Secret Sesh

"If You're Gone" is a song by American rock band Matchbox Twenty. The song, written by the band's frontman Rob Thomas, was released on September 18, 2000, as the second single from their second album, Mad Season (2000). It reached number five on the US Billboard Hot 100 chart, becoming the band's second best-ranking song on the chart, and also became a hit on adult contemporary radio, spending two weeks at number one on the Billboard Hot Adult Contemporary Tracks chart.

A minuscule amount of fun was had by two people. The other three died. Shame shame shame.

I think I'm just one banana peel away from covering my entire floor with banana peels. Imagine coming over and you're just like "what the hell are these banana peels doing cover the entire floor? I can't walk in here!" and then I come out dressed as a whole ass barrel of monkeys. I'd probably slip on the way there. Whatever, I'm going for it. Will you donate a peel to the cause?

Oh man. The problem with this podcast is that I have to keep the window open so the smoke cna go outside. And now it's cold. Brrrrrr. Ice cream man, you could be my best friend if you'd let me drive your truck. Choo Choo! Sometimes it's hard to tell if this is a podcast or autism.

I shit my pants today. It sucked.

If you so much as smell that Gatorade in the fridge, I'm going to be furious. That's my special Gatorade and how it came to be such:I thought I might have sex- why, you ask? Well, I had no reason, really. Other than the wind. Which speaks to me in whispers upon gusts of pigeon coos. Regardless, I wanted to prepare for what laid ahead. I stopped at the grocery store. Upon entry, I not only grabbed rubbers, but a yellow Gatorade and a packet of hydration powder. That way, I wouldn't lose my electrolytes while making sweet sweet love.When I arrived at the bar, I realized something that had been staring at me like a ten mile glazed donut. I spent all my money on the Gatorade. Balls! I asked around, and a pear-shaped woman using a living scorpion as a hairpin, spotted me a 5 dollar bill. Crisp. Clean. I handed over the bank note to the barkeep and confidently uttered, "a beer for the brunette with boobs at the end of the bar." "Cheapest beer we got is 7 dollars.""Drats"I handed the 5 back to the nice lady at the bar, who folded it back in my hands and said, "get yourself something nice, sweetie."I bought a single hit of heroin from the man down the street on my way back home. Somewhere between the nod out in Washington Square Park and the coming to with my head in the freezer, I had mixed the electrolyte packet and Gatorade together in a glorious mix of hydration. Impressed with my foresight, I put the potion into the cold box for the morning- and guess who just finished heroin puking.

In all seriousness. Like all jokes aside. There was a moment in this where I got scared by the Fibonacci Sequence.

"Scream for your friend!"The words were as stale as the crust on the back tag of his underwear. He was about 41 at the time. Limber, but aged like the old oak that his dad built a treehouse in back when Paul was 13. Oh, Paul. Whatever happened to Paul????

Omfg!!!! I got Liz Phair to do the pod!!!!

If cows could milk themselves... man, we'd probably never see them again.

Yeah man, this shit. This shit right here is the bees’ mothetfucking knees. I don’t think bees actually have knees. Makes you wonder.

Shit, the horsies got through the damn barn door, again. I thought I locked it tighter last night. Well, I'll be a horsie's ass if I do that again. Aw man, the chickens are fartin' out a butt storm. I shouldn't have done this farm Airbnb.

Ok, I got into a fight with my cat, Zenon, while she was ripping up paper on my desk. My other cat, Philly, walked in at some point. I hit the transcribe button and this is what happened: stop that. Hey Zenon stop Z put it down you're looking at me like you're gonna do something Zenon. Stop hey hey hey stop hey hey get down hey oh Philly what's up dude's Zenon come here get in the chair and stop ripping shit up come on come on come on sweetie. I love you. ZZBDV come on baby. Good girl no no no stop that. Hey, what's up calendar are you kidding me stop it get on the chair. I love you.

Man, I am fucking bummed. But that doesn't stop the brittle from brattle- you know what I mean? I'm talking soft cats and pretzels of the also soft nature. Can you dig it??? It's been DUG!!!!

Here we are, at the precipice of collapse. All seems lost, but rest assured- there is gold in my ass. I've put sixteen gold bars in various asses around New York City. If you can find the golden ass bar, you can trade it in for a voucher that will give you a code that allows you one (1) vending machine item, every day. That's right, exchange the bar of ass gold and you can get Doritos for free, one time, every day.

I like to think of myself as a pretty smart guy. Like I have taste and culture, and here I am naming an episode of my secret fucking podcast "PeePants: The Story of One Man's Poopy Peepee." I'm 33 years old. I should have a family. Or at least someone's family. Can I have your family? Let's make a deal, here. Come on- let me be your father. I'd be a good dad- or I think the kids would like me. Oh no, I'm becoming my mother.

Dude, sometimes I think I am a real bonehead. Other times, I think I'm a real Sasquatch.I think you get what I'm saying.

Sometimes you gotta take it back to Bermuda. Where the grass is green, or at least, I think it probably is. I've never been to Bermuda and fuck you for trying to give me guff about it. Why I oughta... honestly, I'm gonna probably look into how to best make an incredibly buttery and heart-stopping pretzel at home. Auntie Anne's style- the big time. There actually used to be a great spot in the Delta terminal at JFK, but that was probably over 10 years ago. My, how the time flies when you're eating pretzels.

I've mistaken multiple ducks for geese, but I've never found a goose be golden**That being said, I am colorblind

My grandma’s finger tips! These were the last images I could recall when the morphine drip hit my veins. Let’s make the sausage, boys.