Who the hell in their right mind would want to go to Valhalla? What pleasure could there possibly be in sitting
in a chokingly smoky hall surrounded by a few thousand smelly Viking warriors vomiting
gallons of testosterone over the floor along with the seventeenth pint of ale
they’ve just consumed, while singing (allegedly) a torrent of bawdy and badly
written ballads about cheap sexual conquests?
Please may I go to a leafy glade where wood nymphs frolic in
the waterfall, the scotch is free and stays where I put it, the coffee is hot
and never gets stale, and there’s a never ending supply of hot cheese scones
with butter? Oh, and can I have a dog as well?
I think that will do. Much appreciated.
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