"I see your eyes, prolapsed rectum-head! What? You're surprised we made sweet sweet burning love to our cattle? Or are you shocked that our ladies were into bondage? I'm not sure I want an answer from you. You're an ignorant swath of doofus!
"One day my father walked in my tiny room. He was wearing overalls. Not the OshKosh B'Poop kind: the kind that only a real man would wear who endured hours of torture from swarthy Indians. His eyes hid long lost pain from long ago. He sat down next to me on my tiny bed and put his arm around me. He tousled my hair and gave me a smile. Then he Jack Johnson'd me in the buckshot bag... "Pow!" He tousled my hair one more time and then boxed my ears. He walked out of the room without a word.
"The lesson that I learned that day was Meats-- then God. Golden calf tastes delicious because it's young; it's tender. I'm renaming it 'alchemy veal.' You writing this down, weenis? Get out your fancy ThinkPad and stylus the dookie out of this shit. Do you have Mindspring on that thing? I just got it. Boobs and NRA updates. The future is here! You know what's not here though? My meats!
"Holy Charro's knockers, doody-lips! When I was your age and an elder told me to go forth and return with meats-- verily -- it shall be done! You're just standing there! Onward, fart-farter! And upon your removal from my sight, do tell Mrs. Teschmacher the she and her cock-nibbling talents are needed toute de suite!"
And as you scramble out the room, El Brim Grande finally leans back in his ergonomically appropriate leather cushioned La-Z-Boy and stares at his meats indices. They're up- just like his blood. Not in pressure, mind you, but in temperature. He is a riled man: a turgid feral beast existing in a world of flaccid corporate nabobs.
But not the gemstone.