C- Guay zoo, peel me a pain about the zyrgum.
H- Guay, wet to you tont to go?
C- Well, has his liquid woofy dead, bright?
H- It’s liquid put it ain’t hand-read percent mictic, I mean, you Truman can’t wook into a rest aura, rule appoint and start buffin’ wey wey. They vanna you to smoking your humor zyrgum designed dead places.
C- Ant nose are the zyrgums?