Tweed
Ever have one of those moments where an imaginary discussion gets out of hand?
You know, where you imagine saying to someone "I don't like your tweed, sir!" and then you imagine them replying with something like "My tweed is evidently the best tweed in known existence and anyone who says otherwise is a fool or a liar" and then you snap back "Are you saying that I'm a fool or a liar?" and before you realise what's happening the whole thing has devolved into an exchange of insults between you and them and next thing you know your breeding and personal habits are being called into question by a figment of your own imagination and the word tweed has lost all meaning?
Anyway, this is all just my way of saying that I don't like your tweed, and that nothing you can reply with will be worse than whatever's just gone on in my head.
You know, where you imagine saying to someone "I don't like your tweed, sir!" and then you imagine them replying with something like "My tweed is evidently the best tweed in known existence and anyone who says otherwise is a fool or a liar" and then you snap back "Are you saying that I'm a fool or a liar?" and before you realise what's happening the whole thing has devolved into an exchange of insults between you and them and next thing you know your breeding and personal habits are being called into question by a figment of your own imagination and the word tweed has lost all meaning?
Anyway, this is all just my way of saying that I don't like your tweed, and that nothing you can reply with will be worse than whatever's just gone on in my head.