I just don’t think I’ll ever grow up, like Pikachu refusing the Thunder Stone in the Pokémon cartoon.
Some people think I must have low testosterone levels. Others think I’m just a punk bitch. According to my doctor, they’re both right.
I’m just thinking a true homie wouldn’t want his other homies to be pouring out liquor upon his death. But, then again, perhaps the truest homies would do it anyway.
Teenaged analogues of Miss Scarlet (the princess), Colonel Mustard (the athlete), Mrs. White (the criminal), Mrs. Peacock (the basket case), Professor Plum (the brain), and Mr. Green (…the gay FBI agent??) meet in the library for detention with Assistant Principal Boddy.
When Mr. Boddy turns up dead, the attractive teens must discover themselves before they can discover the killer (along with what weapon was used and where the crime occurred, naturally). Dancing, drug use, and intense discussions on psychological trauma ensue.
Audiences are simultaneously inspired, thrilled, and having thoughts provoked in their minds while throwing all their money at the production studio.
As a pedestrian, using crosswalks is a good way to get yourself killed. Not using them is a great way.
I’d probably make more booty calls if I weren’t on a pay-per-minute plan with my cellular provider. I just don’t think I could present a convincing argument before the minute rolls over and, at that point, I’m really putting myself on the line.