Too young to think clyde socko! entertainment

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reggae, paul newman., thefat man walking: steve vaught, socko! entertainment, adventuregame, community, education, caroline petit, restaurants, missyelliot ft. ciara and fat man ringtones for nextel i710 i730 i830 i860 i930, codes, transactional, flash, enrico fermi, oppenhiemer, uniforms, fattens, germond, b boy, 1st, turkish baths, Even they were taken by clyde the Fat MAN, who whispered, “Love me, love me,” to them, too.  clyde Don’t feel cheap, used. Nobody’s special in HIS eyes. We’re all part of a team. One Nation under HIM.  If you were lucky, Rod Serling helped you through your temporary confusion, so confident in his black suit and tie and holding his cigarette, leaving Burgess Meredith alone with broken glasses, a smoldering world, and piles and piles of obviated tomes . . . .  Anyway they, the worthless Jap citizens of Hiroshima and Nagasaki – they clyde were the ENEMY, weren’t they? They DID, every single one of them, bomb Pearl Harbor, no? – by accepting the cleansing fire of The Bomb, saved millions of lives, or whatever Harry Truman and Friends said, so f*** ‘em.  They’re martyrs and they or their surviving friends and family should be proud, damn proud, of all that they sacrificed for peace on earth.  Well, now you have children of your own to offer to The Fat MAN. Don’t bother locking their doors or barring their windows –  you can’t save them from THIS Midnight Rambler.
 Too young to think about how many people were in the process of being murdered brutally for a few yen that morning of August 6, 1945 (Bomb socko! entertainment to the rescue); how many raped; how many making love; stealing; eating breakfast; going to work; or simply taking a crap while reading an old newspaper like socko! entertainment good old life-loving socko! entertainment Leopold Bloom, when they were abruptly delivered from sinful mortality, the myriad deceptions of the flesh.  Of course, you were further instructed in the ways of  the  Fat MAN by old photos of the A-Bomb fireball and mushroom cloud in black and white –  so passé. The H-Bomb was always in color when you opened your sacred American History text to Eisenhower or later. Its hellish orange sucked all light and color from the room. You and your classmates stared in darkness, the same darkness in which you were all, yes even cute little Jack or Jill or whomever you had such a sweet, child crush on, felt the Bomb between his tight, butt cheeks, her raw, bald vulva.
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