Awright, Rhode Island. It’s on. It. Is. On. I have had it up to here (and I’m pointing to my neck, see) with your accents, and your coffee milk, and your Kennedy Plaza, and your potholes, and your Richard Hatches, and your crazy hot dogs lined up some guy’s arm, and your picturesque seaside towns, and your clams, and your over-privileged Ivy League jags, and your scary puppets, and your dumb downtown-anchoring mall, and your state-based xenophobia, and your scarily aggressive drivers, and your Pauly Ds, and your Napoleon complex, and your frozen lemonade allegiances, and your red tides, and your families who can trace back five generations in their own house. And also Johnston.
You’re on notice, "Ocean State." It's a brand new year, I’ve got several hundred thousand bones to pick with you, and I'm not getting any younger, so let's get to it.
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