'Not the egg-nog fiasco nor the detonating orphanage,
neither Farting Santa 2: The Miami Caper
nor investing in 'brie churches',
not the Giggle-CoffinTM, Daniel's crunchy trousers,
nor the time we tried to explain the concept of crime to a shanny,
not even the lovely protein,
and certainly not the procession of tiny eggs
that came rolling out of my nostril on Boxing Day
come close to this, Henry,' I say
over the hiss of bust hydraulics,
gore glistening on my dinner jacket while behind us,
RoboBum lays waste to Rekjavik.
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