C’mon Guys!
C’mon, gents, give me back my hat. Seriously, return my hat. No, don’t throw it back and forth. It’s not meant to be thrown around; it’s meant to be worn on my head. I’m beginning to think you two don’t know what hats are for.
I don’t understand why you’ve singled out me for your amusement. It can’t be because I snickered at your poor grammar. Nor could it be my insistence on calling you slack-jawed dolts. Ergo, it must be that you believe my hat is some sort of sporting equipment.
Well, it’s not. It is a fashion accessory made by a “hatter.” Ah, I see by your perplexed expressions that you assumed all hats were made by “milliners.” You see, a milliner specifically crafts women’s hats. I am a man; that is my hat; therefore, it was made by a hatter and sold to me by a haberdasher.
Clearly, you believe it to be some sort of playground toy. Your limited intellects must have deemed it—
Owe! Owe, my lip! You seem to have accidently struck me on the lip with your fist. Perhaps this is a part of whatever silly game you two are playing. Well, I shan’t be any part of any violent sport. Oof! That was my stomach. You, sir, have pummeled me in my stomach, and I demand an apology. Why I—
Gah, the face again. Please, stop hitting my face. Ouch! I implore you to cease. I will allow you to keep the hat if you will stop hitting my face, you wet-brained buffoons. Oof, I admit that was a poor choice of sobriquet on my part. Owe!
Alas, poor me and my refined sensibility … Ouch! Ooooooh!
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