Ryan Bird has never once wavered in the face of awkward silence. Admittedly, he once boarded-up his mouth with ill-gotten street-signs. Sure, he’s also made love to himself with his eyes closed ever since the fifth fucking grade. Not to mention that he limits himself to just one lone dump a week, taken on the night before the Sabbath, with a glass of port and a mentholated smoke. I guess what I am trying to say here Old Man is, well, happy belated Father’s Day. Read your present, here.
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