Inordinate amounts of dough
Inordinate amounts of dough, cast like swine among Samaritans, goes to the motive of laughing Buddha. Do you know why he laughs? Either way, I shall kill you on the road.
On the road to Bali Hai, shallow, fetid demons wearing camesols bargain fruitlessly with old lang syne and Howard Cosell. Purcivel won't have it. As the boobies sag in popularity, the milkshake no longer brings all the boys to the yard. Rather, it's where the poop comes out, as Amy Schumer and Method Man (with whom my son smoked a joint in the middle of a concert. Method Man looked at the audience, noticed my kid smoking a blunt, and asked, "Is this white boi the only mothafucka got weed in dis house?", and smoked the blunt while he continued his performance.)
So take, take of the dough, and make what you will of it. An awesome Dexter shall handle the vent controls, insuring only superior quality dough, for superior muffins.
The Muffin Man shall have his say, let me tell you. I will also tell you a lie, couched in a truth, circumcised by a lie: beep your car horn at night, when tornadoes stalk, and explosive Sonderkommando powder may graft boughs of yew upon you.