texts: Say something ... </s> <s> Me, he won't stay on the phone with for five fucking minutes without bitching. </s> <s> I'm trying to help somebody. Okay?
labels: He's at it again.  Like that night at the Emerald.  This piece of Euro-trash is slapping shit out of his little wife in a back booth -- so Mr. Good Deed here has got to step in and pound the fucker's head into the wall.  Meantime "Wifey" recovers enough to pull off her high heel and nearly take our hero's eye out.  It took six stitches.