Purposely cropped so I don’t have to say SPOILER ALERT.
At that very moment, the world stopped. But only for Mark Brauhoffer. He was an overweight sweaty mess wearing an imitation leather jacket so frayed that it almost looked real. He was having suspicious fears that he may have died, as he watched himself on stage performing. The fact was, he had become so obsessed in self-loathing that he inadvertently had an out of body experience. His astral form hovered above the stage.
14th U.S. President Franklin Pierce was a lesser known grown-ass man, yet grown-ass enough to kick your ass.
It was a long time coming. Everyone knew it, yet very few were prepared. Y2K was months away. The Grown-Ass Man adjusted his pants, pulling them up. They were falling due to the absence of a prominent buttocks and the lack of a belt. In so many words, this was what he thought about the crisis.
Perhaps the greatest grown-ass man ever in American history, 13th U.S. President, Millard Fillmore. The following story proves that the grown-ass man comes in many flavors.
Initially, I was going to write a rant about stupid Trump and his prime time State Of The Union collective of words, in which he attempted to coerce Americans that a crisis of heart and soul, the likes of which no one has ever seen before composed of coyotes and gangs was upon us. Women and children will most likely become victims of uncontrolled illegal immigration. Worse, he subjected us to his ugly puss in a slow zoom close up. What the fuck was wrong with his squinty eyes? Uneven Botox® injections? Conjunctivitis is so 1990. And what was up with that insane breathing? If history repeats itself, in the case of Trump “the ignorant redundancy loop”, he was saying something he didn’t want to say. In short, this silly spectacle did not win over new Trump supporters. If he said sensible gun control in place of border wall, he would have. And now we return to The Grown-Ass Man, already in progress.
“It’s the plumber. I’ve come to fix the sink.” In case you’re not familiar with the joke, this goes back and forth for a very long time, long enough for the plumber to die from sheer exasperation on the front porch. When the homeowner returns to ask, “Who is it?” meaning the dead man on the porch. The competent parrot repeats the words of the plumber. “It’s the plumber. I’ve come to fix the sink.”
He slid his dry tongue against the bottom of his top jagged teeth, and, of course, it bled, and it obviously tasted like it. Truth is, this was a daily ritual, something about how hope springs eternal with your own fluids in your mouth. It’s an archaic German expression, so it doesn’t matter. For the first time in the last hour, Emile Prattwell stopped everything. He was discombobulated by the apparent elephant in the room question: Would this be a completely different experience if he was a cannibal?
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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