>Have you ever had a glass of black rhinoceros blood? Don't bother answering, I know you haven't, it was just a way to colloquially start this anecdote. I had my first glass in 1983, when I was privileged enough to be invited to a hunting expedition in South Africa. I thought the game, which was stated to be quite dangerous, would still be typical safari fare: lion, giraffe...maybe an elephant. When I arrived at camp the guide, a Mr. Derrick Van Sandt, informed me we would be hunting the most dangerous game apartheid South Africa had to offer: the kaffir, which is what they called black men. I was first appalled, as you are now; but when the hunt began in earnest, I thought less and less of those apprehensions. Eventually I had a young boy, no more than 7, cornered in an Oingo Bingo merchandising plant. I thought "Is this moral? Is this good? Is this the right decision?" I put those thoughts put of my mind and squeezed the trigger. Won 5.3 million dollars. And Mr. Johnson with all due respect, that's what you need to do, put aside those apprehensions you have here and pull the trigger my offer. 10% funding for 85% ownership of the company and prima nocte rights to your daughters.
>and prima nocte rights to your daughters
I'm laughing like a madman right now
It's also 5:30 in the morning, I've been awake for about 20 hours, and I'm a bit drunk so you might not be all that funny in reality
Literally who cares. I might give that labyrinth movie a watch since he died but other than that who cares at all? People die every second. Someone just died. Another. Another. Another. Another. That's life retard.
>There is a small island in the Himalayan Sea called Malderiki, upon which I own a large mansion. Every year afer the first rain, the Newport Beach Wine Society (of which I am a member) gathers at my mansion to watch the island's natives grovel in the mud as their pathetic straw dwellings are ripped apart by the rising waters. On this island there is also a fish, called a Piranha Giganticus. Coinciding with the first rain, this fish swims into the flooded island and begins to feed on the older and weaker natives of Malderiki. Unable to defend themselves from the killer fish and uttrly helpless, the natives make their way to my mansion in makeshift canoes. At this point, the Newport Beach Wine Society opens a bottle of pre-revolution French Chardonnay, dated no later than 1760, and places wagers on which native will be the first to reach the high ground of my sprawling lawn. Once the fish has fed and returned to the Sea, there are typically a handful of natives left on my lawn, at which point we activate the electric fence and release the crocodiles. Last year, during the crocodile feeding, a tiny speck of native flesh was flung from the lawn up to the balcony where the Newport Beach Wine Society was gathered and landed on my shoe. I retrieved the piece of flesh and placed it in my mouth, washing it down with a glass of Moldovan Pino Griggio. Right now, YOU are that piece of flesh.
>You know, one of my favorite meals is White Tiger Lasagna. It's lasagna, but the meat is made from succulent white tiger flesh. Now, white tiger doesn't taste good; it's greasy and foul. I spend seven of the next ten hours on the john, and the taste is days coming off the tongue. I eat it not because I enjoy it, but because it sends a message: all that exists exists only with my consent. I have the money, the power, and the means to violate several international laws and circumvent years of ecological protection solely to satisfy a passing craving by eating one of the last hundred or so white tigers in existence. What I'm saying here is this presentation has no message, and therefore I'm out.