But soft! What dirt through yonder Whitenoise breaks? It is the hump; I'm squinting at the sun. Arise, fair 'Noisers, 'til the weekend we are doomed. Work is leaving me pale and sick with grief that I, not a maid, ought a maid to be in the eyes of these helpless jokers. I mean, forsooth and alas and all that! I bite my thumb at the fooles! Am I right, or are the fickle stars not apparent in my favor?

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Yes, here we are once again in the realm of the one eyed wandering god of mounds of middling, scavenging out a living like carrion birdbrains who haven't come up with a scheme to ditch this dust pile. Ah well. Only one thing to do with it now. Come on over, check in and play a nice round of King of The Mountain. Let's see if we can knock this one down with a quickness.