Burn the fucking earth.

DRINK DEEP AND DESCEND

"This is Bob. Bob is a guard on the shores of King's Land. When the mood strikes, Bob reaches for fermented crab. . ."

Killing their momentum by leaving New York a bit before the end didn't help any either.

He's getting too old for this shit.

I saw a Facebook post the other day from one of my left-of-center friends with a picture of the march and a caption about "this is why you need 30-round magazines" on top of it.

"So clean, he's all dressed in white/the warrior with the endless fight!"

The real iceberg was all the friends we made along the way.

"HOW DO YOU FEEEEEEEEEEEEL?"

"Just another sad old man/all alone, and dying of cancer."

"Marmalade. I like marmalade."

I suppose. They just seem cut from that same cloth as far as hyper-competence. They're like CPU opponents in a fighting game that read your controller inputs.

We're in that stage of things where Urine Greyjoy (lord, I wish people wouldn't pronounce his name that way on this show) like Ramsay before him, has a permanent win flag whether it makes sense or not. It's a pretty facile way of building tension.

Meanwhile, a pirate everyone insists on calling "Urine" acts evil in a kinda homicidal Russel Brand sorta way.

20 years of South Park. Hopefully one day we can learn that shaping one's political ideology from fucking cartoons is a stupid idea.

I gave up 4 episodes in. I like martial arts stuff, but Iron Fist was as boring as whale shit.

A miserable pile of secrets!

What if one of them is a planet where everything is on the cob?

*gestures to guards, guards perforate Shadows*

VIIIIIIIIR