eldeet ylpnimod p 2919
qu-ybbig bпp sow to glpt
19lto 919dw02 21000 tort
tud bluoda ti 919dw nodt
erlt ditiw blot yhden 'tillitz
qu xiM .anoitnetni to tzed
stod elttil p dtiw evol emoz
zxp9t2 tot pid elquoɔ p bbp
uoy bпp pssiq to ztol bnp
tort 19vozib yom oot
THIS AIN'T
HAVANA
BY THE YUTZ BROS.
[NOTE: Basically what we have here is a couple of gibbering idiots with a sick man's sense of
adventure who are in for a weekend of over-exaggerated stupidity and sudden bursts of high
frequency whoop-de-doos.]
"I jes knowa that when-a-we get off-a the plane I'm-a-gonna step inna some dog poop!" said Luigi
Yutz to his older, but not necessarily wiser, brother Brad Yutz. Brad thought he was a Vic Ferrari-type,
but he didn't even come close to the red line on most girls' wee-wee charts. "I don't think there's-a
many doggies inna-side the Chicago aeroporta," Brad said as he pondered the big blue out the window.
FAST FORWARD: Maybe it was the ride out of the car rental place that obscured their sense of objectivity
when Pero Rojo, a tattooed love-dog, offered them a lift into town, only to wreck before leaving the rental
lot. Or maybe it was the police officer, who insisted upon a particular restaurant for its high-combustion
power steak dinners, that caused the slippage of Luigi and Brad's cranial piston return springs. Whatever