You know, I'm just the counter man in McDonald's, I'm not that important, frankly; you're the clown running the shop, you're the one that they want to see strung up from a lamppost by his f***ing wig.
They should just clone ministers, you know, so we're born at 55, with no past, and no flats, and no genitals. Just a world of robots in a sort of – It's like a futuristic film, and you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you: you'd be in your little space station surrounded by obedient androids
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