Seinfeld, is that you Seinfeld? I’ve been meaning to ask you a few things before you slide back down the wet bass, before you push your skull into the pitch-sharp pencil punctures. Where did my sangria go? Oh where oh where my sangria and such, all those fire-soaked lemon peels and croutons. Against the consejo of Beyoncé, I dropped my alcohol—of all the decisions I had to make, whether or not to drop the carafe with the red snake peel was a trifle. But where’d it go? I’ve given you the details of my situation, but that doesn’t give me an answer. The answer is going to have to come from you, Seinfeld. So can you answer me Seinfeld? Don’t bother opening your mouth and making sound until you can answer me. And if you can’t, get me Jonathan Wolff. I’m tired of watching all this rubbish slide around.
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