Or "You, Your Girls, and Your Johnson."
Y'all knew it was comin'. Still, even I didn't expect such an empassioned outpouring from us over a show about a dude who bangs a bunch then dies.
In other news, the fly paper was, to my surprise, completely effective. I now sit in my domecile, surrounded by a forest of sticky vines peppered with the corpses of fresh pollenia. The balance has been restored, and I am a god of death.