Birdshot Braying Bays Behind Baked Bubbly Boys

Number 171 and still in your motherfucking face, by which I mean I don't give a fuck that you've been online since '96, or how many post toasties you've vomited into space, face, love me please, race. Men are all here scheming, even the sexless and mole rat of us, and women seeking the security that doesn't exist at all, but for the moment of happy place on a shoulder or tucked up nicely in spooned bliss like for a minute, then you wake up and have to climb those hills all over again; and the t-bones are seldom seen before the corner of your eye catches, and then it's "oh", you rarely get the "shit" out, before crunch comes and the sickening spin, or pushy push; but we almost always get to re-see our whole life in hundreths of a second, I guess that's just what we come down to, a flicker of images culled from the deck.
Two jokers, no directions.