Everyone, I need your attention. I'm having a *sniff* memorial service, for Blondie Bear, aka Spike, aka my sexy platinum baby, aka William the Bloody, at the bar in the North wing on Wednesday night, at five o'clock, because it's got to be over before American Idol
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OH BY THE WAY, I'M BLEEDING TO DEATH.
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And I can't believe you made me stoop to capslocking.
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With more stupidity and angst.
Okay, maybe there were a few flaws in that solution, but the point still stands.
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So who's paying for the drinks?
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