You hear that sound? That crashing sound? That's cars wrecking from men seeing Halle Berry's cleavage. Men are dying and wrecking into things. Their families are screaming, "look out! Jesus! Tom, stop!" and those men don't care. They drive to their deaths. They're stumbling out of broken cars, ignoring their injured children, stepping over their dead aunt, fixated on those precious pepper jacks. One look is all it took to hook them on these grandiose grabbers. Get two hearty handfuls and go to your grave. How many teeth will you swallow? How many gallons of blood? I am shitting and pissing myself and I don't care. I forgot about everything else. This is what we men do. Nothing wrong with it.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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