"People tend to call me names that I can't repeat on basic cable. I will give you a hint. They rhyme with itch, hunt, & bore."

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And when that crop grew, and was harvested, no man had crumbled a hot clod in his fingers and let the earth sift past his fingertips. No man had touched the seed, or lusted for the growth. Men ate what they had not raised, had no connection with the bread. The land bore under iron, and under iron gradually died; for it was not loved or hated, it had no prayers or curses.

— John Steinbeck