You’ll have to excuse me this week. I’m pretty jetlagged from a lack of sleep, and I’m also suffering from a severe case of Vince Neilitis, which as you may know is a terrible inflammation of the Vince Neil region of your brain. Your VN region is a tiny, almost impossible to locate bundle of feces that is hidden just behind the reptilian-based basal ganglia. When one is symptomatic with Vince Neilitis, the inflamed fecal matter is tragically responsible for causing grown men to actually believe it is their mission in life to implant their genitals into every blond-haired, giant-racked stripper in the entire world. It also causes the same men to lose all sense of moral responsibility in the face of intense stupidity, such as, say, killing a friend of yours in a drunken car crash and then paying for it by going on tour, getting a Rolex for avoiding a stiffer sentence, and then spending 18 days in jail drinking beer brought from the guards and fucking a blond-haired, giant-racked groupie, once again procured through the kindness of your captors.
I am under heavy sedation as I write this, and fortunately for me I only slept with the entire Houston Texans cheerleading squad, filmed it, You Tubed it, and then snorted an entire eight-ball off the hindquarters of each girl before passing out and waking up in a treatment center this morning.
I was released this evening, heavily medicated, but confident that I will beat this thing in no time at all.
Okay, that was my phone. Apparently, my Ferrari Testarossa is out of the shop and my buddy Bobby Blotzer from Ratt is waiting in the passenger seat.