You read all about the otherwise good guy being remembered for taking that one time shit in the pool. Not wanting to match that nor rest on my Johnsonian laurels, I disregard the label indecent, betraying, misanthropic penetrator and go right to the heart line. We're being portrayed as poised for our Putin. Like all of our influence of being suckered by idol or survivor or bachelor says we're ready for our strongman.

Here's the thing: I never explained that when you find where you want to live until death, you'd think you'd pick a dwelling that will stay habitable long enough to cover your lifespan. So what if it doesn't? When you're dead all the could've should'ves don't matter.

Now we are baked in the life oven of let's be obscure because it's tits on a ritz. Filleting the crap shank takes the combination of tensile strength and a Bonneville salt flat track record. It means nothing to point to your galactic record for keeping yourself together held since last kwanzaa if you can't laugh at the sediment and forget about the sentiment. Ho-ho