Special Request
I do so love acquiring knowledge. Last evening, I happened to be curious about the etymology of the expression "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." Ye olde internet obligingly yielded up an answer, and I was introduced to the brilliance of William Congreve. Unsurprisingly given the frequency of such mistakes, "Hell hath no fury..." is a slight misquotation of the following line, from the play The Mourning Bride, though for our purposes my interest lies paramountly in the front half:

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.

And there it is, exactly what I have been thinking and feeling since the day I was cut to the quick and kicked to the curb by my best friend in all the world, rendered with all the grace and beauty of the mother tongue at its utmost. Thus is built the towering monstrosity of my revenge, brick by brick, from only the finest lines of the glorious past.

Casus belli: "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned."
--Wm. Congreve, The Mourning Bride

Modus operandi: "That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain."
--Wm. Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

The Rebel Black Dot Christmas Song of the Day
The Pogues, "Fairytale of New York" from The Best of The Pogues (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: "It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank...."