I reckon them Jareedites and mebbe that feller Nephi too were typos and shadders for space explorashun.
Here. Don’t cotton to this new-fangled hyper-articulation, though.
That thar cayus Richard Branson is sashayin’ around full o’ beans on account of how he reached the edge o’ space.
Waaal. Taint bad for a lil tot, pardner. Shore, a papoose has gotten to start somewheres, so I give yew my full up congrattylations.
But I reckon when yur a grown feller, taint gonna seem so much.
Why, shore, I aint worried none bout claim jumpers. Taint nuthin’ I cain’t resolve on account o my six shooter. But why in everlovin’ tarnation would SpaceX proclamate where they figger on homesteadin‘ just so a passel of lowdown skunk varmints can sashay in o’ front of them?
Yeehah! Ah reckon ahm as pleazed as punch.
Why, ifn its bin one time its bin a dozen where ah’ve gotten all hetted up fit to bust and had to relieve muh feelins’ by strangling’ a grizzlie with a rattlesnake. Why? For the simple ’nuff reason that many’s the time ah purposed to mosey down to the ginral store and fill up mah wagon with salt, sugar, and nucular power generation and then brought to mind that I had to set to makin’ the dadblame thing muhself.
Fer mah gift, I was durn pleased to unwrap a hootin’, tootin’ sure nuff SpaceX pillar o’ fire. Yeehah!
Shucks, it were about time. This durn nice-guy pretense jist ain’t natural.
What kinder prospector allows to the papers as how he’s discovered a gusher? Shoot. That’s moxie.
I ain’t gonna get too excited until they kin fit laser fusion, nickel-plated, into mah holster.
Whew, howdy, me and Widowmaker sure coulda used one of them things, mah spurs always melted on reentry.