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The sweatshop owner had a point. I couldn't

  • The sweatshop owner had a point. I couldn't name another country where you could pay a 12 year-old $1/week to
  • open Wonka bars. The whole contest had gotten out of hand and there was only one thing left to do:
  • play spin the bottle. They all sat in a circle but they had no bottle, so they chose to improvise with a
  • sharp kitchen knife. The ensuing bloodbath quickly made them realize that
  • they should have played with nerf guns instead. Delirious from the bloodloss and sight of maimed corpses, these idiots
  • turned the guns on their own team! Imagination no more, this was real. Carl, a bi-standard to the whole calamity dropped
  • to the floor and began crawling backwards toward the doorway. He was just about there when someone noticed him and shot. He
  • screamed because he absolutely hated having his picture taken. "Why couldn't you let me get to the bathroom, so I could at least comb my hair?" He glowered, as he
  • dropped his drawers, readying himself to sit on the can. "You never give me the privacy I need to do what I need to do." He tossed me out before
  • my tail could clear the slamming door. Everyone knows a dog's nose revolves around the sweet aroma of poop. How was I to know he wanted it all to himself. Guess I'll go lay down

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