I could only hope to be awakened from the endless incubus of your befuddled issuance. You are a torturer of logic, a butcher of language and reason, a phantasm of sprawling poppycock issued from from faint simulacrum of intellect no more convincing than a talking dog, with manners and measures beneath the lowest flea-ridden rodent. Bite thy tongue and begone, guileless wretch. Per good William’s words, more of your conversation would infect my brain.
Or, that.
Stranger