earl thosen't know anything

...whereby his wife shows him, thus becoming Earl of the Tupperwear

I can't believe that bloke don't let me pass.  We drive the same  fuckin' caaaar!  Brothers my ass!   Truck.  It's a truck.  I drive a truck.  I'm driving a truck.  That's my profession.  My profession is professin' what I'm currently take careofing.  (i hate the word, "-canine")

Now I'm going home—I'm going home now, but wait— there's traffic.  I can probably fly over these traffic, these trucks and cars but I wodda wadda people to know—some can never know, not those, missing an arm or

(i hate the word, "-canine")

Listen, you know what happened, don't you?  He had his heart broken.  Yea, by one of our us.  He saw one of our own—albeit an unscrupulous one—took him home for dinner; his wife made them pot roast and french fries, then the man fucked his wife.  

took him home for dinner, his wife made them pot roast and french fries, then he fucked his wife.  And I would that too, I would—I'd fuck his wife.  I'd give it to her.  But only if she let me, and he didn't know.  Listen, I would hold that over him, but only if he let me.  He—Earl, he's Earl now—he sent him home with a tupperwear of gravy.  Then afterward, when she blurted it out to him, he would remember the feeling in his heart when he sent his brother off with the food from his gut.  He would become Earl.  He would everytime become Earl.  And every time he, Earl, thought of the tupperwear, his wife's—he would Earl of the tupperwear it made him think, of what his wife would think, him as a man who didn't know anything.  And it would stink!  He would stink.  Oh it was a smellysmell!  He was a stinkafink.  And then he knew—Oh! he knew.  Well of course he's new—she showed him, didn't she?  Weren't you listening?  I'm telling you something!  I'll kill you!  I'm killing you right now with my tone.  She told him in their home, where she had those sex, with his new found friend.  In the woods, is where their home now in ruins there she lay.  

And he didn't let me pass.  He's gone; he's glum.  He's more gone than gum.  He's a lot of glum.  He knows it'll be with a rope off the second story.  His home, now in ruins, has a second story, "Now."  Oh, wait, he's just eating a burrito.  Look at the wrapper, just look.  Generic aluminum foil.  It's a good burriton.  It is from an authentic Shaq.  None of that Taco Bell rat meat for frat boys off their Coors, hispanics back from the game.  One black, one asian.  It is twice the size of—two?  No, multiple tacos.  It is a giant taco hugging itself.  It loves itself, and I, love it, and the driver...I do I do—well, sometimes I forget or lose it, my lighter all the time...my pen—okay okay and the driver too.  

His wife...his wife did things that you or I would and wouldn't do, but can only imagine.  Don't judge her—you don't even know her.  Judge the weather, don't eat it.  That's just something wild tobacco leaves say.  Eat your food, your children's food—someone else's children's food when the parents aren't looking.  Some one else's children's parents have feelings, too

when they disappoint their parents.  The apostrophe is a tear drop of broken letters.

He wasn't paying attention.  His wife and I felt slighted.  She got gifted, I got harshed, and my ego took over.  If I hate the driver, I can't talk sincerely with my tag team partner.  He won't listen if I can't feel it or feel too much.  And I'll be acting on my own—I'll be playacting.  I must crash into the driver!

There he may 

or may not

let me take a bite 

While we are waiting for the proper authorities to come

...cause I'm so fuckin' experimental!