I Am the Leviathan and I’m Sick of All the Attention Behemoth Gets
Whenever you describe something huge and monstrous, you call it "behemoth"—no one ever uses “leviathan” in the same way. Honestly, it hurts.
Whenever you describe something huge and monstrous, you call it "behemoth"—no one ever uses “leviathan” in the same way. Honestly, it hurts.
As a proud deciduous piece of American timber, I now see it as my obligation to throw my hat in the ring or, more accurately, my rings in the ring.
The flag looks like it's waving because Buzz Aldrin was twisting the flagpole and Ingmar Bergman had an innate gift for the composition of movement.
Before he could sing a single note, I look down to see the Earth's molten core spilling into empty space.
No amount of social distancing would save you and your family from the terrifying bacterial grasps of our public pool.
Must project Buddha-like calm, possess mixologist-level cocktail skills, and know when to keep the kids out of my “home office."
But resistance must not be allowed to harden into its own brand of oppression—which That Jerk sitting in my chair is already exploiting.
Don’t just stand there, staring at me. You’ve never asked for my consent. I don’t want to be three inches from your swollen uvula.
I eat at dawn. As soon as the sun's crescent pierces the horizon I will eat my dog chow. Or else I will go ape shit.
It's a head-scratcher to be confused with one of America's most consistent box office draws; an actor with the range to do both comedy and drama.
Did it ever occur to you that I wrote backwards because I was a private guy who kept to himself? You think social anxiety wasn’t a thing in 1507?
There’s nothing I love more than hearing all types of fireworks one after the other. Sometimes it’s a bunch of little ones; like 25 in a row.