My baloney has a first name. It's B-I-L-L! And I'll tell you further, baloney(Bill), egg(your mother) and mayo(my blog), and some of the mayo squirted on my pants leg, like, you can't just explain that away, "tut, tut, looks like rain!". I deserve not what I've been given, but that's the thing. I brook not that I need fat wads of stuff, or greenbacks or other such, but just enough to keep the narrative rolling.
And yet there are other concerns. Tomorrow. Building the new World's Fair. Hand-sewn bikinis for the mermaids, a bedazzled top hat for the master of ceremonies, and maybe even a honey-battered corn dog for Mitch.
This can come across, just cinch-up, pull those buttcheeks tight. Feel my hot breath on your neck.
The Insult Comic Dog, cheese from his lasagna topping, welded to the rough of his mouth.
See them love.
I know so many of us may have been "looked into", "perused", "vetted", without the courtesy of a shoeshine, a bottle of water at the hearing table. And I add farther that them girls in Cheraw don't like it that somebody wanted to see me.
But I liked it just fine, and I lifted her up.
And I know it just makes them other gals so mad, that one stepped out of line, and stepped right into my game, not for the sake of delivering some prepared statement or some other game bullcrap, but something a bit more human than most of these "single-issue voters" can manage.
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