TURN OFF the autoplay on yr wit-cum-grit-clit Cocacola post, PLEEZ. Every fortnight when I check to see if any of my HIGHLY SALARIED EMPLOYEES here at the once HIGH FEVER, SATURDAY NIGHT STD FEVER a fortiori hub of intellection and elite art reflex formerly known and FEARED as the FACEPLANT INTERNATIONAL BRUISING COMPANY, fifteen seconds or so into the inevitable experience of seeing that no-one's applied a cold compress to the malingering tadpole's brow this week I get THE SHIT FLIPPED OUT OF ME, a violent and literal red sock inversion spattering the bedclothes with last night's cocopops, by the sound of last quarter's concept art klangwitz. IT GETS ME EVERY TIME, JEFF, HAHA.
I'm not blaming you. Any of you, that is. I've been just as lax. MANY WARM THANKS TO OUR MOST VALIANT FRIEND FIFI SNOB APEMAN for attempting to keep this sinking juggernaut afloat with his styrofoam kidney bean. THX THX THX.
I mean, Comrades, look, I don't want to seem like a bad boss or a bully or anything but LOOK WHAT HAPPENS on the internet when we turn our backs on it:
Rebirth, Comrades! FACEPLANT STRIKES BACK in Q4!
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