Sir Issac Newton, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and a lawnmower walk into a bar.
The bartender says, “don’t tell me what ya want, boys, I have a knack for guessin’, but ya gotta let me look around ya mouth to see what ya like.”
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The young man gazed with wonder at his mistress. The light of countless stars was just enough for his eyes to take in her familiar outline. Here, in a small ditch in the middle of a field on a moonless night, they could truly be alone. Away from the judgmental eyes of the society that had forbidden their love, they could indulge in their secret passion. The fabled woods of Nor are usually filled with the chirping of birds this time of year. Yet in the clearing near the Tree of Infinite Truths, no creature dare stir. Sitting upon the roots of the aged elm sits the Tree Guardian, a powerful dimension traveler, the wrinkles of his years resembling the sacred bark he rests his back against. Nature itself respects the elder’s meditation. I like putting down other people’s music. It’s a little hobby of mine, right up there with killing homeless people for sport. People sometimes ask me “Dude, could you stop being such a bitch?” which I assume means “Dude, how can I become as well-versed and musically cultured as you are?” Fact is, one cannot simply turn up one’s nose at any band that more than twelve people have heard of and call it a day. It took me years to master the subtleties and nuances in order to reach the level of elitism that I now enjoy. |
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