
To borrow from
Streicher, whose own words were already granted to
Goering in history’s mind, whenever I hear the words “healthy lifestyle,” that’s when I reach for my revolver.
And the bullets for this revolver are fashioned out of succulent nuggets of chicken fried steak, processed and fortified by sweet delicious chemicals in some factory somewhere and then frozen and re-animated cross the fruited plane.
And I would take aim at the Morgans Sprulock and track-suited unlikeable descendants of The Healthy and, one by one, I would pluck them from the fence like glass bottles, with a gluttonous, menacing bellow.
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