June 15, 2009
Look at all these sheep, smug with youth and draped in their flaccid, bloated idiocy. They don’t understand what it’s like to really work for something. They couldn’t hunt a single whale for years. I could. I did. My departed friend Hemingway would be saddened to see how this once great society has caved like a willful coward. Even my beloved Yankees have turned, corpulent, rusty and waning—a barely active metaphor for a dull, crumbling society. (Sighs.) Well, at least Wang’s off the DL.

Look at all these sheep, smug with youth and draped in their flaccid, bloated idiocy. They don’t understand what it’s like to really work for something. They couldn’t hunt a single whale for years. I could. I did. My departed friend Hemingway would be saddened to see how this once great society has caved like a willful coward. Even my beloved Yankees have turned, corpulent, rusty and waning—a barely active metaphor for a dull, crumbling society. (Sighs.) Well, at least Wang’s off the DL.

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