"Censure me in my leisure, and awake your senses. ... No. That doesn't sound right. I can never remember when I need to."
Morgan turned toward me with an incredulous look, an awful smirk etched carefully on his face. "That is, em, masterful, sir. I must salute you for, em, managing to copy Shakespeare by misunderstanding and misquoting his work. Truly, truly." He struggled to keep his face straight.
"Really, Morg, I can't do this. How do I write something... like this... for anything... like this? Eh?"
"It's a ruddy obituary, Sam. Don't. Use. Shakespeare. You'll regret it."
"Mmmmm... mmm. I can't. I'--"
"Yes, you're having an existential crisis. Don't deny it, man. As Richard the Third said, em, 'chop off his head, man.'"
"You scrub."
"Ah, us scrubs, the intellectual garbage of the news world. Love it."
Out of a sudden urge to act out a movie scene probably found in most modern romantic comedies, I crumpled the paper up, stood up to throw it into the waste basket, and stubbed my toe on Morgan's table leg. The office buzzed with suppressed laughter. Morgan smiled in an utterly condescending, charming way.
"At least, sir, I do my job with integrity and surety; I'm a perfect, em, scrub. You got some work to do though."
"Scrub."
"It's due before lunch break."
"Oh."
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