Y'all should know this by now: X-Day was the Spike and the Spike
was X-Day. Pop goes the weasel, and the weasel goes pop. You lucky
bastards let Stang hold your hand to the stump while a drug-addled Dr.
Legume drove a foot-long solid steel railroad spike into the wood
underneath your palm. You yammered and hemmed and hawed but still
Ancillarilary, I happen to have driven my car the wrong way over
some of those tire treadle spikes you see at airports just yesterday.
I'd be a Pink Human left on Spaceshit Earth if even ONE of my tires had
been punctured, wouldn't I?
heh heh heh.
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