Glue, porridge, latex: An aroma of denim apathy punishes your toilet with cheese and cracker particles, clapping sheets of suicide against European electrical outlets.

Jim is the mineral miser, swabbing transportation wounds with indigenously colored Styrofoam cupcake mix. Punctured by mechanical pretzels, Jim bathes in a hairy potion of soup, gasoline, and pornographic video cartridges that employs 32,000 clowns in Lithuania, 12,000 optical migraines in Gdasnk, and 8,000 rubberized units of punctuation in Mawai.

Fruit and concrete power most translations of Buster Rogers, but stripping frigid bulimics of their youthless powder squeezes apathetic drops of Frisbee perspiration into your pepperoni.