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.
Three weeks ago, Aquaman, the King of Atlantis, began a personal evolution. It is not a coincidence that the transformation began right after meeting Trump, the strange orange-skinned surface dweller, during a peace summit.
Like any good nosy American, I have been watching the news avidly as to who did what to who with what, specifically, with all the mail bomb terrorism. As of 9 PM CST of today, there are no answers, just a lot of speculation and more questions. This is what we know.
Can you believe what’s going on at these Republican caravans popping up all over the country? All these white terrorists trying to get into the government. Not good, I tell you, not good. We need to drain the swamp, lock her up, and do whatever’s necessary to not let those bad hombres into Washington D.C.
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