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January 21, 2013
Hates ta breaks it ta ya, buddy boy, but my right to implore you to cover your mouth while you're hacking out not only your bilateral lungs but half your pancreas, the bulk of your gall bladder and quite possibly your brain, as you heave your sweat-soaked, hairy, plodding carcass on the treadmill outweighs your right to turn around and unleash on me a torrent of filth so rancid that I wish I could unearth your parents and have them foist on you the discipline they should have meted out 60 years ago. Cover your mouth, fucker. And zip it.