At school, (Christ's Hospital,) I enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, though at the same time, a very severe master, the Reverend James Bowyer. . . . [H]e showed no mercy to phrase, metaphor, or image, unsupported by a sound sense, or where the same sense might have been conveyed with equal force and dignity in plainer words. . . . In fancy I can almost hear him now, exclaiming Harp? Harp? Lyre? Pen and ink, boy, you mean! Muse, boy, Muse? Your nurse's daughter, you mean! Pierian spring? Oh aye! the cloister-pump, I suppose!

But the Goswami seems to have got her drift and instead of bristling at her snub, he realized that here was an enlightened bhakta who had grasped the essence of the Lord.

Eating blowfish verges on insanity.

They do when they have to deal with putrid pieces of Zioturd like you Fuck Arffer.