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94 dead metaphOr: the champaGne tOast To auld lang syne and good riddance, to thirty slaughtered years for steady profit of the Company. To the bride. To 400 million bubbles per bottle, effervescent river of dreams. To lowered daggers, hearty wishes, five centuries of evil spirit warned with a clink of cup. To getting toasted, more next year, better next time, chartable progress in long Cha Cha off a short pier. To Frère Jean and Dom Pierre, orders of Pierry and Epernay. To the 17th century. To 1836, Method François, mountains of milestones to pass. To Veuve Cliquot, Tattinger, a Spanish cheapie, it’s all good. To your happy, sponging tongue. To a quick buzz and quick squeeze, not safe nor sorry, your consummate recovery and comeback. Palms itchy? You’re falling into some coin, fella. Feet as well? Somebody’s two-stepping across a grave. Well you can’t have it all, all the time. (Can you?) “May ye live as long as ye want to, and want to long as ye live,” waxed your Irish uncle, ubiquitous glass in hand. Then he walked over all the graves, all the way to Alaska, never came back. Cheers. ...

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