It’s bad enough you’ve suddenly decided you fucking like “Groove Is in the Heart,” but why, why, why in the name of all that is holy can you still remember the names of all four of those Deee-Lite fuckers? What possible use is this information to me, especially when it’s taking up valuable cerebral space that could be used for, oh, I don’t know, remembering where I left the fucking key to my office building so I can get into work tomorrow?
Fucking meatsack. I swear, as soon as they announce clinical tests for the first fucking generation of neural chips, I’m at the front of the godsdamn line. I don’t care if they’re calling it Totally Insufficient Cerebral Replacement 0.1, I’m there.
Oh, do not even try to give me that “It’s not my fault you licked, sucked, smoked, inhaled and shot everything you could get your hands on in the Eighties, up to and including ground-up ferret glands,” shit, either. I don’t remember you raising any objections back then.