Obviously I don’t wish cancer on any child, but I work hard for my money, and I don’t think it’s fair of you to expect me to just give it up willy nilly for every two-bit cause that comes knocking on my door. No sir. I want to help, but I don’t crawl into bed with just anybody. Why, I hardly even crawl into bed with my own wife if you catch my meaning (nudge nudge.) Nossir, you’re going to need to do better than that. I know they’re bald and sickly and done nothing on this Earth to have reaped the wrath of God in such a way, but don’t I got my own problems? That’s just a fact. I’m sorry for it, but it’s the truth.
Now, you say you want my help? Well, you better find a popular comedian from the 1980s known for cocaine abuse and his trademark manic delivery of suicide-inducing jokes or NO DEAL, PAL.
Oh, that’s better. Where do I send the check. We should all just kiss cancer goodbye at this point. Of course, the cure for being a pre-cog is still a few years off, Robin Williams or no.