Some douchebag breaks into Nancy Pelosi’s San Francisco home and attacks her husband Paul in her absence.
The dumbass was looking and shouting for, Nancy Pelosi.
He’d better be careful what he asks for.
My girl Nancy is liable to beat his ass.
She already called out Donald Trump saying she wanted “to punch him out” in the wake of the Jan. 6th attempt to overthrow the government.
My money’s on Nancy.
If that isn’t the stuff you want your Speaker of the House to have, then someone needs to explain the bicameral system to you, starting with eighth-grade Civics classes.
A guy kills a girl for refusing to have sex with him, blacks out, wakes up and stabs the corpse of the girl over one-hundred times. She was already dying or dead from a previous single stab wound, probably had sex with her anyway (they are saving those details no doubt), and in our fucked up legal system he could very well get away with it.
Would he were fatter.
One of my buddies, a fellow musician, said he hated videos of little kids, playing like little Steve Vai’s and Eddie Van Halen’s on his phone. I told him he was crazy as hell, because these little guys and girls are gonna keep all the music we cherish alive until we make our final exits.
Encourage and nurture them.
As the Powerball lottery climbs to historic levels, the chance of winning the jackpot is about 1 in 292.1 million.
About the same odds I have to expect Robin Meade to attend one of my shows.
I bought five tickets.
Over the years my lottery dreams have changed.
I never even played the lottery.
I threw dice, played Texas Hold ‘em, sat at blackjack, baccarat, and roulette.
I guess the first time I remembered buying a lottery ticket was in my thirties. I had just learned from my wife-to-be, that she had an actual winning ticket worth $25,000, and because she did not understand how to play the game, she had merely tossed it into the dumpster behind a fish market.
I acted really cool as I left her apartment that night, as I could see the fish market from her place. I drove to the lot, circled behind the dumpster, and I can’t tell you how disgusting it smelled. There was fish guts everywhere, rotting in the Santa Barbara sun for days, no doubt.
I was perched precariously on a box marked “sturgeon” and I struggled to keep my balance until…
I slipped and fell into this horrendous stew of dead sea creatures and any fluids associated with their decomposition.
I smelled like entrails for three days no matter how hard I tried, or which cleaning agents I used.
I finally got the nerve to call Karen and let her know the reason I stayed away for a few days.
When she heard my “fish tale” of trying to find her lost lottery ticket, she laughed.
What was so funny?
She said it wasn’t here she lost the ticket.
It was in Hawaii.