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Tonight is definitely the most important celestial event of the century. Not months ago on April 8th and 9th. Nope. It’s tonight. November 27th, 1986.
I met you at a time of great need in my life. That need? More readers for my newsletter where I rank pizza shops based on taste, texture, and sauce ratio.
The blurry apparition behind me in the last shot is definitely not the ghost of my great x 10 grandfather, just a smudge on my camera.
We appreciate you're probably busy. And trust us, we're normally never this needy in ransoms.
In Unit 2, we will delve into how I’m sick of your stupid shit too, and pretty please fuck off (and thank you).
I’ve workshopped names like Gale Force, Itsa Scorcher, Summer Day, or if you just want to throw all subtlety out the window, Cloud Precipitation.
The ER doctor at San Diego General Hospital claimed my vision was a fever dream induced by sleeping in a flannel thermal jacket.
My own spider (Cecil) was like the son I never had. Actually, I have a human son, but he's been quite a disappointment to me.
Non-stop service from Dunkin Brands/Boston International Airport to Paramount++ Presents The Mummy VI/Hollywood Burbank Airport.
But after all my sacrifice, my masterpiece sold only sixty-three copies, fifty of which I pawned my furniture to buy.
Definitely cringe, but as a tech startup that is not part of the Federal Reserve System, we’re kind of impressed. Seriously, this hack was lit.
Much like the novel Coronavirus, there is something deeply disturbing about Mewtwo.