There was absolutely no doubt about it. It was/is a bad year for the NFL. What, with the whole kneeling during the national anthem controversy and all of its political implications, and how about the whole evasion of head-on collisions causing brain cancer. Ask any US President, and he’ll gladly tell you that football is definitely failing, just look at the horrible ratings.
He was barely cloaked for this sort of weather, and he was miserable. It was rain versus his stubborn brow and forehead, and damn it, he was going to win. But how can one be victorious in a meaningless battle? Especially if the enemy is unaware of being the enemy. For all anyone knew, the rain was merely parallel playing. It’s not like weather has logical emotional patterns. It is no-nonsense, matter-of-fact, straight-up science. Meteorology to be more exact.
Ella just didn’t sing those lullabies like she used to, not since the new president took office. Something was not right, he was just too sly and sneaky for his own good. Also, he looked funny. Gone were the soulful yodels and the trills of pure pleasure. In its place, just doubt and nothing short of paranoia. She found what passed for happiness in stirring her tea with a spoon she stole from the Town & Country restaurant. It was beautiful. It kind of looked like this:
Before, when she was days younger, September of 1968 to be exact-ish, she was just recovering from the assassination of JFK and more recently, RFK. To move forward, she had to justify these acts of violence towards the Kennedy family. In order to have a clear conscience, she cheated. She forced herself to believe that bad things are going to happen to the rich people. After all, they hobnobbed with evil greedy people. These are the sorts who see no value in human life if a buck or two can be stolen. It cannot be argued, money loves money.
It was the fortieth day of the Great Flood, and the ark was seriously a-rockin’ so hard, no one would’ve, nor could’ve heard the knockin’ from the pair of complaining gripes. [FACT CHECK: Gripes were medium-sized birds known for their shrill shriek.] [SPOILER ALERT: Gripes are extinct.] The gripes were incapable of performing the act of reproduction with all that noise. It was a cavalcade of grunting, fornicating, and sweaty bow-chicka-bow-wow music.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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