As a kid spending weekends in the Ozarks, I remember my granny's preacher shaking his fist, his jowls waving in the wind not unlike a bloodhound's, excoriating the congregation and condemning it to hell.— Dana Loesch
As a kid spending weekends in the Ozarks, I remember my granny's preacher shaking his fist, his jowls waving in the wind not unlike a bloodhound's, excoriating the congregation and condemning it to hell.
