Which is how Kit first heard about the T.W.I.T. back in London, and of the ghostly neo-Pythagorean cult of tetralatry or worship of the number four, currently the rage in certain European circles
Back in Belding, he was always the tough guy, the one who rode around in his dad's Pontiac Lemans with the vinyl top and the automatic on the floor. He drove that car like he was the King Shit of Turd Island, and I guess all of us was.
Finally, we appeal to all right-minded playgoers. Let them remember that they have got tongues, and that a vigorous, unmistakeable, un-put-downable hiss is, in a theatre, a potent instrument.
[…] put it into a Dish, with a little stew’d Spinage, crisp’d Bread, and a few forc’d-meat Balls.
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