... is one I can follow easily with two margaritas under my [lizard skin with a sand-cast by a southwestern Native American silver buckle] belt.
See: I'm having a ball right now. I'm reviewing, under contract, a serious textbook by an author [no names] who was born with a jargon dictionary in his mouth. Oh me oh my.
Trashing his (not a her) sloppy pretensions glues [it would feel like in shop class] cherub's wings to my back. I am all aflutter. With celestial deoderant.
See. I might not go to regular heaven, for a lot of reasons I'm happy to share with my closest friends (almost zero). But I will go to writer's heaven for my editorial hatchet job on this occasion.
If you can't stand to write well, my little pompous-ite, then, pretty please, crawl OUT of my kitchen.
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