Behold my heroic intentions for the coming term. These goals I hereby set forth will be actualized. Do not attempt to obstruct my path. Onward.
- Fewer humans allowed into the sector.
- Patrols increased.
- The stalkers will now be equipped with lashes.
- Acid mines will emit the sound of human infant mewling to attract the foolish.
- We require more aircraft for battle.
- Stem cells for citizenship. Rejuvenate all heroes.
- Restore skulls to the currency.
- Elevate the mantis to sapience.
- Never cross the second boundary.
- Destroy the remaining astronauts.
- Equal time in the pain tunnel for women.
- Improve the standard of living of all mindlords.
- Do not scream.
- Reduce poison gas clouds. Increase agonizing gas clouds.
- Broaden the tax base to include all those confined for generations to the scum pits.
- Cease outsourcing work to the phosphorescent hatesnake vibrating at the edge of my vision.
- Become tough on Chinese remnant fortifications.
- Emit more pleasurable tone.
- More guards, better uniforms, longer energy swords.
- The silver masks will be restored to the faces of women.
- Execution by jaws returned to the nightly sense broadcast.
- Some music allowed back.
- A longer, more perilous work day for child mutants.
- Successful revenge.
Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic follow up to "Baby Got Back" has serious unintended consequences.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
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