Myself: Begob!
The Pissed People of England: What? Wherefore the irishisms?
Myself: Agh, I’ve just got back from the Saint’s Row launch event which was lavish in the uttermost.
The Pissed People of England: More so than the brothel-party in Paris? Than the Scarface binge in Madrid? Than the Wincle Beer, Cider and Spirits festival? (sotto voce) Lawks, I can still taste the turps in that perry.
Myself: More so indeed. Mainly due to the copious booze, gyrating pole dancers, and awesome break dancers. I am myself positively tented with the memory.
The Pissed People of England: That’s a nice image for no-one. So whyfore “begob” with such acid vim?
Myself: Ah, it was for this game, and we did the exclusive everything, yet they forgot to invite us, like we were but passing tools to be ground down and discarded. Yours truly only sneaked in on his wits (large as they are, I strapped myself under them so that the cyclopean doorman should find only Nemo in his fumblings), but the rest of my crew/gang/massif/posse/team/cabinet decided not to attend.
The Pissed People of England: By your state, twas a wise move on their part.
Myself: Indeed. Now, didn’t I have work to do..?