I wouldn’t want to be the tube out of which squirts the words that Glenn Beck speaks. His words employ the ringing tonnage of where you were before you listened. And over the course of his vine, he steeps teas full of long raga paste. When he quivers the force of truck stopping on all dimes, he remains a punkish pond well-rotted with the loss of trees. He has a halo over his loan shark, calls himself three times a day for doctored advice. Will he survive his own pool of sweat? Never engage the cage. Owning a fondue pot won’t solve the problem of diametrics. He is a slouch holding pennies, and the pennies of pennies. God spoke in the bathroom, and then Glenn flushed.