Great Saban, Dark Lord of the Hashmarks and Supreme Commander of the Grand Army of the Sabanic Empire, we know that your heart has no room for compassion.  We know that the whole of your being is consumed with rage relative to the mindset needed to feast on the very will of your enemies.  But Great Saban, a man has fallen from on high this day.  The Mighty Guru, who knows not a razor, finds himself outcast from the Eastern Wastelands.  Never again shall he know the joy of a merry hayride; never again shall his Charmin double ply ever feel so soft as when he tossed it high in the air; never again shall he sleep comfortably on top of his desk for days at a time.  We ask not for your mercy for this man, for we know you have none.  But we invoke you, Dark Lord, if it be your will, that you bring no greater pestilence upon this man, as we know you can, and as we know you planned to do.  Save your great wrath for another foe, and tread lightly on his Guru Without a Mountain with your mighty shoe.

May all we do be Aight in your sight.