I see long lines waiting for your rationed drop of lukewarm, brown swill made from leftover grinds, massive reductions in white collar productivity, withdrawal headaches, and widespread snarkiness. I see madness and mayhem.
In some freakish explosion of accelerated evolution borne in a cauldron of sea water, fire, and Old Bay seasoning, the clams had not only sprouted eyes but crude, crab-like legs, enabling them to scurry out of the fire and into the nooks and crannies of the campsite.
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