Seriously, Dude

So I'm waiting to leave for the firm event when all of a sudden my small intestine comes 'a callin'.

Tummy: Trey, you there, bitch?
Trey: Yes Tummy.
Tummy: Yo we need to pop a squat right quick, aight?
Trey: Sounds good Tummy .

So I make my way to the men's room and begin to do my best thinking, as Klipz would say. It must be noted that it is after hours at Funder Cunt and the only people here are Bitch-ass first years and the people who are going to the firm event, but live too far away to go home. So I'm sitting on the pot contemplating which paralegalette could use a dose of Trey's special playalistic ill game this evening when all of a sudden, sure enough, some lame-ass first year rolls up in the cut and sits in the stall...RIGHT NEXT TO TREY. I say again. The D-Bag sat next to me in an empty fucking bathroom. Is it me, or is this muthafucka tryin' throw salt in my dookie game like no one else? I had to sit there and maintain while this broke-ass wanna be attorney fired off mad flatulence like woah, son. Dude's, ass sounded like he packed a gaggle of bullfrogs up in there or some shit. Long story short, I had to make like a pervert and beat it before I was forced to lose my mutha fuckin' mind.

Word to the wise gents. Playa's personal bubbles expand no less than 30% when in a public bathroom, so when you feel the need to pinch a loaf, don't go and cuddle up next to a muthafucka like you know him and shit. Damn.