Oops, here's the rest.
I just finished easting a late night snack of a chicken drumstick and a hearty glass of refreshing milk. Nothing better. Or so I thought, oblivious to the fact that my body was rushing that deadly combination of cold milk and microwave re-heated dark meat chicken through my body faster than Boyd to the Venice Beach strip after buying a new pair of roller skates. The seriousness of the situation didn't set in until it was "go" time. Leaving nothing to chance I rean straight for the bathroom.
Lights on, door slammed and locked, fan turned on, pants dropped, reachin for the latest Free... Wait, where the Hell is my Freeskier? Without thought I pulled my pants back on (not enough time to zip and button them back up) opened the door, ran into one room then another. No luck. There was little time left, I needed to find that magazine and needed to find it FAST. Less than a minute later I found it! The oh so beautiful photo annual issue of Freeskier magazine. Running as fast as I could back into the bathroom, repeating the process almost to a tee as done just moments earlier, I sat down on the toilet to reveal something so utterly disgusting it made my stomach churn and my heart drop. The little brown messenger in my boxers has informed me that I didn't make it in time. I had shat myself.
Now I don't know if you have ever shat yourself but it really isn't pleasant and it ruins a good pair of boxers. But this pair of boxers is to you Freeskier. This pair of boxers is to you and your wonderful magazine that gives me hours of joy on and off the can. Once again, thank you and keep up the amazing work.