If the sky is falling, will you even know if we eat your peeps?
If you know, will you care?
You're caught in a paradox: you're making an urgent request to save your children (assuming your peeps are indeed your offspring as opposed to the more colloquial use of one's associates being known as one's peeps) or worse, your forms of entertainment that require quarters every few minutes, while at the same time announcing the end of the cosmos as we have known and experienced it for unknown millenia. Which is it, Henny? Save the world, or save your peeps, whatever or whomever they might be?
Suddenly and inexplicably feeling an urge -- dare I say a craving -- for smoked chicken.
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