I walked up the street to the front of Union Station yesterday to peep out what I could see. The main room of the station building was closed off for a huge banquet of some kind. Out in front, people hawked Trump tchotchkes, all made in China (I checked) amidst huge lines of porta-potties. Here and there, red-hatted supporters wandered around the station, asking for directions.
One of my coworkers said it felt like Paris in ’42 as the German army rumbled through the outskirts of the city. It feels to me like the circus has pulled into town, and clowns are just going to keep pouring out of the cars.
…Harbaugh is just like Ravens fans: spoiled brats who harbor the worst inferiority complex on the East Coast; a bunch of purple camo-clad buttholes who keep grudges for so long they have to bequeath them to their surviving loved ones. Their paranoia is a self-fulfilling prophecy because they bitch ENDLESSLY about everything, which in turn compels the rest of the world (officials included) to want them cold and dead in the ground. If I were officiating a Ravens game, I would trip Joe Flacco myself.
Heavy Metal Parking Lot is like a live-action recreation of my high school yearbook: the faces, hairstyles, and attitudes are almost identical, even though the accents are pure Dundalk. Previously, previously.
Force Captain Kirk to relive a memorable Star Trek scene over and over again. Enjoy the power of Plato’s stepchildren and see how many slaps you can land on the captain’s face. Swipe left and right with the will of gods to control Jim’s right hand.
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