A Quote by Frank B. Wilderson III

Do I Stank or was it already Stanky in Here? — © Frank B. Wilderson III
Do I Stank or was it already Stanky in Here?
It was all a lie, it all stank, stank of lies, it all gave the illusion of meaning and happiness and beauty, and all of it was just putrefaction that no one would admit to. Bitter was the taste of the world. Life was a torment.
The name Dirtee Stank came from a lyric I had when I was 17 or 16. Lyrical tank, like my name was Frank, going on dirty, going on stank. It sounded like a good name!
He saw merchants trading, princes hunting, mourners wailing for their dead, whores offering themselves, physicians trying to help the sick, priests determining the most suitable day for seeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their children—and all of this was not worthy of one look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank, it all stank of lies, it all pretended to be meaningful and joyful and beautiful, and it all was just concealed putrefaction. The world tasted bitter. Life was torture
I have a sound. It's called 'funk mixed with stank.' That's what I do.
I often thought men stank of rage; it is why I preferred women, and homosexuals.
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote: stink. Stank. Stunk.
I hated turning 40; the whole idea of it stank. But once I got through it, I was fine.
The smog was heavy, my eyes were weeping from it, the sun was hot, the air stank, a regular hell is L.A.
Contrary to far too popular a belief, style, fashion, and fabulousness are not synonymous with stank, haughty, and self-aggrandizing.
I'm pro-forwards. Do I want the Seventies to come back? No. The haircuts were terrible. Everyone stank. The food was awful.
A trial cannot be conducted by announcing the general culpability of a civilization. Only the actual deeds which, at least, stank in the nostrils of the entire world were brought to judgment.
He added that a Frenchman in the train had given him a great sandwich that so stank of garlic that he had been inclined to throw it at the fellow's head.
Maybe you's a stank ho, maybe that's a bit mean Maybe you grew up and I'm still living like I'm sixteen.
When I was in my early 20s, my dream was to write mystery novels. I wanted to do what my favourite crime writer, Ross Macdonald, did - crank out a book a year. The only problem - and it was a considerable one - was that I stank.
In bonded labour cases, judges would ask me why I had brought those people to the courts who stank. 'You are here precisely for them,' I would respond.
I bought Doc Martens when I was 13, and I wore them pretty much every day until I was 20. They stank, and my dad wouldn't even let them in the house, but I was completely in love with them.
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