A continuation from Monday’s I’m No Scientist But: I’m no P.E. Teacher, but I do know that Trump is weak, both mentally and physically, as in scrawny and the last one to be picked for a dodgeball team, in spite of his whining and annoying hand raising, “Ooh, pick me. Me.”
Putting the scientist back into the Scientologist.
Trump is a fucking idiot. It could be the lack of oxygen to his tiny impotent brain. It could be a genealogy thing. Once again, I’m no scientist, but I do know this: he will die like everything else does, especially old assholes like him. As I’ve discussed before, no one will attend his funeral, so we have that going. Most of America, approximately 70%, will rejoice like the Munchkins did when the Wicked Witch died in The Wizard Of Oz.
Little did the couple realize, their argument will always be nothing compared to a sunrise.
It has come to my attention that crack is whack or crack is wack, and the first question that comes to mind is: what does that even mean? In order to sum up a reasonable definition, it would be best to define each word of the phrase in the context of 1986, when Keith Haring debuted the mural, “Crack Is Wack”.
She was fortunate that she lived in a world where reflections were abolished.
It was the annual block party for Leavitt Avenue. A group of apparent new mothers gathered around a keg of Tecate Lite®. It was the farthest point from the horrendous Cure tribute band, Why Can’t I Be You? As if synchronized, each woman looked away from her phone focusing on Valerie. She cleared her throat realizing the need to project her timid peep.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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