Oh wait. No he's not. He's British. Mature. Fuck. Sorry, Victor. Go ahead and run my credit card retaining you for another five years. I'm sure the money will go to good use. My formal apology is in the mail, in triplicate, witnessed by a notary.
God damnit.
No! I mean, god save the queen!
(Did you run the credit card yet? Go ahead and run it twice.)
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