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Please Bro, May I Have Some More Grilled Chicken?

Olivarsity Athlete
My dude, do not tarry in delivering the chicken, for the dhall is almost closed!
Mister grill man, I come to you with an empty plate and a humble request: please bro, may I have some more grilled chicken? Can I cop some more? I bid you, broseph: place another succulent slab of that sweet, sweet protein onto my outstretched tray.
Boss, please excuse the tardiness of my request, mere minutes after the closure of this fine grill. Would that I arrived sooner, these beefy fingers would have surely impressed my righteous hunger upon this tiny iPad. Alas, my dawg, in this Dickensian existence, I have no other choice but to convey my appetite to you in vocal grunts, like a primitive ape or Cornell freshman.
But I digress, for the river Charles is my mistress—“time nor tide tarrieth no man,” Coach always said. (Or was it Chaucer? All this education surely cannot be good for my 2k time.) You see, the lads and I only now just got off the water, and only one thing can satisfy the burning ache in our biceps. It is not emerald beef, nor pork cutlet, nor even Red’s Best. We are but strapping, virile cogs in the machine that is Harvard Varsity Athletics, and grilled poultry is the oil that fuels our inevitable march towards victory. Just as Abraham readily surrendered his first-born son at the Lord’s command—I took Hebrew Bible so trust me on this one, Brosiah—so too shall you relinquish unto us this meat as tribute.
Now, if you want to see Crimson beat Dartmouth heavyweight this year, I must enjoin you, good sir: butcher up eight cutlets (and a morsel for the coxswain, if you can spare it). For me and my boys are FAMISHED AS FUCK.
© 2018