I just need to nip to a bank and check my balance.
I suppose things can go well for just so long before events bring you up short.
So soon as a rogation for a benison by the concionator, transpired, fourchettes, and all implements for the transportation of prog from the table to oral apertures, were movent and sonorific. Such abligurition; such lycanthropic edacity, lurcation, ingurgitation and gulosity; such omnivorousness and pantophagy; and such a mutation and avolation of comestibles, had never fallen under my vision in any antecedent part of my sublunary entity. Truly, anamnestic of Byron’s “dura illia messorum!”
Come on you, religitards: Prove your God exists and I'll shut the hell up.
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