Really.
About half a century ago I read a New Yorker short story called “When Your Honey’s on the Phone,” about a guy who was eating toast and honey for breakfast when the phone rang. Honey got on the phone, and in trying to clean it up he got honey on the kitchen faucet handles, and in trying to clean that up he got more honey on a drawer pull, and one thing led to another until in the end he had to junk all his furniture and move to a new apartment.
Now, this.
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