Brian, you potato eating, starving a**, Irish mick, your phone answering skills are almost as bad as your mom’s cooking—bland, disappointing, and likely to send someone to the hospital. I’ve tried calling you more times than your parole officer, and yet here we are. Call me back before I start assuming you’ve joined some leprechaun cult, Greenpeace, the Sea Shepard, or are too busy chasing rainbows to answer. Chop, chop, you potato-hoarding goblin! My number hasn’t changed.
