Aye, lad, indeed we do. And we've got televisions and toilet paper and frozen dinners and whiskey and poteen and beer and rum punch ...
It explodes, of course.
So, whaddya think's gonna happen when Marge tosses that helicopter into that hole the sea monster just made in the Butz building?
Saints preserve us!
Ladies and gentlemen, in a stunning turnaround it appears Marge has snatched victory from the jaws defeat. ...
... How about, Marge has pulled victory from the gaping maw of defeat?
Gaping maw ... I like that. You Irishmen have a way with words. Try this ... Marge has looked into the gaping maw of defeat and pulled out a victory with just one battered pinkie through its nose ring ...
Nose ring! Very fine indeed, lad. ... Or, with just one battered pinkie tenuously grasping its nose ring, Marge has jerked victory from the cruel, gaping maw of ignominy ...
That's a mite thick and I'm not really sure if it's clear that "its" modifies "victory" in that construction, but I like where you're going with that ....
HALT!
Look, lad, it's a wee angel ... and what else, might I ask, would "its" possibly refer to if not "victory"?
Gabrielle?
Stop calling me that! It's Gabriel. That's Gabriel the Archangel to you!
Well, what do we have here? Gay-briel did you say?
Marge, I command thee in the name of heaven to cease this destruction, revert back to your normal size and leave this place at once. You are to return to your castle in Romania and never leave there again.
Or I shall smite thee.
You shall look delightfully kitchy dangling from the rearview mirror of my private ambulance.
This ain't gonna be pretty. What's he gonna do, hit her with his flowers? Why didn't they send Michael?
My former associate Mr. Player once showed me the rules of what you laughingly call "football" here. I believe this is what is known as a "punt."
Who are you? In the name of heaven I demand to know where I am!
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