I’m trying to mentally masturbate about it, but an image of you keeps popping. That’s a problem.
Not to contradict your dear old mom, who’s both wicked smart and wonderful, but, no, we don’t have to be realistic. Not when it comes to love.
What is a marriage, if not an opportunity to mock someone through thick and thin while simultaneously exploring your deepest darkest sexual desires?
Who says we have to be realistic?
I know you Hebrews do things a little differently, but last I checked, a ménage ą trois was not a pit stop on the road to redemption.
So, if it goes badly, I’ll have to fire her. Shit, if it goes well, I’d have to fire her. Either way, I’m out one fucking secretary and up a giant lawsuit.
I don’t wanna go where Hank has been. He probably left booby traps up there like the Vietcong.
How the fuck do you option a blog? What is there to option? The title? The font?
Well, basically it’s about how nothing good ever lasts. How, no matter what you do, it all just turns to shit in the end. You know, like you and mom.
Just because something is bleak doesn’t necessarily make it true.