Some people are born on third base and spend their whole lives trying to sell you the bat.
He’s a bellows masquerading as a creator.
He demands sychophants to sing the praises of his respiration, as if inhaling were a feat of high engineering rather than a reflex of the flesh.
In the "Gold-en Rule" of the ego, the only thing more sacred than the profit is the praise.
He isn't a pioneer; he’s just a tenant who thinks he’s the landlord because he has a loud voice.
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