August, if I could slap the smug fuck*ng smirk right off of her fuck-me-right-in-the-talk-hole face on Pay-Per-View, I'd be rich, too.
But money wouldn't change me, baby. I might play a lot more pinball is all.
She is a terrible, self-absorbed cunt, and it's pretty fuck*ng clear that this condition goes right to the bone, like Rabies - too deeply ingrained to be fixed. Every fuck*ng movement, every "accidental" crotch shot, every meet-me-at-recess double entendre, every little twitch and tic all alone straining out a series of tight, miserable coke shits tweaks an overdeveloped nerve at the base of her brain that basically squirts a CONGRATULATIONS, YOU'RE EXCELLENT message up into the parts that make policy. F. Scott Fitzgerald's Buchanans were, above all, careless people. That's the gooey fruit filling of this problem, and all the attendant hate -
Not a goddamned thing she ever does will ever have any fuck*ng consequences, neither internally nor externally, because she's a silver spoon virus with marketable nipples.