Oh how I've grown weary of hollow promises. These people at this wretched organization promised to deliver to you, my adoring fans, my very own March of Gimble. Do your ears hear it? Nay. Do the record executives and radio stations quench their thirst for quality with it? Nay.
The concept of business is lost among these people. God bless them if they ever do one thing on time or with order.
Curse the lot of them.
In protest, I shall write no more prose this week. Instead, I shall end with the following dalliance:
Words.
Joy.
Television.
Wretched death.
Lanza.
Bliss.
Beatles.
Poppycock.
Gimble.
Magnanimous.
Pork Pony readers.
Misguided fools, the lot.
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