Bob didn't know what kept him from kicking L's ass. Especially now that he had fruity-pink fucking legs. That little fucking shit. Yet, each time he ran in to L he felt fucking sad for the fucker. Like he could just fucking tell there was something wrong there and it would be like kicking the special olympic kid or something.
Bob's head fell as he stared at the fucking ground. What the fuck was he supposed to fucking do with Jay nudging him on to kick the poor fucker's ass? Seriously? Bob fucking shrugged - was the really the fucking answer? To kick the little fuckers ass? Bob didn't know; but, maybe if they did the little shit would just fucking disappear.
Bob's eyes rolled in final punctuation, trying to think of a good reason not to kick the shithead's ass. Maybe the little fucker did have it coming to him?