If a man is beating you with a whip and you love the whip, what is he doing? Songs for ALL BLACKPINK Members (except Jisoo, because I couldn't find one)

responsible for maintaining Maat (mꜣꜥt), or cosmic order, balance, and justice, and part of this included going to war when necessary

... I became responsive to  horripilating paresthesia from, first, one, then a hoarded pharonic wealth ...

 

Brandon Shred, a jazz player, YouTuber, short hazard shottaker, pioneer with fascination for flick do-overs and its attendant bother ...

 

whatever it is you see once you see what you see on Mulberry, please, and for the sake of Winnie of Winnie's, *安良工商會 in tow, drinking Crown and Remy --

do not repeat anywhere else, no matter your eyeful is shot --  coolies will hear, but really --

 

IT'S Da-Zs.

as a result of guess whose book they first read?

these hateful Elvis movies' reputation gathering dross as cash cows, never more than that,thought too dumbed down even for a modern audience  of reprehensible to dubious, contenders for inclusion miles above Elvis flicks, epicene casting, phoned-in gobbledygook arcs and plotless maze tricks, or even poaching of a style, of which you catch me now, as I do it off and on, but as tribute of sorts to the Dr. whose racist rhyming, and non-sensical palavering has finally been found out as the work of a clandestine closet Klansman, derobed, revealed, too vile to conceal, one small step for progressive disgressive inclusion and diversity, once giant leap off of the lemming massed shelf, where I believe, I did read it from Mr. Geisel, they jumped to their peril, 1, 2, 3, 4 -- if he'd only stuck to anthropomorphizing to such wondrous scenes, but no, he had to rally up the hatemongers and surveil Chop Suey joints up and down Mott, until it was every exotic, objcticfying feature he'd got, and when the last rice grain and long ponytail had whipped down Canal, he had his wife type it, another Salome veil dropped, and she typed and she bartered like that other Lady Martyr, Eva the Braun, who compromised and after much carping had won a small victory for mankind to which she deserves at least a credit now, instead of a Bear who lived at the Eagle's Nest summit, one day she substituted a fish for Fuhrer's stomach, so like Eva, Mrs. Geisel, inserted chopsticks for eyes and less slants and pants instead of, well, just leave it at that: she saved Seuss and put down the Race War he wanted.

 

His anatomical bashing, portraying administrators of enclosures for wildlife poorly of a fashion, a fashion for garb they don't want to wear, but calling out 1937 in 2021 seems right for  Zs.

Which means, you can fuck up all you want, and who'll pay is your ghost.

 

So I'm doing good as I finish this tribute if I make it --

 

I should die in 2041, just in time for new kids to decide what I've done as racist, sexist, or imperiling

... 

and it'll be over with the click of a mouse, all of this writing, my library, my house

 

And if they can cake them pills choked with

shabu in red lit incense swirled  tribute to gods possessed of hell money -- not of this world -- and staring narcotic spirit ...

Everybody's everybody's whipping boy now.

and

if you cannot beat 'em, as Charles Manson SAID,

 

If a man is beating you with a whip and you love the whip, what is he doing?

  where many would leave their love where it last was,    turning Opera into Pop,  it hit Fifties' kids and parents right between the fourth octave,  clearly remembered its season, but  it would later subsume Elvis's last period Liberacean  Stage Presentation in both material -- eschewing  derisively, making order out of checking Hound Dog AND ITS BREED, exchanging them  for a bevy of light opera, albeit, tumid, and nearly too bathetic for real appraisal after its finale, it went uncolored lacking spectacle 

(I suspect, Malcolm Gladwell would naively multitask an hour, speculating why, never really trying to find out if it filled his next hour-long segment,  his queries  fascinating  the opposite, fruity celebrity litterateur whose devoted consumption of atrociously pubs similar to the New Yorker, careers like Gladwell's rely).

However 

it's all

due to

the excessive quantity of narcotics and Ann Margret ass which occupied his off-time on Set, at his mansion in LA -- where he and his guys and monkey named Scatter were busy reliving or encoring a very live childhood which they, incidentally, in the main, had shared once before.

building cited Coletta's, Home of Memphis's BBQ spaghetti, proximate to his Malt Shop, which found them sinking, dishabille, nicksick, mixed with novel Pavlovian response for Proustian madeleines, and thus, remembrance of things

quick, past, and alas, barely able to recall Ann Margret's ass.