PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...is

PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...is bread in French.

The French love their pain all right. Pain with cheese. Pain with meat. Pain with vegetables and more cheese. I loved to

travel to France as often as I could, just to experience their different types of pain. My favorite little pain café was right off of Rue Saint-Denis. There, you can get the most

flagrant types of le petit morte, administered by slick latex androgynoues seeping nonchalant violence. Outside, greasy pain dealers loitered, clutching illegal algogenies.

Such is the life outside 7-11 in Hampsburg, Virginia. All I wanted was a pack of smokes, a Coke Zero and those pizza flavored pretzel roll things. You see, I'd just quit my

job to hike across the country with my dead girlfriend's ashes in my pack, scattering a few here and there. She wanted to travel in life but never could, so I figured this was

the appropriate way of dealing with them. It was sad, really. I let my Dad know. "There are other fish in the sea," he choked over the phone. He was right. As I was hitchhiking

the highway onto a dark road which led me straight into a village of pygmy mongoloids. They took me in, fed me, and let me have my way with their sheep. I stayed for a week, and

Ate the best venison stew ever, made by a 90 year old grandmother who had made the same venison stew since age 16! She walked without a cane and faster than me!