Test show

Keep it down, it's the 9th inning. Here's the 0-2 pitch to Crypool. He's called on a strike three. Swing the bat, you bum! It's a boy with red hair. You saying my son's a commie? And Groady leans into the pitch. It hits him. The Mets win. Here's your baby. Okay, thanks. What should we name him? You pick. I picked dinner. I was thinking of Philip, after those screwdrivers. That's a fantastic idea. More morphine, please! Look, Yancy, it's baby Philip. I wanna be named Philip. Son, your name is Yancy, just like me, and my grandfather and so on.
You can catch me next week at the Andromeda Chuckle Hut. Enjoy your breakfast! Comedy's a dead art form. Now, tragedy? That's funny. Come on, everyone. Perhaps skiing will help us forget the moldy old antics of Conan O'Brien. Great idea! We can only hope. This snow is beautiful. I'm glad global warming never happened. Actually, it did. Thank God, Nuclear Winter canceled it out. Enough of your mindless chitchat! Let's get going! Damn it. We're stuck! At least you're not cold-blooded.
It bones for thee. The only thing that keeps me sane. eternity in which to perfect my art. Damn you! Now, when I'm found in a million years, people will know what the score was. Hey, what's bombarding me? Oh, no, an asteroid field. If even a pea-sized asteroid goes through my skull… it could hurt slightly. Well, that was fun. Now for eons of loneliness. Fellow Shrimpkins, behold him that hath taken us onto his breast. Holy frijoles. All bow before the great Metal Lord.