My life-mate is watching a riveting drama, slick and high budgeted, about a great money heist.
Famous anuses thespitize. They are men driven for cash in copious amounts, tumbling and roping and machinegunning their way to a Better Life.
I believe that Dennis Frantz just made a 15-second community service announcement in which he informed sensitive viewers that cash is cool, but not even a billion bucks could save you from being hit by an asteroid and “expiring.”
The predominant colors in this film are gray and black. The color of technoempires, hollow, hygienic authority, and ash.
Our era is a medieval time, a Dark Age of Individuality, Personal Gain, and Home Entertainment Systems.
My life-mate farts. I dive for cover in a stunt worthy of the telethespians. I smell mountains of expired eggs, burning in hell. I scamper to the can claiming an urgent need to clip my toenails, but the smell assaults me even from there. Your farts aspire to be world travellers! I scream.
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