Ho, ho, ho, mobsters. Welcome. Take a seat. Hearken.

I'm sure you've all grown accustomed to the modern standard standard of crew announcements. Crew leader comes in knees weak and trembling (mom's spaghetti), meekly squeeks out a few words trying his damnedest not to trip over them, then immediately waddles off like a constipated penguin as the major forcibly evicts everyone from the town square and leaves no room for comments or remarks.

It's a shame I tell you. A damn shame. Gone is the long line of congratulations accompanied with The Goddess' Ravioli gift cards. Gone is the opportunistic salesman's vegetable cart offering overly-ripe tomatoes to throw for those less than enthused. Gone is a crew leader's first test in the filthy jungle that is The Streets. Will they float or sink? We simply do not know.

Sod it. Sod it all.

NO, we will not let EIKmilk get away that easily. We grab the moose by its tail before he runs off. Give it a good yank as we do so. Call him some names. Make a nasty comment about his ill-fitting suit. Ridicule the American Raw-Milk Logistics Alliance, or perhaps praise it. Celebrate or Desecrate. At least some way for the unwashed masses to interact. We will not allow ourselves to be demoted to mute spectators.

Join me my fellow Americans.  Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Meaning me, for I will cast the first stone, hoping that many others may follow. 

SwanSouffleSupreme clocks EIkmilk over the head with a folding chair.

SwanSouffleSupreme, you know how the world feels about folding chairs. Are you mad? This kind of personal attack in the aftermath of a horrific global war in which many prestigious and famous people and Eala died is simply not on. This is a time of rebuilding. This is a time of libraries.  Of science. Of dairy.

Anyway, I saw your abuse and I will not have it. I have stolen your precious TextBasedMafiaRPGMan

What will you do now? 

SwanSouffleSupreme, as my former protege and now distant ex-colleague, you should know better than anyone that bullying someone and calling them names is by far the best practice to pursue here, so good job. 

Since being traded to New York by DetroitSimon, due to jealousy or small-penisness or some other terminal sense of emasculation, I find myself needing to rebuild my life in an apple. The Big Apple. Crunch. 

I'm a milk man now. In a way, milk has always been my calling. It was probably my favorite thing in the world for at least the first 12 months of my life. And it was raw. Yum! Do I want to be milked? No. But if I keep a small squirt bottle around and give EIkmilk a rinse any time he tries, he should eventually learn the lesson.