I love to kick back and escape my many problems by throwing on some real archival footage of a man who horrifically murdered his entire family.
We’re not doing this online, it’s too easy, too predictable (plus I’m not allowed to get online for 18 more months, minimum).
Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and scroll through my phone ever so much. John says I mustn't lose my mind reading article after article.
Imagine the home-field advantage for the SF Identity Thieves as their mascot "Guccifer 7.0" announces credit card info of the opposing players.
Can you introduce me to any shadowy figures who run the government here?
The book mentions a reoccurring nightmare of his, where Bigfoot would chase him across an endless plain, demanding he fill out a brief survey.
My girlfriend first noticed the absence of romance while I was in a stained dressing gown, digging wax from my ears while reminiscing about my ex.
Now, I should say that I don’t speak Spanish, but I do speak un poquito Spanish. Is that bueno with everyone?
Every time I’ve been to a dinner party with our president, he sits next to my problematic uncle, and they talk practically in unison.
When I go to work people assume, just because I drive an ice cream truck, that I must really love ice cream, or that I sell ice cream.
My music isn't something you stomach for the sake of increased brain function. Save that for the cod liver oil.
The farmer at the pumpkin patch is threatening to stop selling me any more pumpkins because he thinks what I’m doing is “fucked up.”