The podcast I completed today, “CALL MINGE …”, has an error I commit twice: once at the beginning and once at the end.
It was unintentional and dumb …
I meant to say: “12 and 24 are 36”, but instead I said 12 and 20 is 36, which is false.
Thank you for understanding, I am not a perfect person. If it’s early enough, I’m tired enough, I’m plenty old enough? – I can and have made mistakes in my podcasts, but I try to own up to them and identify them if and when I am able.
You promised something fancy, after our affair in Arabia; when the lost Victoria Zantos-Rockus-Mueller left me for that BRUTE and chesty freak FRANK. He yanked the love button and VICKY dropped her panties into the toilet. Is it going to be like that?
What are you getting me for BOXING DAY?
That autographed mouth guard signed by MIKE TYSON? The one he wore when he bit that guy’s ear off or the one he wore when he got his ass kicked? He was and is a fighter, but could he be a faker as well? Making money the old fashioned way: like the plot of pulp fiction but Bruce obeys his boss, he was supposed to lose and he did.
When the SPRING rolls around you BETCHA there’ll be dollar sized pancakes and butternut grill for the gardeners and the fire forgers. You said “Dan, I’ll give you busket reef and tyg”, and I’ll say “Buddy, that’s a feast!”, and as the sun sets in the WEST the wanderers will start their styrofoam fires and toss another tire on the pyre.
I might want a horse or a pony?
I might want a toy train or an electronic brain?
You might go to FRY’S, if they were still open, or RADIO SHACK, if they hadn’t gone bankrupt again, but they never die. They zombie back like BOSTON MARKET, and you get that sweet and nasty pot roast pudding again you sad old fuck.
Buy me a truck, make it diesel, roll some coal, smoke a bowl.
Buy me that duramax with the broken header and the leaky gasket.
Understand: this is a study in cognitive dissonance, because a fair number of middle to upper level GOP operatives and MAGA HEADS received PPP funds. So, a commie by any other name still smells as foul?
Good morning JEDIX-7, the side-chip installed in my smoke detector. Good morning to the strategically placed fakers, stalkers, malingerers in the realm of existential damage.
Good morning fucktards who are buying days with years.
Good morning to the STRAW MAN FANTASY and your injectable diarrhea brain.
YOUR INSANE THOUGHT CAVE is PLATO’S pulsing light, you can’t focus, there’s no hocus pocus, and now the burner is left on and your boss has to meet Hank at Langley tomorrow for those “morning meetings” discussing “which kid to give to Biden and which one to save for Trump”, or about great investing ideas based on “that country we’re about to implode”. Like that, but with cocaine.
Good morning control system, your squeaky wheels keep squeaking along. The song you sing is heard across the WWW and IRL, with hellcat kitties selling Japanese distractions and K-POP subtraction.
Good morning control system, you spend money wisely: on killing nuns and burying ideas. Your STINK can be identified from Tierra del Fuego to the Cape Horn, to the NORTH POLE and SOUTH POLE and every pole J.D. VANCE shoves up his butt … like that too.
Good morning control system, I was crazy before you met me.
Good morning control system, you’re just warm up for the BEAST.
