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"Don't say shit!" she screamed, swiveling

  • "Don't say shit!" she screamed, swiveling her head like the night before under completely different circumstances. "Even if you DO talk to the hand, only one of my fingers has
  • been cleaned. The other fingers have a mysterious musk on them the origins of which will remain nameless. Now, if you don't want me to stick
  • feathers in my hair, stop plucking the chickens. But where did the mysterious musk come from? I decided to consult a
  • a muscologist I new from when I worked for the Whale survey in Japan. I flipped open my whaleskin address book and looked for Yoshi's phone number.
  • He owned a sushi place that served good whale blubber, but I was more interested in hitching up with his sister Saki. In my eyes, she was 140 kilos of hot
  • yellow tail. I longed dip my maki in her sauce. She had other ideas. I sat in the same spot at the counter every day, but she never saw me. In desperation, I
  • brought in my own sushi, figuring that this was the no-no that would finally get me noticed. She took one look and asked if mind if she changed the channel on the TV. "Wasabi!" was
  • on, but I'd already seen this episode. I told her "no" anyway, because I wasn't about to watch another episode of Oprah today. I bitterly returned to my tiger roll and thought
  • "Tiger doesn't taste near as good as they said it would." We turned back to the television to watch the live match of
  • the day, though the tiger was disappointing, I was still enjoying the moment, football, sofa, deep fried tiger in a bucket. . . .and a tall glass of freshly squeezed spermatosa and

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