Like, it's actually important, it will only take a second or 30 full minutes, time means nothing to me, I'm 7 shots deep and had lettuce for dinner.
If you need to use the bathroom, it's no problem. Just grab a pair of disposable gloves and follow the tape arrows around to the basement door.
"Yeah, it’s cool, I’ll just lay here—lie here?" I’ll mutter, as you clamber out of your, I don’t know, 2012 Ford Fusion, with a Phish decal.
Support us at The Lincoln Project and our quest to return America to her former glory: killing poor people but with good manners.
You do realize this, correct? That you’re inherently susceptible to novel, airborne viruses that could lead to your premature but inevitable death?
The minute you opted for the Pomegranate Margarita, gave your credit card to your "date," and said, "this round's on me," you entered my domain.
“Pine?” No. That’s not “pine,” bitch. That’s the smell of me frolicking through the forest with Jesus.
It doesn’t get more local than illegal reptiles for sale in your neighborhood, now does it? At least you know that they’re telling you the truth.
There are no dry cleaners open all night in my area, and so I have hundreds of bloody, or just plain smelly, shirts I don't know what to do with.
We saved lives, and now it’s safe again to watch Snow White without worrying that the theater will be overrun by pointy-eared monsters and explode.
My mask's jerky hole? Yes, what’s that? It’s a hole for eating jerky. I don’t think that works. Please don’t. Oh, you’re showing me already.
I watch other people do it: strangers in masks screaming at non-maskers in public places.