So dibs on that.
I don't want anyone to murder Roger Stone so I get my skull. Heaven forbid I would hire some Ernest T Bass jump like a monkey on his head and break his neck. Why Ernest T Bass would cost a lot anyway if he wasn't dead and fictional.
But you gotta figure Ernest T Bass and of them in the Piney Dark are good at the skilled killing, and Roger Stone is no pushover.
Ernest T Bass examines Roger Stone's rippling muscles and quickly settles on windpipe.
"T'ain't no muscle will help there so's I figger I will bust that up right quick!"
Ernest T Bass bashes Roger Stone with a brick from a rag sling. Stone chokes, coughs up a little blood, and goes down. Sorry to disappoint but the real psychotic fictional Ernest T Bass is a Tasmanian Devil. It's not going to work out for Stone. Only the wiles of a woman chile can defeat Mr. Bass.
I think Roger Stone is a scumbag. A smart rat, an archetype next to Roy Cohn and Charlie Kelly from It's Always Sunny. A wily coyote, but I detest his actions. I understand that ratfucking and gas lighting are available social tools, but mother of god dude. Psychosis.
This is the thing about us the Vulcans don't understand.
How we can hate and love and fear and embrace at the same time. Admire, loathe, disgust, rage at our worthy and sometimes not so worthy enemies/rivals/fellow inhabitants of this particular Hell-verse
The thing I'm disappointed with is they (TPTB) always play the short dick game. Which is, they do see the big picture and they figure get it now,be a short dick. you wont'; get it again so go for it short dick. It's the marshmallow test which is equivalent to the short dick game.
Well that went off the rails.
My current psychosis is still another Kurman Solution to the Fermi Paradox: TAFAO!
Things Are Fucked All Over
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