To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun.

A time to weep and a time to wail,

A time to throw up and a time to be thrown up upon,

A time to kill and a time to pinch really hard in a manner which doth cause an angry welt to appear,

A time to rend and a time to be rendered,

A time to gather stones together, which doth be a pitiful time indeed, for WTF doth that be about, gathering stones together?

A time to hate and a time to despise, which is like unto hatred, only with an added measure of disdain, as when watching footage of town hall meetings,

A time to swagger with testicles hanging low, even unto the ground, and a time to wear a barrette unbeknownst to thyself,

A time for war and a time for peace, which Pete Seeger sweareth is not too late, although Mr Ecclesiastes, who may or may not have actually been Francis Bacon or the Earl of Exumbershire, remaineth mum on the subject.