The Truncated Martyrdom of Alex Pretti
Pretti, Pretti, Pretti... Pretti bad
It’s -10 degrees outside, I don’t feel so good, and I just want to curl up in a fetal position under a pile of blankets for a week. Yet here I am anyway. Such is my dedication to you, dear reader.1
But first, a voice memo…
Alex Pretti was a saint.
He was pure of heart. Salt of the earth. Cream of the crop. He’d give you the shirt off his back and buy you some pants to match. Peaceful as a dove, wouldn’t hurt a fly, best guy ever, etc.
C’mon, would Elizabeth Warren lie to you?
