Like this country’s first transcontinental railroad, built literally upon the graves of the Chinemen who dropped dead at their work, the new dreams of this country will be built upon the bowed backs of the sock poor - those threadbare individuals, with their suffering hopes and unattainable dreams, being mercilessly bent to the will of an unsympathetic elite.
Fight the powers that fray!
Arch rivals!
Nobody knows the trouble deep in my sole.
I give up. I can’t come up with anymore.
[walks away in defeet]
Ha! You have been crushed beneath my heel!
Son: Dad, was there ever a time when you didn’t waste your entire day exchanging bad jokes with people on the Internet?
Me: Yes, son, of course, but I don’t like to think too much about those dark times.
did somebody say socks? is it sock time again? i should design a scrine sock, any requests? (oh boy, sock time...)
The fun conversations you miss when you’re asleep…
G’arn, e. Make us a Scrine sock! Purple with shades of rusty bird?
If they’re size 12 I’d be happy to model them. My feet are sort of big and rusty, ugly as bird’s feet.
hmmmmm.......
Although it does sound like Steve could use a new pair of bank accounts.
yes, but we know how good i’m not at designing bank accounts.
ok, everyone needs to toe the line and get back to the sole of the sentence.
Ooh, you heel. Just when we were reeling off-topic so nicely.
Hey, e, maybe that’s it. Maybe you need to knit your own bank account.
I better hot-foot it out of here.
well, my account does match my feet, now doesn’t it: flat.