Jason Fetz cries a lot. He cries at weddings, funerals, during hallmark advertisements, when he eats fatty foods, when he combs his hair, at the sight of a “sad animal”, when he wears glasses, at Ritas water ice, when he hears any song by Dwight Yoakum, at second hand smoke, at first hand smoke, at no smoke, when he’s around ladies, when he’s around men, when no one is around at all, when he sits at tables, when he changes light bulbs, at the smell of freshly cut grass, when he pets dogs, when he writes his name, at the sound of thunder, lightening, rain, sunshine, any element at all, when he forgets to wash his hands, at Chilies southwest grill, when I call him short, when I say I’m sorry, when I hit him, when I put a knife to his throat, when I shoot his family, when I murder his childhood dog, at the smell of bacon, at microbes, when he sees a person sitting on a bench, when he forgets to take off his pants before going to the bathroom, at lack of recycling, at bikes, on bikes, in cars, on planes, at the state of the internet, at knock knock jokes, and the taste of tomatoes. I could go on for hours about how much he cries, and what it is he cries at but it's late and i can't be bothered.
I wish Jason Fetz wasn’t such a pussy.
I hate Jason Fetz.