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"Afar Lugbúrz! at sapat kok-ishi.

  • "Afar Lugbúrz! at sapat kok-ishi. Afar vadokanuk, At sapat kok-ishi!"
  • He repeated it again. "Afar Lugbúrz! at sapat kok-ishi. Afar vadokanuk, At sapat kok-ishi!" It was his last words before fli
  • ghts of angels gathered round him. "Turkish, or Urdu?" one gleamed. "Perhaps Malagok?" Never send Cosmic Angels to do Earth Angel work, he thought as he languished on the threshold
  • of Hell. He was the Columbo Angel. Actually, he was Peter Falk's ghost, but God loved the Columbo series so he created "Columbo Angel." He floated around in a trenchcoat
  • flashing at innocent women at public places like train stations. He'd use body paint to draw a target around his penis and then stand around with just his trenchcoat waiting for
  • the right moment. She had to be attractive, but not too attractive. Ideally, like a 7 or an 8. If he timed it just right she'd end up staring right at his penis. Good times.
  • Bertha always looked out the window when the horses went past the office to change the guard at Buckingham Palace. Hooves clattered. I lowered my naked form on a rope down the side
  • of the stone cold building, and felt the wet rain slide against my thighs. I shivered. I needed clothes. I was not about to be cast in a Ghanaian blockbuster movie like this.
  • Naked & goosepimply, I waved my underwear scraps out the tiny window of the building, attempting to get the attention of the hammer pants peddler on the corner. "You want hammer pa
  • nts?" the astute born-again capitalist asked me. Unfortunately a breeze blew my underpants scraps right into his face and he was disgusted into leaving. I shouldn't've eaten beets.

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