You guys fucking with ponchos yet? I feel like we flirted with shawls, so why not take ponchos home, ya know? I mean, Clint Eastwood looked like a fucking boss in his. Catch me out in a former factory turned farmer's market that is really just a bunch of food stands looking like I'm a reformed bank robber just in town to get his horse reshod when he's swept up in a conflict that becomes more about principle than anything else and his sacrifice of self will be in vain to illustrate the banality of the American dream and ruin its false prophecy can wreak. Wednesdays, amirite?
