Iamsqueegee

The NASA ScRoTE. Self-contained Repository of Testicular Ejaculate.

Took me a second.

Totally got called out by their full name, too.

Did you remember to great power comes with great responsibility?

Not when everyone gets an A!

You may have already seen this, but Thomas Jane’s Punisher had potential.

Then you’ll be happy to know about Savannahs!. They’re house cats crossbread with servals, which are almost practically ocelots.

If that 1000 liters of water doesn’t stay in the desert, will that make the desert even more arid?

Foxon Park, baby!

You have the red birch beer. Connecticut has the white birch beer.

Yeah boyyyy!!

I would agree with you 100%, but there are some exceptions, so I’ll agree 98%. Frampton Comes Alive! is the only way I want hear the songs on this album. The studio versions are lifeless by comparison. The musicians are totally feeding off the crowd and the music is better for it. There is a live version of Tom Petty playing Breakdown where the audio mix of the crowd singing is phenomenal. He even says to the crowd “y’all’re gonna put me out of my job”. It’s just fun. I saw Pink Floyd live once and I was mildly let down. They played all their songs note for note, just like the studio versions. No new riffs, no live in-the-moment feels. I didn’t hate it, mind you, but it was a musical performance by professional musicians instead of a live rock concert. Kind of the opposite of what you’ve described.

Van Herpes

American History X might be a good movie.

The “I’d like to speak to the manager.” of birds.

You could also look for local brews that share your ideology.

Opening monologue to The Road Warrior:

My life fades. The vision dims. All that remains are memories. I remember a time of chaos, ruined dreams, this wasted land. But most of all, I remember the road warrior, the man we called Max. To understand who he was we have to go back to the other time, when the world was powered by the black fuel and the desert sprouted great cities of pipe and steel — gone now, swept away. For reasons long forgotten two mighty warrior tribes went to war and touched off a blaze which engulfed them all. Without fuel they were nothing. They’d built a house of straw. The thundering machines sputtered and stopped. Their leaders talked and talked and talked, but nothing could stem the avalanche. Their world crumbled. Cities exploded — a whirlwind of looting, a firestorm of fear. Men began to feed on men. On the roads it was a white-line nightmare. Only those mobile enough to scavenge, brutal enough to pillage would survive. The gangs took over the highways, ready to wage war for a tank of juice, and in this maelstrom of decay ordinary men were battered and smashed — men like Max, the warrior Max. In the roar of an engine, he lost everything and became a shell of a man, a burnt-out desolate man, a man haunted by the demons of his past, a man who wandered out into the wasteland. And it was here, in this blighted place, that he learned to live again.