I don't know, Spaw. I may never forgive you . . . you left me out, and aren't I the one that sang, in front of God and everybody, about you blowing the possum's ass . . . (sniff, sniff) . . . and here I was just about to mail you a nine-banded armadillo to wrap your sweet lips around . . . (sniff, sniff) . . . I guess I'll just have to blow it myself now . . . (sniff, sniff)