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People like to say that hanging out with your buddies, your gangos, your posse is relaxing, but that is because they have relaxing gangos. Hanging out with MY buddies is not. 
Take Buchaman, for example. He kept trying to point my computer brower at twogirlsonecup.com.
“Bucha, I swear, I don’t want to see that site. And I know you don’t want to see it either. What are  you doing?”
“How do you know I don’t want to see it?”
“Because it’s gross. It’s people shitting in a cup. Gosh, man. It’s sick!”
“It’s an internet legend. I don’t want to just hear about it, I want to be a witness. This is  history.”
“Weasle, talk some sense into this guy,” I said, desperately turning to the only person Bucha ever listens to.
“Awoodeman?” said Weasel, whipping out the largest spliff I have ever seen and then fumbling through his outfit, which had at least 34 pockets on it, to look for a lighter.
“We dem? Awolan?” He turned to tap Omulangira Ssuuna. OS was not paying attention. He was busy trying to talk to HOC. “So, what is your contact? Do you know me? I have a video on NBS,”
“Baz! Your friend is quenching me,” screeched HOC.
“Excuse me? What did I tell you?” 
“Sorry. I meant, Mr Bazanye, your friend is quenching me.”
“Gwe, OS, leave the chick alone. She is not your size,” I said to him.
“But I have money,” he protested.
“Yeah, but no class. Give Weasel a light so we can burn up this joint of his.”
OS searched his pockets but couldn’t find a light. “Shit,” he snarled. “Streetsider stole my lighter again.”
So I stood up on the table to address everyone in the room “Does anyone here have a lighter?” I asked. That is when the door opened. There stood one of my stern editors.
“What is going on here? This office smells like Rocko Artis!”
“It’s just my crew. They came over to hang out and chill, boss. Do you have a light?”
“What? Dude, you will not smoke in this office. Are you crazy?”
“No, not crazy, just disgruntled and pissed off that you are forcing me to stay here when I am supposed to be hitchhiking my way to the Seychelles right now!” I replied with more than a hint of anger.
“So you brought Fire Base crew to smoke marijuana in the office? Baz, I haha  you.”
“And they are quenching us,” added Hot Office Chick, slapping OS’ hand away from her waist.
Yes, waist only. This story is rated PG.
“Okay, you know what? You win. Just write your resignation letter and I’ll sign it and you can get out of my hair. I don’t have to put up with this. Who is that who has passed out on the floor? Is that No Creature?”
“No, that’s Master Parrot,” I said. “And I don’t have to write the letter, I have it here already.

People like to say that hanging out with your buddies, your gangos, your posse is relaxing, but that is because they have relaxing gangos. Hanging out with MY buddies is not. 

Take Bucha, for example. He kept trying to point my computer brower at twogirlsonecup.com.

“Bucha, I swear, I don’t want to see that site. And I know you don’t want to see it either. What are  you doing?”

“How do you know I don’t want to see it?”

“Because it’s gross. It’s people shitting in a cup. Gosh, man. It’s sick!”

“It’s an internet legend. I don’t want to just hear about it, I want to be a witness. This is  history.”

“Weasle, talk some sense into this guy,” I said, desperately turning to the only person Bucha ever listens to.

“Awoodeman?” said Weasel, whipping out the largest spliff I have ever seen and then fumbling through his outfit, which had at least 34 pockets on it, to look for a lighter.

“We dem? Awolan?” he muttered when he failed to find one. He turned to tap Omulangira Ssuuna. OS was not paying attention. He was busy trying to talk to HOC. “So, what is your contact? Do you know me? I have a video on NBS,”

“Baz! Your friend is quenching me,” screeched HOC.

“Excuse me? What did I tell you?” 

“Sorry. I meant, Mr Bazanye, your friend is quenching me.”

“Gwe, OS, leave the chick alone. She is not your size,” I said to him.

“But I have money,” he protested.

“Yeah, but no class. Give Weasel a light so we can burn up this joint of his.”

OS searched his pockets but couldn’t find a light. “Shit,” he snarled. “Streetsider stole my lighter again.”

So I stood up on the table to address everyone in the room “Does anyone here have a lighter?” I asked. That is when the door opened. There stood one of my stern editors.

“What is going on here? This office smells like Rocko Artis!”

“It’s just my crew. They came over to hang out and chill, boss. Do you have a light?”

“What? Dude, you will not smoke in this office. Are you crazy?”

“No, not crazy, just disgruntled and pissed off that you are forcing me to stay here when I am supposed to be hitchhiking my way to the Seychelles right now!” I replied with more than a hint of anger.

“So you brought Fire Base crew to smoke marijuana in the office? Baz, I haha  you.”

“And they are quenching us,” added Hot Office Chick, slapping OS’ hand away from her waist.

Yes, waist only. This story is rated PG.

“Okay, you know what? You win,” sighed the editor. “Just write your resignation letter and I’ll sign it so you can get out of my hair. I don’t have to put up with this. Who is that who has passed out on the floor? Is that No Creature?”

“No, that’s Master Parrot,” I said. “And I don’t have to write the letter, I have it here already.

resignation letter
He snatched the paper from my  hand and scrawled  his signature all over the bottom just as Bucha screamed with shock and ran out of the room.
Now, if you want to know what 2 Girls One Cup is about, ask Wikipedia. DO NOT GO TO THAT SITE.
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