The American Dream is big and bent and gray and old. There's a scar on its cheek and our blood runs cold. It sits at its table dealing stud, and we want nothing more than to hit the son-of-a-bitch in the teeth. With a chair.
We are all the Boy Named Sue. Gravel in the gut, spit in the eye-- time to get tough or die.
This blog is where we all scuffle in the street. In the mud and the blood and the beer. We'll laugh. We'll cry. I'll cut off a piece of your ear. And we'll all come away with a different point of view.
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