Although I was 15, I lied on the age verification and said I was born in 1901. The monitor flashed in a brilliant light and I appeared in the trenches of Verdun. "Bonjour," the soldier shouted, "Vous ne regardez pas comme vous êtes à partir d'ici." I looked down and saw my clothes were still dazzling from the light. I couldn't speak French. I nodded, hoping I wasn't agreeing to donate a kidney or something, and tried to hurry past the man. "Tellement grossier. Vous devez être l'un des nazis ." The only word I understo ood was grossier. He was right, nothing could be grossier.than having to endure this strange man speaking his gibbish at me. What on or of me does he see that makes him I think I am a pig in thigh-high stripper boots? At least he thinks that I would be a hot pig. He could cook my bac- What am I thinking? I had a goal, a purpose. I had to get my mind out of the gutter and stop thinking about how hot a pig would look in thigh-high stripper boots, it's round pink flesh bulging out over the- wait a minute- I have to co -come back to reality. What was I thinking? I disgusted myself. And yet, throughout the whole day, I kept coming back to that image. The pig in the stripper boots. My lust for the shoes of abominable taste was crippling. I wanted them so badly. If only I could slip those magic slippers on, I might just be permanently satisfied and lose my wants for everythin g. After all, they weren't just any old magic slippers. They gave the gift of teleportation! But there was one catch. They only worked from inside a Taco Bell and could only transp ort one to a KFC also located in the same Taco Bell. It was so disappointing. So I put the slippers in a velvet lined display case where they maintained an air of wonder & mystery.



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