How do I love Erin Smogor, let me count the ways Would an Erin Smogor by any other name smell so sweet? Wherefore art thou, Erin Smogor Let's face it, this b**ch is the next Debbie Harry. Erin Smogor is the kinda broad that tells Dr. Phil what an a** he is, records a f**k-you to a judge that sent her to jail, gets drunk and rocks harder than that p**sy sh*t you listen to ever could. Funny thing is , I don't even know if you can handle Erin Smogor. You're probably sitting there with your dick in your hand, listening to some wimpy, sissy, limp-dick "punk" band, so Erin Smogor goes right over your head. Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? You, little boy? Erin Smogor has greater responsibilities than you could possibly fathom. You weep for those pussies, and you curse Erin Smogor. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what she knows. That sissy's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And that Erin Smogor's existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want Erin Smogor on that wall, you need Erin Smogor on that wall. She uses words like honor, code, loyalty. She uses these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. She has neither the time nor the inclination to explain herself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that she provide, then questions the manner in which she provides it. She would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, she suggests you pick up a weapon, and stand a post. Either way, Erin Smogor doesn't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.