My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
Friday, April 1, 2016
While not technically TWAHT hockey, this is from a league game that many of the Thursday night guys play in. It's rare that Bill DeRosa will get into a fight or cause trouble, but here it is....
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