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Category Archives: Stupidity

Teachable Moments

15 Thursday Oct 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in Culture, History, Philosophy, Politics, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

5-year plan, American self-loathing, anti-Western, bullshit, college, douchebaggery, Dr. Knob, education, Ensign Dorkus, Klingons, Latino, Professor Jihad, tenure, unremitting virginity

By Tardsie
heroes

The good ones, maybe. But some of them are crap.

I got a good education in college. Mostly, I have my professors to thank for that. Rather than force students to parrot their own beliefs, these learned men and women encouraged me to consider all sides of an issue, to dissect and analyze its components, with context and without, and then arrive at my own opinion. I will be forever in their debt.

But in my checkered five-year college career (in which I managed to earn not one but two useless degrees and a minor in Literature) I did encounter a handful of professors who failed to meet the lofty standards and degree of intellectual rigor to which I’d become accustomed. Let me tell you about three of them.

Professor Jihad–The Anti-American Comparative Politics Professor—I’m a big believer in considering alternative points of view, but Professor Jihad was a bit of a one-trick pony. The only opinion he was willing to countenance was one in which United States (or one of its nefarious Western allies) was responsible for all the world’s ills, from climate change to herpes. I understood pretty early on just how pronounced was his monomania when he found a paper I had written insufficiently excoriating of the West. His red-ink comments dripped with disappointment.

Anger Jihad

“In a pinch, I’ll also accept virulent anti-Semitism.”

I adapted. I decided to make a game of “writing to my audience” as it were. My papers became rabidly, comically anti-American—no connection to American perfidy and imperialism was too tenuous; no snide, predictable jab at Western cultural values was beneath me. And of course, he ate it up. The guy adored my bullshit, and called on me often in class, giving me the opportunity to indulge my talent for talking convincingly at length about whatever twaddle it was that the prof wanted to hear. Despite this, he never managed to get my first name right and I couldn’t be bothered to correct him.

Ensign Dorkus–The Uptight Nerdy Physics Professor–This guy looked more weaselly than a tall man has any right to. He was probably younger than I am now, but was even then determinedly courting middle-age. His shiny bald skull was ringed by shaggy, mousey hair. He favored sweaters, Dockers and sockless loafers, which made him look less like a preppie than like someone’s uncool dad. He wore thick birth-control glasses and talked about Klingons a lot.

Trek Nerd

Some people choose virginity. Others have it thrust upon them.

His class was a new offering at my school: a bold, if self-evidently ridiculous and doomed-from-the-outset attempt to rethink the teaching of science: mathless physics. Rather than slog our way through a terrifying forest of equations, formulae and cosines, we would write softball essays on such topics as Is the Space Program Worth the Money?  However, it quickly became apparent that Ensign Dorkus graded these essays not on the quality of our arguments, but rather on the specific position we took (in the Space Program question, for example, the correct answer was “yes”).

Just a few weeks into second semester Ensign Dorkus admitted defeat, and made few friends among the students when he reverted to more traditional teaching methods and abruptly reintroduced math to the course. When we complained, he had the gall to explain to us much as he would to an idiot child, “Well, you can’t do physics without math!” He was a bachelor, and likely still is.

Dr. Knob–The Self-Loathing Backup Sociology Instructor–Even sociologists know that sociology isn’t a real academic discipline, but I needed the class to graduate. Dr. Knob wasn’t even the tenured sociology prof; he was a backup brought in at the last minute when the real professor’s class became too full. He was thick-built and beefy, with a docile, bovine face set into a neckless head that was completely hairless except for thick eyebrows and a walrus mustache which seemed somehow to comprise a matched set.

His discomfort with his own whiteness was palpable. He was the kind of guy who pronounces the names of Latin American countries—but only those countries—exactly how a native speaker would pronounce them in either Spanish or Portuguese—“HWHAT-ah-mal-ah,” “MEH-hee-ko,” “ar-yen-TEE-nah,” “EH-hwhah-dor.”

White Guy

“And I’m so, so sorry…”

He was particularly eager to ingratiate himself with the Latino students. He would sometimes pose questions to the class. When a Asian, white or African-American would answer, he had a habit of greeting their answers with a polite, but puzzled skepticism, as if what they were saying didn’t quite make sense. Then, when a Latino student would provide essentially the same answer (which was now correct), he would smile paternally at the foolish non-Latino student as if to say, “See, I’m teaching you.”

He’d show films about the plight of migrants in America every couple of weeks, and we’d take those opportunities to sneak out of class. He never noticed. He never discussed the texts he’d assigned for class and which I never bothered to buy. Instead, he’d send us on crap errands to places like the laundromat or the welfare office and ask us to “journal” our experiences. I didn’t waste my time going to those places, and instead wrote lively fictionalized accounts, peopled by an insane menagerie of twisted addicts, determined, self-sufficient single moms and grim predators. It was good enough to earn me a B+, which was the non-Latino equivalent of an A in Dr. Knob’s class.

It shouldn’t surprise anyone that none of these gentlemen received tenure.

The Garden-Destroying Cross-Lot Food Fight

01 Thursday Oct 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in Crime, Culture, History, Sport, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

cads, douchebaggery, drunken tosspots, Flying Tomato, food fight, foolishness, kids today, louts, redemption, revenge, small town cops, Tardsie's True-Ass Tales, the Produce Wars, tosspots, watermelons

By Tardsie
Battle_of_Spottsylvania_by_Thure_de_Thulstrup

It happened just like this.

There were a lot more kids living in my neighborhood back at the time of the Cross-Lot Food Fight than there are today. In those days the town could support two elementary schools, and there wasn’t anywhere you could go within the city limits and not see a youthful face. This story is about young people, kids and young adults, and the delightfully destructive foolishness in which young people so often find themselves engaged.

It started when a flying tomato nearly knocked my neighbor Jason off his bike. A group of maybe six of us were playing in the street in a way kids rarely do these days, just being kids and not really playing at any one thing. Jason yelped as the crimson meteor sailed across his handlebars and dove into the street with a meaty thud. For a moment there was confusion; none of us had seen it coming.

We saw the volley that came next.

Four tomatoes arced through the empty air above an unused lot adjacent to the street, falling around us and striking the asphalt with heavy splats. Hoots of raucous laughter carried from behind the wooden plank fence at the far end of the lot, where because of the lot’s slope, we could see the head and shoulders of about a dozen people, all of them adults and old enough to know better.

attack_of_the_killer_tomato4

War is hell.

The fog of war is deceiving, and there were some things we didn’t know. We believed that first Jason and then the rest of us had been the intended targets of the tomato barrage. We were not. In truth, when the whole thing kicked off, the gaggle of inebriated twenty-somethings had no idea we were even there. It started when first one of the guests, then a small mob, began raiding the yard’s tidy garden for tomatoes to hurl at a rusted-out jeep somebody had parked on the street side of the lot. The resident of the house, a hard-charging hellion named Brett, agreed that this was a fine idea. It didn’t matter, however, that we were never the intended targets; the opening salvo had been launched and we were now at war. We plucked the partially intact tomatoes from the pavement and from amidst the weeds of the lot and returned fire.

The drunken party-posse was throwing at us in earnest now, and we took some hits, but it kept us stocked in ammunition as we advanced on the fence. The barrage came hard, and by the time we reached the fence they’d run out of fresh tomatoes, and we were assailed by pulpy formless fruit that was sometimes just a bloody mess held together by a flap of skin. They plundered the garden’s treasures, and all manner of green and growing thing came sailing over the wooden divide that separated our two camps. One asshole even threw an entire watermelon over that fence; it sailed over the top of the wood for a few feet like some tie-dye zeppelin before plummeting earthward and spilling its guts into the weeds.

Hindenburg

There’s no way to dress up hurling a watermelon at a child as anything but a terrible idea.

The only hit I took was as I climbed the fence, but it was a good one and left a bruise. As I came overtop the fence I interrupted a guy in the act of throwing a fairly intact and particularly unripe tomato. He walloped me in the side of the head and down I went. To his credit, my assailant was properly mortified that he’d punched a nine-year-old in the side of the head, and leaned over the fence to make sure I was all right. I gave him a face full of tomato scraps for his trouble.

The fight wound down not long after that. Having gained the yard, we didn’t know what to do with it, and anyway the garden was now just a churned and ravaged patch of earth. Also, just then the police showed up. The nasty old lady who lived next to me had called them, claiming an errant tomato had violated the sanctity of her front lawn. Small town cops can sometimes be the biggest dicks, and it didn’t help that the officer initially believed we’d vandalized a neighborhood garden in the most spectacular way imaginable. He was unkind, and one of my friends walked home crying, his wails trailing him all the way up the street. Fortunately, the drunken adults who had precipitated the messy melee came to our defense, and the affair ended rather anticlimactically.

Time Time Time

“…therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Nobody plays in the empty lot any more. There just aren’t as many kids in town these days as when jobs were more plentiful and homes cheaper. My old elementary closed in the late 90s, and my kids go to the school across town. I haven’t spoken to Jason, the kid who nearly got knocked off his bike, in decades, but every now and then I see him in the front yard of his parents’ home and sometimes I’ll wave. I still talk to the kid who went home crying. He’s done well for himself, first as a political consultant here in the States, and now does PR work for various foreign regimes which need a little help refurbishing their public images. Brett, the drunken tosspot who hosted the garden-destroying party is now, predictably, a very successful and well-respected business owner who is rumored to enjoy spending time with his young grandchildren. Likewise, I can only assume that the rest of the fruit-chucking yahoos are now beloved pillars of the community. The old lady who called the cops is, of course, long-dead.

Coffin-in-grave

Sweet, sweet revenge. I can wait for it.

My Beef With That One Guy From ‘Fast Times At Ridgemont High’

23 Wednesday Sep 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in Celebrity, Cinema, Philosophy, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

1980s, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Jeff Spicoli, Judge Reinhold, Krauts, passive-aggressive behavior, Sean Penn, Tardsie's True-Ass Tales, unusual names

By Tardsie
slide_244451_1371155_free

Nah, not this guy. He and I are kindred spirits to a certain extent.

Not all that long ago I discovered something new about myself. It wasn’t new, exactly—I’d been doing it for a long time without realizing it, but had only recently thought to ask to ask myself why.

You may already know that I have an unusual first name. It’s ethnic, kinda freaky; you hear it more as a last name if you hear it at all. Anyway, there’s a real good chance that somebody meeting me for the second time is gonna misremember my name, and call me by a different, but only slightly more common name. Here’s the thing: it’s always the same fucking name. And this other name is fairly rare, too–chances are the only time you can remember hearing it is as the last name of a moderately successful comedic actor from the 1980s.

beverly-hills-cop-34468

People are always calling me ‘Murphy’ and I fucking hate it!

When someone calls me by that name, I’ll either correct them or I won’t, obviously. But it never occurred to me that there might be a pattern to this behavior. I simply assumed that there were some situations where for whatever reason I didn’t feel bothered correcting someone.

Eventually, I was able to tease out an identifiable pattern to my behavior, and it boils down to how I feel about the person. If I like the person, I’ll correct them. If I don’t, I won’t.

Getting to the motivations behind this behavior was a little more challenging, and when I did finally plumb the dark heart of this mystery, I found it was surprisingly passive-aggressive. You see, I’d unconsciously created a system whereby I could justify my negative opinions of the person. By not correcting them I pretty much ensured that they would continue to address me by the wrong name, which irritated me and in turn gave me more reason to not like them.

You’d think that once I became aware of this frankly childish and unproductive behavior I would have taken immediate steps to curtail it. You’d be wrong, though.

large_2293_p1047_im-perfect-just-the-way-i-am_4_1

It is so important to love the person you are.

My Friend Joey Park, Part III

23 Thursday Jul 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in History, Philosophy, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

all scientists are black belts, Asians, beloved friends, college, cowardice, douchebaggery, foreign kid, friendship, fun with foreigners, hillarifying, Joey Park, Ricky Ricardo, South Korea, ugly Americans, well-deserved beatings, why am I so loutish?

By Tardsie

In which I avoid the beating I so richly deserve.

 

And if you haven’t already checked out Part I and Part II, you should. I think I come off looking like a pretty cool guy.

hqdefault

The Image Seen Here Has No Relevance Whatsoever To This Post.

***

***

Joey Thumbs

Look, If He Hasn’t Killed Me Yet, He’s Probably Not Going To.

Dedicated with love to my brother “Joey Park.” I’m a richer man just for having known you, and obviously, I appreciate you not handing me my own ass that one time. We are forever Feds. ∞ T.

Joey Rocks

 

My Friend Joey Park, Part II

22 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in History, Philosophy, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

cultural understanding, Dennys, Feds, fun with foreigners, fun with stereotypes, homosexuality, Joey Park, racism, South Korea, Tardsie's True-Ass Tales

By Tardsie

In which we strive for greater cross-cultural understanding.

Disclaimer: This video contains a slur, uttered without any venom. It also contains several words from a foreign language depicted as meaning something other than what they actually do, and that’s probably racist. You’ve been warned.

If you haven’t already, check out Part I.

 

***

RK & Joey

Yeah, Maybe Joey Knew EXACTLY What He Was Saying…

 

My Friend Joey Park, Part I

21 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in History, Philosophy, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

college, English, exchange students, foreign kid, fun with foreigners, Joey Park, South Korea, Tardsie's True-Ass Tales

By Tardsie
Fez

Joey Park Seen During His College Years

 

In Which We Celebrate Diversity.

Me & Joey

Good Times, Good Times…

 

Headlines: In Which No Puppies Were Harmed Or Abducted

13 Friday Mar 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in Celebrity, Crime, Culture, Entertainment, Headlines, History, Literature, News, Philosophy, Religion, Science, Stupidity

≈ 19 Comments

Tags

Afghanistan, alcohol abuse, American Civil War, Big Bang Theory, Bitcoin, Cal Poly, Chicago, death by automobile, death by Ebola, drinking games, Ebola, fraternities, Glee, grammar nerd, gut wounds, Illinois, Italian Stereotypes, Jewish people, Justin Bieber, keggers, lesbians, Maury Povich, Michael Jackson, pederasts, poor people, rich people, Samurai swords, San Luis Obispo, shopping sucks, Smaktakula's abiding love for his own voice, Superman, tritransitive verbs

By Smaktakula

The Real Question Isn’t Why We Don’t Bother To Read The Articles, But Rather, Why Everyone Else DOES?

In which, armed with nothing more than a severely attenuated attention span and an ignorance both boundless and sublime, we respond to the news headlines of the day without bothering to first read the articles.

***

Puppy survives after being locked in car for almost a month ~ And he’ll no doubt think twice next time before chewing Daddy’s new putter.

Will my wife learn to love her vibrator more than me? ~ Totally. Dude, you’re fucked. Not literally, obviously.

Do American Jews Live in a Cocoon? ~ How is it fair that you get away with saying a thing like that? That time when Smaktakula said that Jewish people were terrifying moth-like creatures, HE lost his job!

Good advice on dying more slowly ~Try for a gut wound. It’ll take you all day to die.

Superman took my virginity ~ Is but one of the many titillating revelations to be found in the pages of the forthcoming memoir, “I Was A Teenage Robin.”

"More Powerful Than A Locomotive." What The Hell Did You THINK Would Happen?

“More Powerful Than A Locomotive.” Just What The Hell Did You THINK Would Happen?

Did Your School Make This Exclusive List? ~ You know it didn’t, and I don’t think it’s very nice the way you keep asking.

Why is math easier for some kids than for others? ~ Because some kids are Asian.

Italian family buries mother they said was still alive ~ “She was…eh…how you say?…a beech.”

What Can Bitcoin Buy? No More Heroin, but Baklava and a Dinner Date ~ Yeah, well we can buy that stuff with grown-up money, thank you very much.

Funeral director says Chicago gun violence destroying city ~ “Which is why I moved my gigantic mansion to the suburbs. So sad.”

We All Deal With The Pain In Our Own Way.

Each Man Must Blaze His Own Trail Through The Forests Of Grief.

Puppy stolen at San Luis Obispo adoption event ~ We’d call that an undocumented adoption.

Killing a Patient to Save His Life ~ Is a notion that’s absurd on its very face.

It’s OK to Like ‘The Big Bang Theory’ ~ Look, simply saying a thing doesn’t make it true.

Poll: Did you ignore the experts’ advice on when to feed a baby solid food? ~ There are people who are willing to give you advice on that kind of thing?

CNN Poll: Afghanistan Least-Popular War in US History ~ Really? And not the American Civil War? ‘Cause in that one, literally everyone who died was one of our boys.

And Every One Of Them A Good Guy (As It Were).

And Every One Of Them A Good Guy (As It Were).

Why You Hate The Sound Of Your Own Voice ~ It’s like you don’t even know me.

Has ‘Glee’ Officially Taken It Too Far? ~ Oh, please. Okay, first of all, for something to be declared “official”, some sort of governing body must exist with the authority to make pronouncements regarding how far “it” has been taken. Moreover, in the ridiculously unlikely event that a network television show did somehow manage to find itself “taking it too far”, it’s a pretty safe bet that show wouldn’t be a cloying time-killer aimed at campy gay dudes and lonely spinsters. 

Man Returns from Prison to Find Dead Wife’s Mummified Remains ~ Right where he left them.

Man jumps to his death rather than continue shopping with his girlfriend ~ We’ve all been there, buddy.

Cal Poly proposal would ban kegs, drinking games at Greek parties ~ Hell, you might as well just got to a community college then.

PARTY!

You Know Who Owes Their Very Existence To The Fact That College Kids Once Hosted Keggers And Played Drinking Games?–My Children.

Samurai Sword-Wielding Lesbian Murders Woman With Her Car ~ Why does it matter that a) she’s a lesbian, and b) that she was wielding a Samurai-sword, since it was a car she killed the other chick with?

Does Any Language Have Tritransitive Verbs? ~ I’m kind of a grammar nerd, but even I want to shove your head into a toilet right now.

Jermaine Jackson — Michael Jackson Would’ve Set Justin Bieber Straight ~ By which he means that his brother would have molested a preteen Justin Bieber.

Where Did Ebola Come From? Likely One Person, Gene Study Finds ~ Well, that dude’s a dick, then!

Is sex only for rich people? ~ If that really were true, do you think there would still be so many poor people running around all over the place?

And If Countless Hours Spent Viewing Maury Povich Has Taught Us Anything, It's That Poor People Indeed Like To Do The Nasty.

And If The Countless Hours Spent Watching Maury Povich Have Taught Us Anything, It’s That Poor People Seem To Enjoy Doin’ The Nasty.

***

Profiles in Loutishness

03 Tuesday Mar 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 19 Comments

Tags

buffoonery, college, douchebaggery, I am an ass, jackassery, loutishness, shameful behavior, Tardsie's True-Ass Tales, why am I so loutish?

By Tardsie

Ever wonder just how a gentleman should never act? I nailed it one time.

All these years later, I still cringe. ♥ T.

Mea Culpa: 55 Cent

15 Sunday Feb 2015

Posted by Smaktakula in Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

abject apologies, charity, douchebaggery, homeless people, making amends, mea culpa, Memphis, mistaken identity, sorry, Tardsie's True-Ass Tales, Tennessee, Why am I so stupid?

By Tardsie

In which amends cannot be made.

Note: Any comments about my headwear will rightly taken as an insult to my proud cultural heritage and an affront to the land of my fathers. And you should know that, historically, those people don’t take perceived threats well at all.

The Aging Gunslinger

09 Monday Jun 2014

Posted by Smaktakula in Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 14 Comments

Tags

absinthe, alcohol, cannabis, chicanery, dope, drinking contest, foolish choices, gamesmanship, hemp, herb, Jägermeister, marijuana, peyote, reefer, Sun Tzu, sweet sweet cheeba, Tardsie's True-Ass Tales, vomiting, wagers, weed

By Tardsie

The Gunslinger Sleeps With One Eye Open, Forever Waiting For The Younger Man With A Faster Gun He Knows Must Someday Come For Him.

I drank a lot when I was younger. Too much, I guess. I enjoyed the consciousness-altering aspect of  booze, and for a while, there was a novelty to getting fucked-up. When, as is the nature of novelty, it wore off, I found I didn’t drink so much anymore.

Some years later, it turned out that a co-worker of mine, John, was acquainted with some of my old college friends. My college friends regaled John with only the most debauched and asinine of my collegiate exploits. It was a somewhat incomplete picture of the person I had been as a youngster, and about a million miles from the reality of my life at that moment. Based largely on this erroneous image, John challenged me to a drinking contest at an upcoming office party.

A drinking contest? The idea was a loser from the get-go. I had largely put my boozing behind me, but John had kept himself in fighting trim.  This was a bet I was almost certain to lose.

It’s Hard To Pinpoint Any One Particular Reason I Stopped Drinking So Much.

Faced with this challenge today, I would have no problem begging off, using my lameness and general decrepitude as an excuse. But at twenty-five or so, I was still very much in the throes of a delayed adolescence, and my carefully crafted self-image would not allow me to ignore this challenge from a younger, stronger, faster predator. Moreover, I would have to go beyond merely showing up for John’s challenge; I could not simply shuffle complacently to my own ass-whipping. Not only did I have no choice but to accept, I had to win.

To assist me in this endeavor, I had a card up my sleeve worth a dozen battle-hardened livers, an advantage so pronounced as to change the course of battle even before the sound of the first shot: my exemplary cunning. John believed that the drinking contest would begin–and thus be won or lost–when we first took up our glasses. He was wrong.

“All right,” I said, showing him my game face, “Let’s do it. But I don’t want to pussy around, dude–if we’re gonna do this, let’s do it right: we’ll drink Jäger.”

Jäger Has Made My Life Immeasurably Richer Simply By Being In It, And I Don’t Care Who Knows It.

For those unfamiliar with the cough syrup-meets-black licorice charm of Jägermeister, the iconic kraut tipple is made from a variety of spices and despite being only 70 proof, has fostered a reputation for fucking your shit up. People spoke of Jäger in the breathless, quasi-mystic tones normally reserved for absinthe and peyote. Some people said it contained traces of deer blood, others opium. For whatever reason, I’ve never had a problem with Jäger, and consider its fearsome reputation to be entirely overblown.

But that reputation had precisely the effect I’d intended. Having proposed the wager, John could hardly refuse. He agreed, but with markedly less enthusiasm than when he first suggested it.  Jägermeister it would be.

I Heard About A Dude Who Named His Child–HIS CHILD!–“Jäger Meier.” Some People Should Not Be Allowed To Have Children.

The party was at a co-worker’s house, and being a work-related party, both John and I agreed not to start our competition until later in the evening when the more reputable guests had left. John and I went to the keg together and filled our cups. Although John and I both returned to the keg several times that evening, I was nursing my beer and “filling” it when it was already nearly full. John, however, appeared to be drinking with abandon.

When it was time to throw down in our liquor-based contest of manhood—well, I guess you already know that I kicked his ass. It wasn’t even close. When I left the party, John was on hands & knees in the front lawn, heaving a black and hideous mess into the grass. I gave his shoulder a squeeze and said some comforting but ultimately condescending words as I passed. I kept my dignity all the while, and waited at least until I was in the car before I began convulsively to spew, coating the door and good portion of the seat. Happily for everyone, it was my girlfriend’s car.

***

Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.

Sun Tzu

***

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Recent Times

  • Teachable Moments
  • The Garden-Destroying Cross-Lot Food Fight
  • My Beef With That One Guy From ‘Fast Times At Ridgemont High’
  • Shelly The Parasitic Yoko of Pervert Alley
  • Welcome To Pervert Alley
  • A Profoundly Philosophical Question
  • My Friend Joey Park, Part III
  • My Friend Joey Park, Part II
  • My Friend Joey Park, Part I
  • Headlines: In Which No Puppies Were Harmed Or Abducted
  • Profiles in Loutishness
  • Bet Your Bottom Dollar That Tomorrow
  • Mea Culpa: 55 Cent
  • Goat Mayo
  • Headlines: More News We Don’t Understand
  • The Aging Gunslinger
  • Hungarian Fone Kard
  • Fresh Socks For Homeless Walter
  • I’m An Ass, And I’m Sorry
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WORD.

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