"Sure,"
PaSTE said as he leaned back on his big, overstuffed
rocking-donkey, "all you kids talk about these days is 'killing time' this and 'killing time' that! Let me tell you, sonny, it's not as easy as it sounds!"
PaSTE took another sip from his overflowing glas of
warm rat piss and continued. "That's right, I was once the
heavyweight boxing champion of the world. I couldn't be stopped. I was like a
Wankle Motor at full revs! Boy howdy, let me tell ya'."
As a side note, old man
PaSTE never
really told us. Rather, he continued with, "One day this quick lad who called himself 'father time' came along and challenged me for the title. I thought it would be easy to take his
ass down to the
canvas, so I accepted of course. After 37 hard years of training, I was finally ready to step into the ring with him and give that boy a
whooping like he'd never felt. w00p!
"After the first 175 rounds,
time really started his bounce-back, nearly taking me down seven or eight times with his
left-handed kick to the face. I argued to the ref that he was trying to
kick me in the face, but the ref didn't listen. I knew that, if I didn't kill time now, he'd deffinately kill me.
"Well, if not," old man
PaSTE grimmaced, "he'd have my title, and I wouldn't have that." He lit his hand on fire with his
fondue and continued rambling. I didn't want to listen any more, so I kicked the old man in the face.
That's my story. I'm sticking with it.