Using a fire retarder thing to stop the Makeout Kid

I’ve been thinking for the past 25 seconds (by my watch) about how one thing always inevitably leads to another, an example of which is the fact that 95% of you are thinking sexual thoughts right now because I said “One thing leads to another”. I am not. I have no reason to. Please just listen.

Today many things happened which seem to show that phenomenon. For example, today my school caught on fire. Normally you would expect something like this to be caused by a laboratory experiment involving large hamsters or some sort of cherry bomb, but no. Not at MY high school. At my school, these things always happen in the same hall, and always involve either a cigarette or a firecracker. If our schools say they’re so safe, how the hell can somebody carry a firecracker without at least getting yelled at by, for example, one of those strange teachers who walk around halls going “Hey you pervert, what do you think you’re doing!? Do you want to get in trouble for SEXUAL HARASSMENT?!” to the people who are making out in the halls, while others desperately try not to look, because of course when anybody decides to engage in the Intimate Acts of Nature in a public place, naturally everybody else must look away and pretend they are not in fact creeped out, or else the participants will not enjoy sticking their tongues in each others’ mouths.

(Yes, I know that absolutely none of you know what I am talking about. I do not care.)

Anyway, so I saw the fire. There was a massive plume of flame shooting out, like one made by a person who farts into a fireplace (don’t ask) and smoke filled the hall. One guy was desperately trying to pat out the fire with a fire retarder thing. Uh… Right, a fire extinguisher. Sorry, the smoke is still in my head. Perhaps the smoke did not in fact come from a firecracker, but from something else, something… ahem… that is a drug. That would actually explain a lot. So the fire comes down the hall, and naturally, everybody stands still and watches. This is an important emergency procedure, followed by desperate clawing and breathing as smoke fills the hall.

Finally, I’m home after all this. And I get out a bag of vinegar chips. They read: “The flavor will send you back to Jolly Olde England”, which poses the question: If you were making potato chips, or any food substance for that matter, would you seriously admit that they taste like they were made in England? I mean, really.

Ok, so absolutely none of this has to do with one thing leading to another, unless a fire inevitably leads to vinegar potato chips (it very well may). I have done my job: Posted yet another random post onto my website. Isn’t that all that really matters in the end?


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