know
That farting hath a far more pleasing sound;

I just found my back tattoo

Guy awoke with a jerk. "Man," he thought to himself, brushing rib crumbs off of his pert chest and rubbing the remnants of the dream from his eyes, " I really should ease back on the North Cali Mojitos. Those things can really take it out of you." He sat up on his divan (custom made by Ethan Allen, it was in the shape of his award-winning baby back ribs with throw pillows shaped like pats of butter and ranch-colored slip cover) and stretched, an insouciant yawn threatening to split his jaws apart.

Guy stood up and glanced towards his closet. "Gotta remember that couplet for my tramp stamp, though," he muttered, shuffling slowly towards his clothes as another mighty yawn escaped his gaping maw. "Now, what am I going to wear today?" he mused, slowly tapping a beefy finger against his almost-chin. "I can't just wander around naked all day, with Little Taquito swinging in the breeze-o like a dirty Cheeto." He began pawing through a giant mound of underwear, stopping occasionally to submit a particularly eye-catching number to a precautionary sniff test; few passed. "Damn, when was the last time I did laundry?" he asked out loud, idly scratching that one inflamed hair on the back of his left butt cheek that was almost but not quite nestled just on the inside edge of his ass crack, just north of the barbecue spot. Finally, he found a pair of boxers with red and gold racing stripes on the side and his grinning face silkscreened onto the front with the words "SAVOR THE FLAVOR" embroidered into the ample waistband. "Yes!" he shouted. "These do not smell like old pork roast, they're going on!" He quickly stepped into them and did a quick jig, followed by several minutes of wheezing and sweating. "Now," he gasped, "for some garters. Mama's gotta feel pretty!"

GUY FIERI’s practically standing still now. They’ve dropped ropes out of the nose of GUY FIERI; and (uh) they’ve been taken a hold of down on the field by a number of men. GUY FIERI’s starting to rain again; GUY FIERI’s… the rain had (uh) slacked up a little bit. The back motors of GUY FIERI are just holding GUY FIERI (uh) just enough to keep GUY FIERI from…GUY FIERI’s burst into flames! GUY FIERI burst into flames, and GUY FIERI’s falling, GUY FIERI’s crashing! Watch GUY FIERI! Watch GUY FIERI! Get out of the way! Get out of the way! Get GUY FIERI, Charlie; get GUY FIERI, Charlie! GUY FIERI’s fire… and GUY FIERI’s crashing! GUY FIERI’s crashing terrible! Oh, my! Get out of the way, please! GUY FIERI’s burning and bursting into flames and the… and GUY FIERI’s falling on the mooring mast. And all the folks agree that GUY FIERI is terrible; GUY FIERI is the one of the worst catastrophes in the world. [indecipherable] its flames… Crashing, oh! Four- or five-hundred feet into the sky and GUY FIERI… GUY FIERI’s a terrific crash, ladies and gentlemen. GUY FIERI’s smoke, and GUY FIERI’s in flames now; and the frame is crashing to the ground, not quite to the mooring mast. Oh, the humanity! And all the passengers screaming around here. I told you; GUY FIERI—I can’t even talk to people, their friends are out there! Ah! GUY FIERI’s… GUY FIERI… GUY FIERI’s a… ah! I… I can’t talk, ladies and gentlemen. Honest: GUY FIERI’s just laying there, mass of smoking wreckage. Ah! And everybody can hardly breathe and talk and the screaming. Lady, I… I… I’m sorry. Honest: I… I can hardly breathe. I… I’m going to step inside, where I cannot see GUY FIERI. Charlie, that’s terrible. Ah, ah… I can’t. Listen, folks; I… I’m gonna have to stop for a minute because [indecipherable] I’ve lost my voice. GUY FIERI is the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed.

I've eaten things you people wouldn't believe. Forty-foot smokers on fire off the shoulder of Austin. I watched sea bream glitter in the dark near the ESPNZone. All those moments will be lost in time, like wings in donkey sauce. Time to fry.

a clockwork orange bbq duck or
a clockwork orange spraytan?

for a long time, i ate lunch early

Choose Guy's. Choose a Brown Derby Cobb. Choose a Guy's Famous Big Bite Caesar. Choose a family-size portion. Choose a fucking big Huli-Huli Roasted Chicken. Choose Skyy Vodka, orange puree, Heartland Orange Cream Soda, and Haagen Dazs Vanilla Ice Cream. Choose poor health, high cholesterol and insurance claims. Choose Awesome Pretzel Chicken Tenders. Choose Bacon Chicken Mac & Cheese. Choose Motley Que Ribs. Choose Guy-talian Nachos and matching Sashimi Tacos. Choose a three part burger on garlic brioche drowned in fucking Donkey Sauce. Choose Rice-a-munee and wondering what the fuck it actually is. Choose sitting on that woven chair watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing disgraces to humanity, stuffing fucking junk food into their mouths. Choose your guts rotting away at the end of it all, shitting your dignity out back in your miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment that the shellfish and fucked-up pasta you have shat now has improved flavour. Choose your future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose Guy's: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when his food's this shit?

In NYC did Guy Fier'
A starchy Gastro-Dome decree,
His art, the sacred frosted hair
His cooking to thy guts unfair
The French fries taste like pee.

LOOK UPON MY DONKEY SAUCE, YE MIGHTY AND DESPAIR

omg jjj i love u

aujourd’hui, maman est morte. ou peut-être fieri, je ne sais pas.

An asshole with a Fender shirt
In a vision once I saw:
The food was so abyssmally made,
by men with awful bleach-dyed fade
Unhinging their massive jaw.
Could I revive within me
The sense of right and wrong,
To such deep distaste ‘twould win me
That with music loud and long,
I would smash that dome within the air!
That starchy dome, those drinks of loss,
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry: “Beware! Beware!
His fattened gut, his floating hair!
Greens are made of food not moss,
And close your eyes in holy dread:
For he on bacon grease hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Donkey Sauce!”

got the beginning and the end, now just need to work out the middle and my work here is done

This thing is coming together nicely. Anyone know an agent?

http://content9.flixster.com/movie/26/10/261011_det.jpg

hahahaaa