Lady GaGa arrived to the Grammys last night inside an opaque egg carried by her entourage which she later emerged from in a yolk dress only to start touching herself. Or in other words, she’s entirely out of ideas. In the meantime, if Lady GaGa thought she could interpret how I enjoy a Grand Slam breakfast into dance without my permission, she’s going to be getting a nasty letter from my lawyer. *picks up phone* “Hey, Phil, how are ya? Remember that time you said you’d never meet me at Denny’s again then whipped a coffee mug at my jugular? You’re never going to believe– Oh, you saw the Grammys, too. — Exactly like that day. — Yes, I remember the restraining order included phone calls. — Jesus, Phil, it was only a penis. An erect penis, but– Then why do they make the pancakes so delicious?! — Fine, call the cops! We’ll let them decide how sexual a value-priced morning feast is and then maybe you can join us in the 21st century, Miles Davis. — Ooh, Phil fucked a robot once, everybody. Whoopity doo!” *hangs up*
He thinks we have a case.
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