Blammo

I slipped a bit when the pate de foie gras came around, principally because I cannot pronounce pate de foie gras. Eating a thing unpronounced is like donking someone's sister whose name you can't remember. The person whose sister it is, or the sister, you ask.
Forsooth, either. So I slipped a bit.
What I mean by 'slipped' is I ducked under the tablecloth, making a noise I thought would sound as if I was feeling a bit ill. 'My God,' some bitch exclaimed, 'has he the dysentery?'
Naturally, I grasped this interjectionist by the heel and sank my teeth into her ankle.
Who wouled have thought her husband would be so angry?
So, we played a little game. Every time he hit me, I did my best to spit on his wife. The game got better and better, as I graduated from phlegm to blood, and bits of teeth, and then some of my dinner. The other guests were huddled in the pantry to our starboard side, tittering in adulation of my cleverhood. 'You had enough?' I demanded through new holes in my smile, and spit the tip of my tongue into his wife's fatass cleavage.
When I woke up I was in a dumpster. Dear God, forgive them. For they know not bout my crew.
I called all the third graders I'd been buying smokes and mouthwash for, and told them to bring ski masks. Oh, Gotham, you will burn for your transgressions.
First things first- find the fuckers that puree duck liver into French words, and fist their bunkin holes till they swear that Cher's ass a recycled toilet seat. I love my brain.
It is so well-built. The End.