Inspired by the below post and because it is peak tomato at my house, anyone have some much loved salsa recipes? Or, just any delicious summer dishes we should all be eating?

Back some indeterminate time ago, like you all, I was a “glowing young ruffian” but through a combination of inertia and the unceasing movement of time I now look in the mirror and see my cells decaying as clouds fill my iris and my hands struggle to open the pickle jar. I am 32.

Mind, this has nothing to do with Get Out operations. This cash stash will be used solely for new investments, but the GHP boys of caucasity just raised $2.5B for new investments.

It would appear that joining Get Out really does take you into the white version of the sunken place. I know Joan had some love here while just a contributor, but since joining she has somehow supplanted all as the worst, most disingenuous blogger. This nearly rivals “What’s your fucking deal?” in its shameless…

So, uh, where do we all come down on this? I’m not even sheepishly over here raising my hand saying it is a bridge too far. You want to go ahead and yell at him and make his night so miserable he leaves, have at it. We should be. The Splinterati and White Fems are eating this shit up.

I don’t much care about Pete, but it would be so much quicker to say he isn’t Bernie.

Yep. I am DED and gone, folks. But first a little background.

When you think you may be dying, or at the very least inhibited from living a full life your perspective narrows. I have spent since early February vacillating between being obsessed with my brain health and pretending that it doesn’t matter. After all this time, I finally have some resolution.

The World. It sucks out there, you see. I spend most of my days in a rage coma too adrenaline filled to do anything but lash out at all I can see. I used to be angry. I still am, but I used to be too. I’m most angry at my own anger and how I’m an adult who cannot control my anger at all. I. Am. A. Toddler.

It’s day 819 of the 45 regime. As a loyal foot soldier in the resistance I call him 45 because I’m a badass. That half-eaten sweet potato has done wonders for people like people employed at places that traffic in outrage.

Me neither.

I’m not going to delve into this hornet’s nest trapped in quicksand laced with Cardi B’s roofies, but that above is the only take here. Don’t blindly believe corrupt organizations. People are out here really showing their asses by claiming victory or spiting everyone when the gist is, things don’t add up and the facts…

So what did they get?

Get ready for endless reimagined hagiographies in an effort to get these albatrosses sold. Interesting to attempt to juxtapose it with Bartool (retch) and broader sports journalism as the former 800lb gorilla who is now 50lbs antagonist.