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Twain: If you think about it the process of singing the birthday song and cutting the cake is extremely satanic.
Hawthorne: Mark, what the fuck are you high on?
Alcott: Oh no, do I need to call Fitzgerald?
Fitzgerald: Don't bring me into this, whatever he's done is his fucking problem.
Twain: No but seriously, imagine it this way...
Twain: A small gathering of people huddle around an object on fire, chanting ritualistically a repetitive song until the fire is blown out and a knife is stabbed into the object.
Steinbeck: You must be fun at parties.
Lovecraft: Sounds like a party to me.

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