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.

Powder Charge Hypocrisy Clearance

Hard as it is for me to believe, I've lived without a cable television subscription since 1997, although I've managed to cling to my ISP, perhaps not with the most effective diligence. My lack of focus on cable series is mostly about time management as opposed to poverty. I have 600 texts to read, trying to move without a job and an evil colon, loss of body mass and other plagues, but the other issue is I am not really interested in Orange Is The New Black or House of Cards. They are fine series, but my spirit has been imprisoned since I did the wrong thing by slamming my damn skull against North Philadelphia. I do not need to watch white chicks who actually broke the law join the fuck up world of minority loose ends trying to hold it together simply because I was obstinate. I'm still interested in Six Feet Under, as long as Michael Hall and Mathew St Patrick do not become overly graphic, and may purchase the seasons in chunks, but other than a little research into Orphan Black, I do not know what the big league subscription dependent channels have that I might wish to mine. Walking Dead is available and I'm not religious about it. It took me a little time to find Bounce, and I booted ION off my favorites to replace it with the black channel.

Spastic bigot struggles with futility to rend her cheap knit and beat her breast: I'm only there for the material, and there is plenty to be had, like this weird bit of grisly delusion. Legacy has issues as a dramatic vehicle, even if Thomas Ikimi is using *blackness* to serve up deep seated conspiracy theories. Is it indirectly about Obama's and white governance? Is Eamonn believable as a senator waiting in the wings to finally dispense with the democratic process? As a supporting actor he is as solid as a Zulu, and British.  Just turning my stones. Arch smile.