Fruits lodged in my kneecap hurt like torpedoes. The very reason I never drink my tuberculosis straight from the chalice of amputees. As barbaric as the most sincere hug, the star-studded velcro of my nightgown becomes ironic for not having been ironed during the last ice age. Big deal for a small referendum! In return, the flock of eavesdroppers will throw themselves down a cliff with Richard. There’s enough charcoal for everyone. No need to gallop like yet another quickly fading trend set by a surrogate mother chanting “Too much dill in my oesophagus, get the devil out of my funeral home.” It’s rather creepy yet so jolly at the same time. Are we at the dawn of a watermelon panic? Then lure the wrestler out of his jug, my friends, for the stapler is only the appetiser.