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Each Move Must Consist Of Precisely Eight Words
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Just as it says on the tin. What happens in the game may be debated in the game: perhaps it'll be a conversation, perhaps a word-limited reprise of various games we play, or whatever.
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I hake. Hall over. It's the Harthritis. Houch!
I kip, therefore I must be a kipper.
I've just had my shoes soled and eeled.
I hear sea shanties. Must be someone's Icod.
Speak up, Rosie, my herring's not so good.
(Softers) Surely you can still hear the bass.
(Rosie) No, mate, I have a bad cod.
Maybe you need the drumming of Max Roach.
Ah, Fish puns, fish puns, roly-poly fish puns!
I dolphin-ately am enjoying this bit of luna-sea.
Isn't it a great song, Salmon Chanted Evening.
Another song beckons: Roe, Roe, Roe Your Boat.
[Phil] It's neither the time nor the plaice...
Maybe it's time to get our skates on.
I'd better take my mackerel I'll get soaked.
[Porter!] Even if I'm accompanied by Colin Sell?
Not even John Dory would make any difference.
I think Nemo would take offense at these.
Not even eight words all weekend. Why not?
Perhaps there has been an overtime ban, pen.
Overtime schmovertime. There's always eight words to spare!
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