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There was this one time when I was down at the local lobster joint, right? This guy - big blondie with no shoes with red hair - comes up to me like it's nothing and is all like, "He pal, your shirt is on fire." My mother had always taught me to never trust forigners, but I was feeling kinda toasty, so I look down to check it out. That's when he got the uppercut on me, but luckly I'd been drinking green tea all morning. Dodging left, I grabbed a bar stool and hit him over the head with it. He goes down hard, right? Hard enough to get me thinking that's the end of it, but then I fall over, too. Turns out my shirt WAS on fire, and now my chest looks like Hillary Clinton on a moderatly warm Thursday in April.
Anyways, that's the story of how I got my drives license.

end your life m8

Hey guys welcome to my pro-file