THE FLYING CIGARETTES FROM HELL...

My hag isn't one to bottle up her angst and fury. Like a rose with apical thorns, you must approach said subject with caution and goggles. Denise isn't used to someone telling her that she's a whorebag scallywag. I learned this first-hand the other night. Amidst the usual computer room online surf-fest, Dee oddly decided to replace two cigs she took from my pack earlier in the day. Normally, a sane and intelligable person would place the cigs onto the palm of my hand with a cute grin of gratitude. This is not so in the realm of Dee. Fiercely chucking two cigarettes (which can look like Chinese Stars when they're headed at you at light speed) to my unsuspecting face, left me daunted and spitting out tobacco bits from my mouth and mustache. Don't get me wrong, I love my Dee beyond any hot man-ass. I'm just saying that if I don't want to choke on tobacco filth lunged at me from the hag ninja, then I must stay on my toes and look out for inadimate flying objects. Or maybe I should tone down my Linda Blair cussing rants when I've had too much to smoke and am feeling tired...