Yeppers, M'Dear Inq.uers, y'all made yer beds; now, you can die in 'em. Jes' gittin' yer coat, eh? Leavin' already? Awe, don't blow; stray awhile. I can do this till the cows keel over; but, now, it's your spurn.
Today, after all, is International Cliché Day (and, it's my fave holidate for temptin' a fate worse than fate). For all in tents and trees, swear with me, please: I could request you avoid 'em like the plague, even if you're between a hawk and a high place; but, I'd rather challenge you to rise to communicate and forget about snooping to conquer, okay? Okay.
Here's the challenge: Breathe new life into an old churn of phrase. No bleating around the bush acting like sheep in sheep's clothing nor counting your chickens before they're scratched, either. You can do better than this, IOW. And, yes, there's a f*cker born every minute; but, I have always depended on the blindness of strangers. You gits my shift? There's a titular prize; and, you will recognise it by its lack of disguise. Cliché Maestro. We're an equal-op one-slop shop, here, eh?
BTW, just so you know, tomorrow is Common Sins, er, Sense, Day, eh? Wonder why it coincides with the big election? (Actually, nix that noise: I don't wonder about that at all.)
Udderly yours, Moodith
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