BigJimsWornOutTires
Kraken
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I declare November 30 as Trejoween — a celebration of the legend, the king of violent facial gestures, the man who defied looksmax surgeries with an "Eat my ass" attitude, the one and only Danny Trejo!
Born towards the finale of World War Two, the Runaway Train of Talent knew he had a mission in life—smoke lots of weed, inject heroin, snort cocaine, deal drugs, and mog other violent juvies in state custody. He grew up on the streets of Los Angeles, that Mermaid cesspool, and learned that if you want things in life, you'll have to beat the fuck out of someone to achieve them. By the 1960s, Danny Trejo would become a regular face among California penitentiaries. During his extended stays, he focused on fighting for his respect against other convicts while prison guards placed bets. Indeed, he was a prison boxer.
The man had witnessed it all. From territorial gang disputes, armed robberies, rapes, murder, and fist bumps with Charlie Manson. But after a moment of clarity, most likely on a stainless steel toilet, he finally had enough! He wanted out.
During a time-out session in the hole (solitary confinement), he used the opportunity to get clean and stay that way. He hacked his own mind and changed its pattern. "Once you're caught up in drugs, it's a hopeless kind of existence, and if you can see someone that got out of it, it gives them hope," Trejo said to an irrelevant journalist no one heard of, and thus, I will not reveal its unpopular name that could stain this masterpiece of literature.
In 1972, he waved goodbye to his fellow inmates and BOCS (Bitch on the Clock), saying, "I'll miss you, fellers! Please don't cry for me." Ugh. A droplet escaped his eye, followed by a vicious gang of tears.
The other inmates cried too as one fought back his emotions and yelled, "You'll be back, booty bandit!" Danny smiled and shook his head. He then nodded with confidence.
The lawmaker's hostages were puzzled by his bizarre farewell, as one asked his buddy, "The fuck does that even mean? He disagreed, but immediately agreed?"
By the next decade, he would penetrate himself deeply and forcefully into Hollywood with a suspicious and scary grin:
In his first film, Penitentiary III, duh, what did you think his first role would be in, E.T.? The fuck out of here, nigga. Danny was on his way! However, Hollywood's feminine gents and fuckboy Chads usually got the leading roles. Danny knew he could looksmax and fix his rough features, but a Jewish agent, of course, and I assume, must've told him, "Forget about it! Your scars are distinctive. Plus, it saves the studio money from special effects and makeup for violent characters that you obviously can only play."
In all likelihood, I speculate, Trejo responded, "But I want to do romantic characters! I wanna be the leading star of heartwarming family stories." The agent chuckled. Chuckled again. Without much of a pause, he hysterically laughed as Danny laughed while grabbing his crotch and swiftly rocking back and forth on the recliner.
Unlike other biographers who'll list every major point in the subject's life and drag this on and on, I'm lazy and will leave it at that.
Therefore, this November 30th is the first Trejoween. Put on your scary face and let someone know, "Bitch, I'll knock your fucking teeth down your faggot throat!" Get locked up and let the inmates know, "I'm showing muh respect to Trejo!" Or do what I'm doing, make an altar in your home and adorn it with Trejo posters, black burning candles, an ox skull, rag dolls with pins embedded, and a bowl of fresh cattle blood. However, you may want to design a ritual with formalities too. Whenever I pay my respects to Trejo, I'll lay on the ground and slither my body toward the suspiciously evil altar. It's a thing! Don't judge me. You do it your way!
Born towards the finale of World War Two, the Runaway Train of Talent knew he had a mission in life—smoke lots of weed, inject heroin, snort cocaine, deal drugs, and mog other violent juvies in state custody. He grew up on the streets of Los Angeles, that Mermaid cesspool, and learned that if you want things in life, you'll have to beat the fuck out of someone to achieve them. By the 1960s, Danny Trejo would become a regular face among California penitentiaries. During his extended stays, he focused on fighting for his respect against other convicts while prison guards placed bets. Indeed, he was a prison boxer.
The man had witnessed it all. From territorial gang disputes, armed robberies, rapes, murder, and fist bumps with Charlie Manson. But after a moment of clarity, most likely on a stainless steel toilet, he finally had enough! He wanted out.
During a time-out session in the hole (solitary confinement), he used the opportunity to get clean and stay that way. He hacked his own mind and changed its pattern. "Once you're caught up in drugs, it's a hopeless kind of existence, and if you can see someone that got out of it, it gives them hope," Trejo said to an irrelevant journalist no one heard of, and thus, I will not reveal its unpopular name that could stain this masterpiece of literature.
In 1972, he waved goodbye to his fellow inmates and BOCS (Bitch on the Clock), saying, "I'll miss you, fellers! Please don't cry for me." Ugh. A droplet escaped his eye, followed by a vicious gang of tears.
The other inmates cried too as one fought back his emotions and yelled, "You'll be back, booty bandit!" Danny smiled and shook his head. He then nodded with confidence.
The lawmaker's hostages were puzzled by his bizarre farewell, as one asked his buddy, "The fuck does that even mean? He disagreed, but immediately agreed?"
By the next decade, he would penetrate himself deeply and forcefully into Hollywood with a suspicious and scary grin:
In his first film, Penitentiary III, duh, what did you think his first role would be in, E.T.? The fuck out of here, nigga. Danny was on his way! However, Hollywood's feminine gents and fuckboy Chads usually got the leading roles. Danny knew he could looksmax and fix his rough features, but a Jewish agent, of course, and I assume, must've told him, "Forget about it! Your scars are distinctive. Plus, it saves the studio money from special effects and makeup for violent characters that you obviously can only play."
In all likelihood, I speculate, Trejo responded, "But I want to do romantic characters! I wanna be the leading star of heartwarming family stories." The agent chuckled. Chuckled again. Without much of a pause, he hysterically laughed as Danny laughed while grabbing his crotch and swiftly rocking back and forth on the recliner.
Unlike other biographers who'll list every major point in the subject's life and drag this on and on, I'm lazy and will leave it at that.
Therefore, this November 30th is the first Trejoween. Put on your scary face and let someone know, "Bitch, I'll knock your fucking teeth down your faggot throat!" Get locked up and let the inmates know, "I'm showing muh respect to Trejo!" Or do what I'm doing, make an altar in your home and adorn it with Trejo posters, black burning candles, an ox skull, rag dolls with pins embedded, and a bowl of fresh cattle blood. However, you may want to design a ritual with formalities too. Whenever I pay my respects to Trejo, I'll lay on the ground and slither my body toward the suspiciously evil altar. It's a thing! Don't judge me. You do it your way!
