…is the phase I shouted at Ben Kingsley in my last dream last night. Is the phrase I was shouting in my brain when the alarm woke me up this morning.
You don’t understand, Ben Kingsley. I didn’t even know that jerk. I was lying on the grass, OK?. He ran by, playing soccer, and the son of a bitch jackassed my head with his cleats. Alright, so he gave me this pack of exotic tobacco as court-ordered reparations for the assault. I understand how that looks. It looks like I know him. But I don’t know him, OK? I don’t know him, I don’t like him. And I’m certainly not a spy. So stop making complicated plots designed to put me away.
He jackassed my damn head!
Was it Hugh Jackman? Was it he who jackassed your head?
bk is a national treasure, of the u.k. that is. you should feel honored to have him kick you in the head. i would sell my h.s. history teacher into slavery for even the chance that bk knees me in the groin.
yes, mrs. bonnie s., who made us write document essays, into slavery you would go.