Dude, seriously. Only 23 people? I could get 23 more to sign on in about 2 minutes.
Cosmas
cosmas
WAY more. Like, “concerned about myself” more. If I lived in a state where they pass out opioids like Tic Tacs, I’d probably be dead by now.
I wish people would target the so-called “Freedom Caucus” for primary-ing, but I don’t think many know it exists, or how many Congressional representatives belong to it. Here’s a list:
Shame on you. Shaaaaaaame! As if the misogyny isn’t bad enough, and as if the anti-Semitism isn’t bad enough, and as if the focus on toxic masculinity isn’t enough, we’ve got to put up with his FUCKING obsession with BULLFIGHTING, of all fucking things. CHRIST, Heminway sucked.
Wrong! The answer is “anything by Ernest Hemingway.”
Also, with regard to the suggestion in the article, the informant on William’s death certificate (as well as on the death certificate of his wife, Mary, in 1925) is Rose Everhart of Red Oak, his daughter:
Actually, the death certificate is also available online:
He looked like a Muppet in a tank.
Once again, poverty is a moral and spiritual failure. And for Calvinist predestinationists like Betsy DeVos, those in poverty have been “foreordained to everlasting death” by God, so there’s no reason for anyone to do anything about it.
It wasn’t -- the first Jefferson Beauregard was born in 1860, before the war.
Maria Altmann got five paintings returned from the Austrian government: Birkenwald, Adele Bloch-Bauer I, Adele Bloch-Bauer II, Apfelbaum I and Häuser in Unterach am Attersee.
Me first.
They did something very like this during the W. years, so yes.
Actually, he was named for his grandfather, Jefferson Beauregard the first, who was born on April 20, 1860, several months before Lincoln’s election led to the secession crisis and war. (And as far as I can tell, his family didn’t own slaves, either. I know -- I was shocked, too.)
I realize this has little to do with the article, but: The Whitefish, Montana, library provides the local Amtrak stop with books for the train passengers, which I thought was a fantastic idea when we stopped there last year. (I snagged a copy of “The Day My Butt Went Psycho” for my niece. It was very much…
Precious fewer Asian-Americans, and of the two it featured, one was a runner for a cartel selling other Asians as slaves, and the other was his wife, who was also lousy at driving a car.
It’s in rotation now on certain premium cable channels, along with Brokeback (oddly enough), and I just last weekend rewatched both of them. It’s not so much that Crash is abjectly awful, so much as Crash is abjectly obvious. Like, all-caps obvious. It includes several fantastic performances, but those performances…
“I never really got that song, especially the part that talked about how great Herbert Hoover was.”
All of this bullshit can rot in hell. Aren’t there more important things to worry about now?