My bologna has a first name. It also has a dead end job, a crippling mortgage, and several concerning moles. My bologna has a two car garage, an expanded basic cable package, and a vague dissatisfaction with the way Alf ended. It has joo joo eyeball, toe jam football, monkey finger, and hair down to its knee. It has an existential crisis centering on the disappearance of Ripple from the liquor section of its local supermarket. It’s got the Mott’s.
Bologna can have all sorts of things when you don’t eat it. I generally avoid eating bologna. Don’t even know why I have it in the first place.