>In the darkened confines of the theater, I, burdened by the weight of my own clumsy existence, experienced an unfortunate incident. The baked beans, like molten streams of regret, escaped the confines of their container and cascaded upon my hapless frame. As I grappled with the unexpected assault, a callous adolescent voice sliced through the air, piercing the veil of silence with the unmerciful declaration I was eating beans. The collective laughter that ensued echoed like a taunting symphony, mocking my bean-strewn plight.
PillsburyDoughboyrslur/fslur
Biden didn't send a mob at the capitol to disrupt the peaceful transition of power
TURKEY_IS_A_CHOICE 1yr ago#4351138
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ah, blood meridian, monsieur? that novel is the sark and chaparral of literature, the filament whereon rode the remuda of highbrow, corraled out of some destitute hacienda upon the arroya, quirting and splurting with main and with pyrolatrous coagulate of lobated grandiloquence. our eyes rode over the pages, monsieur, of that slatribed azotea like argonauts of suttee, juzgados of swole, bights and systoles of walleyed and tyrolean and carbolic and tectite and scurvid and querent and creosote and scapular malpais and shellalagh. we scalped, monsieur, the gantlet of its esker and led our naked bodies into the rebozos of its mennonite and siliceous fauna, wallowing in the jasper and the carnelian like archimandrites, teamsters, combers of cassinette scoria, centroids of holothurian chancre, with pizzles of enfiladed indigo panic grass in the saltbush of our vigas, true commodores of the written page, rebuses, monsieur, we were the mygale spiders too and the devonian and debouched pulque that settled on the frizzen studebakers, listening the wolves howling in the desert while we saw the judge rise out of a thicket of corbelled arches, whinstone, cairn, cholla, lemurs, femurs, leantos, moonblanched nacre, uncottered fistulas of groaning osnaburg and kelp, isomers of fluepipe and halms awap of griddle, guisado, pelancillo.
I don't get it. There's absolutely no way this behavior only came out after they got married, as if he was "normal" before and then changed. He was like this all along. This b-word literally signed up for it.
LV foids marry LV scrotes they think have "potential" expecting they'll be able to swing above their weight when the scrote levels up. When the scrote just refuses to work to make more money the b-word gets pissed and leaves. Many such cases.
Slippery_JimTrans/Lives
Is publically friends with Turkey Tom
gerudo 1yr ago#4351333
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Excuse me, Cormac MacCarthy was not 'LV' and the wife quoted in the peice sounds like she accepted it, even enjoyed it, until it got tiresome. Things always get tiresome eventually- all things- so she can't be blamed for that.
Based. Too many modern literary authors have been ruined by accepting a "writer in residence" position at some tony university and never again publishing anything worth a darn.
The best authors have always been either the wealthy aristocratic ones who didn’t need to work, bureaucrats with meaningless jobs and plenty of spare time and starving artists types.
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Extremly rare NEET
Seriously though, this man was completely devoted to the art of writing, not many would endure that, and his luck was been exceptionally talented.
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Chat GPT doesn't really get Cormac McCarthy.
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lack of n-word
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PRESENCE OF COMMAS
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The bean juice has to be compared to blood and c*m
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Way too much punctuation
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Too many commas
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That's why AI is only a threat to middlebrowcels. It can replicate matter of fact writing but can't hold a candle to a real artist
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ah, blood meridian, monsieur? that novel is the sark and chaparral of literature, the filament whereon rode the remuda of highbrow, corraled out of some destitute hacienda upon the arroya, quirting and splurting with main and with pyrolatrous coagulate of lobated grandiloquence. our eyes rode over the pages, monsieur, of that slatribed azotea like argonauts of suttee, juzgados of swole, bights and systoles of walleyed and tyrolean and carbolic and tectite and scurvid and querent and creosote and scapular malpais and shellalagh. we scalped, monsieur, the gantlet of its esker and led our naked bodies into the rebozos of its mennonite and siliceous fauna, wallowing in the jasper and the carnelian like archimandrites, teamsters, combers of cassinette scoria, centroids of holothurian chancre, with pizzles of enfiladed indigo panic grass in the saltbush of our vigas, true commodores of the written page, rebuses, monsieur, we were the mygale spiders too and the devonian and debouched pulque that settled on the frizzen studebakers, listening the wolves howling in the desert while we saw the judge rise out of a thicket of corbelled arches, whinstone, cairn, cholla, lemurs, femurs, leantos, moonblanched nacre, uncottered fistulas of groaning osnaburg and kelp, isomers of fluepipe and halms awap of griddle, guisado, pelancillo.
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still unemployed then?
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he cute
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I don't get it. There's absolutely no way this behavior only came out after they got married, as if he was "normal" before and then changed. He was like this all along. This b-word literally signed up for it.
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LV foids marry LV scrotes they think have "potential" expecting they'll be able to swing above their weight when the scrote levels up. When the scrote just refuses to work to make more money the b-word gets pissed and leaves. Many such cases.
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Excuse me, Cormac MacCarthy was not 'LV' and the wife quoted in the peice sounds like she accepted it, even enjoyed it, until it got tiresome. Things always get tiresome eventually- all things- so she can't be blamed for that.
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She for sure can be blamed neighbor.
You take a literal vow, and you breaking that vow cuz u gotta eat beans neighbor?
Fuxk outta here with that shit custer
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you sound like an LVM
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Cormac McFarty
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"My greatest influence has always been James Joyce"
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Based. Too many modern literary authors have been ruined by accepting a "writer in residence" position at some tony university and never again publishing anything worth a darn.
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The best authors have always been either the wealthy aristocratic ones who didn’t need to work, bureaucrats with meaningless jobs and plenty of spare time and starving artists types.
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They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
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Holy based. Money became a driving want only when fiat money truly became the system after the 70s.
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Don’t marry someone already married to their art.
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i saw that on the /lit/ sticky as well
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