You’d think at long last all this leftist incestuousness would start producing deformed offspring that would make them easily identifiable to us all. And yet, all we’ve got is Henry Waxman. And maybe Sheila Jackson Lee.
I’m really beginning to mistrust certain settled science on genetics.
The ones who are in the know practice misdirection like they’re Penn and Fucking Teller, and the ones who remain blissfully ignorance practice projection like they’re a fucking IMAX theater.
Meanwhile, those of us paying attention are painted as paranoid kooks who cling to our guns because we’re insecure about our tiny penises. Which is patently absurd — I’ve lived with my tiny penis my whole life! I’m perfectly secure with it! Whichever few firearms I have that aren’t on the bottom of the lake are there to keep my and mine safe from predators. Wild animals, zombies, “urban youth,” or bureaucrats — it’s all the same.
Oh, and to address your actual point: Prostetnic Vogon Waxman is more than enough, thangyuvellymush.
“Prostetnic Vogon Waxman”
Perfect on so many levels.
Settled Science was my favorite. But I like tapioca and creme brulee more, now.
Settled Science made me shit like a goose.