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"You gonna eat that?" the guy next to me

  • "You gonna eat that?" the guy next to me said, gesticulating with a well-manicured hand at my half-eaten fish and chips. He looked a lot like a cross between Richard Gere and
  • a bird of paradise. Handsome, but with a giant nose and longish spiky hair. I was nonplussed. "Yeah" I said. "I think I will." But he must have misunderstood because he grabbed
  • my neighbor's teenage son. It was an honest mistake. Completely understandable. I remained nonplussed. I was the nonplussiest client ever. "Just set him over there." & pointed to
  • his stomach and said, "Pretzel dog." What's odd about that is that I was just eating a pretzel dog at the mall--with mustard. Trying to navigate this near diplomatic fiasco I
  • decided on a whim to join Julian Assange in the Ecuadorean embassy in London. What Julian Assange doesn't know about pretzel dogs ain't worth knowing. In asylum together we'd lick
  • the remaining salt from our fingertips after consuming a mighty fine pretzel dog or twelve. Julian Assange had shown me the beauty of pretzel dogs, the divine splendor of their
  • greasiness as they slid down the chow chute. "Salty fried dough stuffed with a big sausage, sounds delightful," Assange said with a twisted sense of delight. His salt-and-pepper
  • shakers had starred in a viral anonymously uploaded porn video. Assange disposed of them but the NSA traced the pepper shaker to the greasy spoon where he now lived out his glutto
  • nous hair eating fetish. Assange decided he would feed this latest perversion before it consumed him, so he opened the video's mouth and stuffed it with his own hair.
  • When Assange awoke, he was on the living room floor, laying in his own vomit. He tried to get up, unsuccessfully; he noticed his ankles tied together with hemp. Then he passed out.

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