Food. Good grief, all this food. What do I look like, Charlie Brown? Good grief. Actually, scratch the good. Great grief. Grief suitable for the likes of The Great Gatsby. This food causes me so much grief that I will spit it out, 92% unchewed, in the face of the next person I see. No, I won’t do that. It will be 86% unchewed when I spit it. I need a good coating of saliva on my ammo before I can predict its path from my mouth to this innocent bystander’s face. It must be made clear that I have the skill necessary to sully a perfect stranger’s honor without making an ass of myself in front of the general public. The case may be made that I’ll make an ass of myself regardless of outcome, but I don’t want to make the mistake of being labeled an incompetent ass. It took me six years for my reputation to recover from the last time that happened.

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