Folks, I would like to remind you all not to be alarmed when you see David go into his "back off" dance. You see, it's primarily for show, similar to how a silverback gorilla beats his chest or an alley cat arches its back. No, there's nothing to worry about, but if David does start making you nervous, remember: a taser to the 'nads stops him every time.

You know, Scott, I was just going to let your comment sit there, alone and unanswered, allowing it to be more of a comment on you and your idea of wit. But then I thought, no. No, I will not let your barbs wallow in this space unriposted.

That night you tasered my balls? So many years ago at Club Rumplestiltskin? I was not doing my "back off" dance, man. I didn't even come up with that until after I moved to Tokyo. I was doing the Running Man, and judging from the reactions of the women encircling my strobelit form, I was looking good. I was looking great until you popped up out of nowhere and shouted, "Beat it, girls, he's mine!" then laid me out with a well-aimed shot of your taser.
I don't remember what my point was, but that's a true story and you should be ashamed of yourself, Scott.

I am so tired of your lies, David, though I guess I should be used to them 15 years after you limped into the first day of Chinese class weeping and carrying on about clowns and rolling pins and Crisco in what was the first of an endless string of pathetic ploys for attention. Everytime I think of you, I throw up in my mouth a little bit.

Look, the clowns were no joke, OK? So you can ba ni de da pian and fang them up ni de gang mer.

Oh you'd like that wouldn't you, you sick bastard.