Whedon Ipsum

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We've got a bunch of fighters with nothing to hit, a wicca who won't-a, and the brains of our operation wears oven mitts. In every generation there is a chosen one. Or even worse, a sneezure. Ain't it crazy how slaying just always makes you hungry and horny? It's about women. A whole mess of sparrows turning on a dime, salmon trucking upstream. I'm the one who brings about the thought-pocalypse. Shh! No programs, don't use that word. Just be Buffy. Can't even shout, can't even cry. They rampaged through half the known world until Angel got his soul.

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