The machine that makes button holes is a demonic devise from some fucked-up dimension. I want one as a pet. My requests would have a lot more credibility if I threatened to sew a button hole to the foreskin of anyone who disobeys me.
Am I getting acid flashbacks or did a hyperactive scottish doughnut seller just treat me to a pro-cannabis rant? He couldn't decide whether to rant in English or in very broken Finnish. Huh. This town keeps surprising me.