War On Terror. War On Drugs. War On Boobs. Amerika Fcuk Yea!

boobs

There you have it, dear worst-reader. Another law (ordinance?) has been created by the/a state so that you can be served the best quality juicy delight of governmental hard work that (in)humanity has to offer. And would you believe I’m actually from the place where this level of mindlessness happens–whether it’s about boobs or not? Nomatter.

Indeed.

Have no fear tax payer slash bank-bail-outter. Your laws are made daily–as if you didn’t know that–and you should be proud of those that make these laws–even if the law makers all sound like redneck truckers that just got out of a Ho-Chi-Minh movie drive-in that featured a barnbuster about how girls are raised by perfect mothers who hide their faces when their unknown fathers procreate on their fleshiness all in the name of good-times and a few drinkie-poohs while letting themselves go when visiting THE BEACH. (Nothing against truckers, by-the-buy.)

I mean #1, come on. It’s not as though there are more important things to do in the grandness of the greatest failed experiment in human stupidity.

I mean #2, aren’t laws the thing, i.e. legislation, that has given you (insert #) years of war and/or money transference to the rich? Laws have made your inner most Cinderella dreams come true and given you your beloved #Trumpism, too. Wow.

Can you say lack of voters, titties and electoral college three times real fast, dear worst-reader?

And when summer time comes ’round and the embarrassing nature of your humanity takes precedence–which you hide under strips of cloth–it’s time to wipe away the seriousness of death and murder and destruction–that is all these years of wars-of-choice and US treasury depletion at the hands of the thieving rich–because it’s time to deal with those luscious pillows, those fun-bags, those randy-dandies, those jugs… that turn the heads of boys and girls while you try and continue your cinderella nightmare-dream in the hideaway of a vacation your credit card will never be able to get paid. Or maybe not.

Let’s just move beyond all the worst-writing then, shall we. Oh. And heed this: naked man boobs rule!

Rant on.

-T

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