Snobbery in the highway of doom

I met a very neat Place kicker for the Cleveland Browns.  He was a star bench presser and could life three thousand pounds as if it were a feather.  I even think that this fellow was orthodox and a clean ballet dancer on the stage of life.  He was an orthodox Jew and he loved to eat baklava and smell the rose oil that his mother would put in her recipe. I loved him so much and he beat the odds in the casinos by playing blackjack with one eye closed and one eye with a patch over it.   I missed his birthday party and he never said a word other than he gave me a flower that looked like a rose but smelled like a carnation. It actually was the ugliest gesture as a rose must smell as a rose and only a carnation can smell of a carnation. I called him Intelligent friend but he was actually a snob.  He danced in his bathroom with the toilet lid up and he called me bad names in the funny pages that he tried to write with his orange and lavender pens.  I must say that maybe I can call him intellsnob because he was so fitting to be combined into a song.  Intellsnob was smart and he really wanted to be a lawyer. But the Browns offered him too much of a salary and he really did not like to organize legal files very well.  But that said, intellsnob really liked to read spy novels and he read them night and day.  His first one was about how a murderer stole santa clauses birthday suit that was polished in red and smelled like carnations and roses.  This was how he got the idea to make a mastery new item, a genetically altered rose that smelled like carnations.  It was not pleasant and Intellsnob is still my friend, but I sent him a football jersey for his next birthday and he looked good in orange and brown.