Judge Roybeanbag

Lol dream on, my friend!

Plus the fact that the body could have been cut into pieces and not gone through the system as a whole. Not that I would know.

Windmill cancer!

Need to excavate them first. Dig them deeper, to hold more despair.

Doesn't matter, Austin and the lakes aren't gonna get shit. Everyone else, pummeled. Lakes, zero.

Nice wieners.

REO Gutwagon.

Also needs to go in the enshittfication thread.

@Scheiss Meisterdidnt get his username, and lose one eye for nothing, man.

This is the city of Austin. No water for a bidet. I wipe with spandex.

In a perfect world, one would hope. In this current reality, I’ll just deal with my balls hurting.

Dude, stop with the nobody in between stuff. I have 400 cans of tuna, 570 packages of saltine crackers, and a case of Crystal hot sauce, well that there is heaven. I might need some the of the proffered TP. But that’s beside the point.

They actually remodeled my local churches here at Menchaca and William Cannon. The chicken is still fantastic.

Yeah, but that whole explanation made my balls hurt. So thanks but, damn!

Joe needs to roll out with an orange jumpsuit and a pair of handcuffs. And when Trump says "those are for your son", he needs to say no, these are for you. My son isn't running for president. I am, and you are a convicted felon, not even eligible to vote.

Fewer.

When she wants to be.

My friends name was John Lee, he was a world class neon dude. We did a lot of neon signs. But Eric’s band in that space was crazy. Tommy had a yellow mustang that compared against my red one.

Sitting in his cramped rehearsal space somewhere off North Loop, Johnson is clearly intrigued by a discussion about the inherent difficulties of translating artistic vision into something concrete. He stares a moment at the tape recorder on the music stand between us. It is quiet. In the next room, stacks and stacks of black equipment cases, stenciled with the initials "E.J." sit silently by the loading bay door. Outside a steady drizzle continues. In this room, a rather dingy, oblong space where Johnson spends much of his time practicing by himself, is a clutter of shelves, empty amp cabinets, and a series of tall sound partitions so that one might escape the roar from the Marshals that sit behind Johnson. There's a giant effects board at his feet -- as well as the dirty brown rug that covers the floor -- and other than the chair he sits on and the stool on which I'm perched, there's little else -- except another framed picture of James Marshall Hendrix half hidden in the corner. Though faded, it provides a familiar spark to the dim surroundings.

Back around 1990 or so Eric Johnson had a practice space in that building. A friend of mine had his neon/glass blowing shop next to him.

Ok poncho.

You’re so fucking white, you can’t even get Pancho correct? Troll.

I’ll take a minor f’up like this all day long. Be more wrong, kxan!

Lots of good solid rain in 78620, for the past couple hours. Good stuff.