I am watching men kill pedophiles in Walmart online while my mother cooks dinner. I guess they don’t kill them directly — a self-inflicted shotgun spray to the skull will do them in after two thousand comments about his texts with minors and allegedly small penis appear in the comments. It doesn’t make the local news because they aren’t allowed to put suicides on the news.
My mom got the recipe for the pasta she is making from a blog that insisted on inserting ten paragraphs of the creator’s life story before mentioning a single ingredient. I’m not sure if her husband survived the colon cancer that was diagnosed three years into their marriage but I do know my mother does not have the optional gochujang.
Slot machines are not real if they are virtual. It cannot be considered a gambling addiction if the only tactile feeling is the click of a mouse. My dad has enough points from the cartoon woman in a red dress that he can cash them in for a Bluetooth speaker that will work exactly one time.
My dog is eating food that comes via an uncancellable online subscription service gifted by my aunt. The food will be recalled in three months after 17 dogs die of e-coli. Ours is fine. We are mailed a $50 check in six years for our troubles.
The video is over. I am already subscribed to the channel.