Denim: Hey, how come I get the wonky biscuit?
Pocket: RHIP, Cadet. Rank Hath Its Privileges.
Denim: Oh, all right. Please pass the butter, sir.
Pocket: In good time, Cadet. In good time.
Denim: Fine. In the meantime, allow me to ruminate on the virtues of individuality. A wonky biscuit, while imperfectly formed, perfectly expresses the intense inner yearnings of the isolated, unloved--
Pocket: Take the butter, Cadet. That's an order!
Denim: Yes, sir.
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