In case anyone would care to assume the duties of my personal monitor, they are well within their rights to demand a reading of the relevant articles in the company of impudent returnees from a formally redundant speed-reading competition. It might help if all seven living former Secretaries of the Bastard Nations be consoled as to the affordability crisis afflicting a random sample of sullen pre-teen assailants. The way some people scoff at all hours when a snacking duo slips the precious umber dot under my already weirdly inflated pudendum, is enough to discourage all future trackless manbots from ever straining to spring a leak from a perilous cancer flood. It irks no less than the purveyor of life-giving waters to have to witness this disgraceful display on the banks of our very own sulphurous wave. Some might go even farther. Everyone is advised to remain glued to their sets for further updates. As morning turns to afternoon, a certain delicate morsel will be indicated by a subtle itching sensation in the center of the palm. On the other hand, anyone worth their weight in salt has all of our permission to lie in wait in lieu of performing a perfunctory procedure. Could anyone register a position as to why it has come to this? At this very moment, no less?
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