Bitch bitch bitch.
Whine whine whine.
Moan moan moan.
For the past ten years, that's all one's ever heard from the primitives of Skins's island.
They don't like anything, they don't like anybody.
And they're certainly an ungrateful race, the primitives, the way they gripe to my fellow alum Skins about this thing or that thing. My fellow alum has so kindly and generously and magnanimously donated a sizeable piece of real-estate on which the primitives can play and romp, and rather than thanking Skins, they complain to him, and about him.
They don't like this, they don't like that.
About the only thing the primitives like is that they like to hate.
What is white in the real world is black on Skins's island, and what is black in the real world is white on Skins' island. The real up is their down, and the real down is their up. For example, two popular icons on Skins's island are the late Ann Richards and Molly Ivins, whom the primitives remember as "nice," when in fact they were two of the biggest and meanest and bitterest bitches ever to inhabit the planet.
I tell you, the "Crying in my Beer" and the "Fight Club" forums here on conservativecave are all sweetness and light, compared with the happiest forum on Skins's island, whichever one that may be.
Primitives are always depressed, never happy.
They must be lacking the human genetics from which optimism, satisfaction, fulfillment, enrichment, and merriment spring.
Wretched, miserable, bitchy primitives, the whole lot of them.
