Suck it, said Wiggoly, before flopping under the whitewater and out the other side, avoiding entirely the dreaded surgeon’s table.

But wait, the commentator, who I’m failing to put a name to voice, interjects.

“There’s a bit of cushion on this surgeon’s table, eh?  The one at HT’s in the mentawais is really sharp,” he said, sounding smart despite not being so (assumptions, eh?).  Accents really do something to me.  They’re like spray tans, except they don’t rub off on your clothes and smell like peanuts and sunscreen.

Onya!