Bummed, Axl boarded a Greyhound to anywhere and fell asleep; two days later he awoke in Ontario.
"WTF?" he wondered.
He wandered aimlessly until he found a DQ: "Ahh..." he thought; soon he was blissfully wolfing down a strawberry blizzard while comforing himself with a melodic flurry of silent but deadly farts to the tune of "Silent Night."
He noted a squirrely looking duffer in the next booth talking to himself while tapping frantically on his i-pad.
Curious, he gazed at what the crazy Canuck was typing and saw it was a post on VCT, on Tasha's thread.
"This will never do" thought Axl.
Outraged, he picked up a chair and smashed it on the head of the daft punk in the next booth; it had zero effect, the old boy was in the zone.
Next Axl jumped behind the counter, grabbed the hot dog fork, and speared the stranger in the arm: the northman shook off the annoyance and continued to post.
Axl had had enough.
"Hey asshole, that is Tasha's thread, what the fuck are you doing hijacking it?"
Myopically looking up, the doofus responded "The Queen of England had 183 days of rain, which when divided into the length of Rob Singer's cock approximates the sum of hosers at a hockey game..."
Axl slapped then punched him into unconsciousness.
"Stay the fuck away from Tasha's thread or it'll be more of the same for you, you god-damned Canuck."
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