Oh ye of little taste, Mr. Paragon of Humanity. When will you learn that the village feces are just disguising themselves to avoid the glares and middle fingers of the rats and bulldozers of the world.
Stunned by this news, I pick up my noodle turncoat and flee in horror from the messenger's omniscient scientific bastion. Hark! I hear these angels sing and thrash around in glorious highway devotion.