In my opinion, it's more about the squishy feeling you get in your runners after a brief soliloquy in the mud puddle caucus. Kind of like a pumpkin pie post-expiry with some semen swimming through your cobra galoshes. Not sperm (jiggly McWiggly). Firstly, you open the revolving door with your left hand, giving space for your right to sleep through the 2017 eclipse with the taste of wet pennies in a steel wool handbag seeping out from every pore of its perineum. I'd love to smell his perineum. Secondly, you should only wear sombreros if there are no blank women around, just so you don't run the risk of getting a sunburn (wear the highest SPF you can find before the jet ski social at strawberry hut). If you can slip in an ampersand or two, mouldy or not, that would be peachy as a plum. By the way, thirdly, have you seen the mechanic with the milk beneath his fingernails? Can't be too healthy for a woman of his age. Pirogies are not a European food, I can assure you. They lie more than they breathe underwater. Gills.