How much of Colbert's political satire can be truly grasped by a Hungarian viewer of a lectored episode is slightly beside the point: something gets through.
Meanwhile, abiding a day of judgment, she fought ceaselessly to deny the bitter drops in her cup, to tear back the slow, the intangibly slow growth of a hot, corrosive lichen eating into her heart.
And while no two postpresidencies are alike, she presents Mr. Clinton’s as more like Roosevelt’s than that of Jimmy Carter.
At times Herma answered to the name of fatshit, pukeface, and lardass.
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