My name is Ole Bald Angus the Monk.
Well, not really.
It is getting more and more true as time goes by, though.
Yah, I'm all tricky and shit like that.
Shit man, if that turns you on, eventually I'll be a goddamn skeleton, and even farther along down the timeline odds are that at least one person will snort one of my mummy's atoms up their potentially hairy nostrils.
And those are atoms that have played Daggerfall and all of the Fallout games extensively, and fondled both the blonde and raven-haired co-captains of the Maine South pom squads to boot, you lucky comic-store-owner-looking bastard.
Yah, okay, not at the same time, but pretty damn close.
Beats the hell out of inhaling an atom from George Washington or some shit, don't it?
"I chopped down my dad's cherry tree! Oh NOOOS!"
"Dude, I had to listen to both of them give me a shpiel on how sorry they felt for the other one."
The choice is yers, even if yer a woman, but just this once, in that case.
Yah yah, okay, case statements are ass, if, in the rare occasion, yer some ancient Quake Assembly Programming Guy, but by that point, females have been totally eliminated from the equation ahaha.