DEAR JURGEN, Have you got a fidget spinner?

Jurgen says: How dare you! My sphincter is no midget, it is perfectly proportioned!! What? Fidget… Spinner?! Speak up, dribbling British Myrkurtoast lest I pour two litres of Mikael Akevitt down your throat to clear your pipes, followed by a bohemian Ratzeputz chaser and a lit match. As it happens, Nils admits to a having the diminutive plaything of which you speak, and has invited me around to place my fingers on it, have a flick and relieve some stress. AIIIEEE !!!!