He-Man and the Masters of th, submitted by Josh. Dear Lord, no.
“Ambassador Snout Spout and General Hoof are waiting to meet with you again about the treaty.”
Adam groaned, rubbing his eyes. “I forgot about that. Tell them to come back tomorrow.”
“But Sire, you said you would settle their dispute today.”
“Well, I haven’t figured anything yet. Send them away.”
“As you wish, my Lord, but they will not be pleased.”
“No, your Highness.”
“You are dismissed.”
Duncan walked a few feet, then turned back. “Speaking as your friend . . . Adam, is there anything wrong? You don’t seem yourself.”
Adam stared blankly. “Am I good?” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Am I a good man?”
“What if I did a terrible thing? Would I then, still be good?”
“What? Have you done something?”
“Only in thought. But isn’t that the same thing, really?”
“I don’t understand you.”
I don't understand either. Luckily I don't want to.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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