Follow The Yellow Brick Road

 

I would like very much to discuss, as opposed to writing a real article about, Justin Marks, Counterpart, and JK Simmons, and if my carbon monoxide scarred lungs aren’t going to collapse, I shall do that. I do not care what side of the political spectrum Marks and I are on, and I even, almost, remain unconcerned about his sexual orientation. What I do care about, after all these years, is not realizing what Simmons could do, after all these years as Olivet’s laconic other bookend, and The Closer. Even Oz could not quite prepare me for Howard Silk. When my usage of Prime was fresher three years ago, I streamed enough of Oz to be inundated, and so I smirk, having beat HBO reboxing everything. Given how poor I am, I am sorer than you want to know over licensing rights, because I was just getting to know Tony Soprano, and then the deck gets reshuffled, but, if I ever need to take you with me to the prison drama, I made myself exceedingly familiar with in. By contemporary standards, the series is blaise, and I can’t say what ground HBO actually broke with it because as a prison series Oz is a very long and spooling Dick Wolf harvester, quite unintentionally. When it was original, I was naïve, and now I am just very sick and have to cease texting the cousin by marriage who is also very sick. All my socialist building manager achieved, after twelve years of warfare and threatening me, repeatedly, was to make my care more dangerous for everyone involved in it, and I would like to inform you, and Alphabet’s administrators, that my expressed malevolence toward this woman is poor form, but I am the one sitting here with fecal pus in my crotch every night, so how is it, that she triggered the dominoes to force me into this situation, that I am living healthier? Silicon Valley companies have downgraded me into a nice cubbyhole for bad mannered circus animals. It doesn’t change the fact that blacks systematically tortured me, and my family wouldn’t unite against it, help me, and nor does anyone else. It is a really lousy way to be drawing on last curtain calls.

CBC Scorecard

"I hope you can recognize I'm just trying to be better informed." -- Stephanie G Fritz, batgirl

 I think, at times, I don't realize the toll Twitter takes on me, and the last thing I needed headed into Thursday afternoon was another bitch slap by more anal retentive and frigid libertarian females who don't like my lack of fealty to presidential candidates as pastry decorations, not that Donald Trump as circus barker and Joe Biden as a hollowed out trojan horse are unique in this respect. Ronald Reagan paved the way for the celebrity politician, whether at the gubernatorial level, like Arnold Schwarzenegger , or Jesse Ventura on Minnesota's less flamboyant pay grade, not to be outdone by Sony Bono curing himself of Cher  by ventilating scars of the heart by becoming a California congressman. It increasing feels like we've ceded Trump's 2020 opposition to the Covid and climate destroyed Pacific coast, and perhaps, if I had not continued to engage Miss Fritz while my minority janitor was on luncheon after my phlegm rode me through another virulent attack, she wouldn't have blocked me. I have little else to contribute to Jo Jorgensen's run for the Oval Office, her CATO Institute policy points. I like Hamza Haq as Dr. Bashir in Toronto, as opposed to Deep Space Nine. The Canadians are getting better at imitating American fractal points, and Haq is reasonably cute, reasonably functional beyond his traumatic experiences on the Syrian home front. One reviewer with paid byline didn't care for the pilot backstory, which I haven't yet streamed, against progressive lack of mercy for the mortally ill. I have other things to do than review and refine this failed Blogger account, but I fail to understand the demands Fritz was placing on me. I am not a card carrying LP member.