"A moose, Anna? Did that pseudo-Nietzschean self-flagellating intellectual pissant get his sorry self out of whatever nail-studded entombing contraption that undoubtedly passes for his bed and seriously have it cross his tiny little mind that a large, antlered ungulate on the main stage was the single budgetary and creative choice that would most effectively serve the purpose of pushing New Burbage yet further into the now not-at-all metaphorical shitter?”
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BRILLIANT!!!
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Anna, why are you talking about moose? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cyril, where were you? Inopportune fellatio again?”
I can physically hear that line.
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