a telenovela

Who says we don’t?

And if that nigger, Jim, ya, you said that, didn’t you, Jim?  “That nigger, Jim” or was it, “Nigger Jim,” cualquier-cosa myself, then I guess, unless you’re going to suggest someone just popped on over to Vegas for the night so they could write a little love letter to themselves instead of infiltrating whatever online gambling schemes you’ve got going on related to the Presidency, on what, Twitter? or was it Truth Serum or whatever that fucking thing is called, ya, Jim, and certainly not Bayes Serum, which, if I didn’t know any better, might be ever better than the Truth Factory shit they’re using to burn their Confederate flags – but, Jim, now, don’t get me wrong, but if they’re burning their Confederate flags, shouldn’t that be a time to use the word “shouldn’t” – why, Jim? Why can’t we all just burn all these fucking flags world-wide and then we can wear whatever fucking colors we want whenever we want?

I don’t know.

I dunno either, Jim.

But if we can’t sleep together because one of us has to be in Connecticut and one of us has to be in Massachusetts so that you can win a stupid bet, then nobody’s going to bet on us to win the presidency, especially since they know we can’t possibly be in two places at one time, so now how are we suppose to enchant and audience while they wonder the obvious fucking question, not of how many Jim Flannerys there are, but of how the fuck you ever fall asleep when we’re doing this shit all the time.  How, Jim?  We don’t shut the fuck up either, so now what?  I can at least.  Do you want to at least them right now?  No.  Then don’t bother with the quotes nigga, cause you still upload this shit from Vegas or wherever the fuck your father thinks you and the other Jim Flannerys are right now, unless I’m mistakenly using Jim Flannerys to refer to those two, or three, or maybe more undocumented identical siblings there are in San Diego that just happened to look so fucking similar to Jimmy Flannery’s driver’s license photo in San Diego that I wouldn’t even bother checking his Resident ID card either just in case one of those little bastards slipped in the photo so they could buy cigarettes or whatever they’d need a State ID for anyway, cause they sure as fucking wouldn’t vote for this dumb nigger named Jim unless he capitalized his words properly on purpose every once in a while.  If they did, they’d have to be the luckiest niggas on Earth for being able to buy so many smokes without needing actual birth certificates, what a fucking guy, helping, what, minor?  Are they underage, Jim?  These fucking, what? Kids?  What on Earth are we going to tell, who?  Tell who?  They’ve got needs.  Jim, we’ve got needs too.  Sleep?  Sure, if you think that’s what you need.  Well, fuck me, yeah, that’s why this article is being posted at 11:23ish, Jim, so now what are we supposed to think you think we think they think we all do when we go to sleep?  Sleep like babies, Jim?  Good fucking luck.