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Here is one story retold, albeit with a pithier ending:
what would happen if i did some stuff
What happened: one day iwas hiding behind a bush for no paticular reason. then some guy selling paper rollers came up to me and said where is all the cartilidge. then i responded 'its all just peaches and cream to you isn't it'. after that i asked him if i could by him some eye drops because he had a inflamed sweat pore underneath his middle slighty large toe on his right toe. but he declined so iwent to the forencic lab to figure out why i decided to consume 1/100th of a iron street lamp with some post it notes on them staing all known reasons for activating the improbablity drive because it turned a chrischanukwazica (just for all the people who would find it offensive if i just said christmas albun. which brings me to my second point, why is there a level 40, the letter c, a place, sphereical rectangles, why beardeax is spelled with a x at the end instead of a h because the x makes it sound like a h, also rubber synthetic, and my final thing, trampolines without spings but with leather straps because that is the equivelent of a cumquat concuring with a checkerboard about push s6 for demo.) albums into piles of stale metals with low grade metabolisms, i also spelled metabolisms right. but if that was its secondary function i would have to devour a gaggle of prothetic limbs. after that amazing adventure i then decided to walk down a stair case that just disfunctionaly materialized into the middle of the street. after that i impotenely approached a can recipticle and asked where the nearest carrot was and it directed me to a carton of tablets filled with staight sevens. after that i nearly and suddenly and dramatically watched some q tips square dance with some irish asians. that why you should never re post a v or steal a stella sign or leave a shopping cart in the middle of a elementary school playground.
What I said: thats extremely apoctalipcally profound
What I SHOULD have said: never verse level 40 medics that are rascist against assorted miced meat.
The French call it l'esprit d'escalier, "the wit of the staircase," those biting ripostes that are thought of just seconds too late, on the way out of the room-or even, to tell the truth, days later. It's happened to you: you've suddenly thought of just what would put your foe in his or her place, but past the time when the arrow could sting its victim. You've stewed in your own juice ever since, and the chance for singeing repartee is gone forever.
Or is it?
Dorothy Parker or Oscar Wilde may have had the rapier wit to tweak their tormentors on the spot, but for the rest of us, we offer the Internet's only L'esprit d'escalier web site!