If you'll excuse me, I'll be on my farm in Africa getting a nuclear scrub after choosing between my children and getting exasperated by my mother for changing the lyrics to "I'm Still Here" as I sing a Magic Bean Bourguignon cookbook slightly shrill yet slightly flat while self-righteously watching Roy Cohn die both physically and metaphorically while THOSE PEOPLE WHO CHOSE TO TAKE A CHEESY HOLLYWOOD BUS TOUR INSTEAD OF WATCHING THE OSCARS get to meet Meryl Streep.
That is all.
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