Phil Gaimon: We are not robots

At almost every stage of the big North American races this year, someone would bring me cookies. If I recognized the guy or girl, I'd have one (or three). If they contained butterscotch or cranberries, I'd pretend to be happy, even though I hate butterscotch, and cranberries have no place in a cookie. If I thought there was any chance they'd contain cannabis (they never did), I'd give them to our mechanics.

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