I greased my corks, organized my music and selected some prime reeds.
The place where I greased up my hair and stared at myself in the mirror and waited for something to happen, something like this, like what was coming in seven and a half real-time minutes.
I had managed to use my mother's entire set of six white mixing bowls, her electric beater, a number of pans, each of which I greased with corn oil, and assorted spatulas, knives, forks, a cheese grater and my father's hammer from the basement.
So I greased up my iPod touch, pulled out my old camera, and snapped some shaky shots.
I greased it up like crazy and made a valiant effort, but this thing is a fucking football.
I parted my hair in the middle, and I greased it down, and I contoured my face to be really, really manly.
Also, you're goIngreasedobably have thesacrifice a toothbrush or two.
Unfortunately, in this picture I look like I slathered grease on my face before leaving the house, and then chose the moment of the shutter click to push a few turds out into my pants.
Whenever I see grease, that's what I think of.
"Man, every time I wear these pants I get grease on them," Sullivan says.
