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Choking on foetid air, I traversed the entryway

  • Choking on foetid air, I traversed the entryway to the blasted tomb, within which a teeming brood of pestilent vermin had fed upon my forebears for millennia. I, P. H. Craftlove,

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  • sought to eradicate the metallic chamber of my fridge from which bodes ill portent & daemoniac confusion. I love Kraft products, hence my name. Charnal mold decayed luncheonmeat,

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  • pickled eggs, extra hot English mustard and crunchy lettuce combined in a toasted turkish bread were served to my guests. The Filth's were my new neighbours

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  • who enjoyed the meal very much. It wasn't rubbish or too posh. It made them feel at home. After the meal, I invited my new neighbors up stairs where we played poker, and then later

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  • invited them into my bed. One looked confused by my over-friendlyness, but none the less, the both joined me in bed for a ravishing threesome while the alcohol continued to

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  • wreak havoc with my... Clearing my throat, I muttered, "Sorry...gotta go!" and sprang from the bed. Alcohol + Prozac = Nada. I wasn't important to anyone anymore, only impotent.

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  • I went home to my dingy apartment, and I proceeded to go to the washroom. I ran my fingers through my hair and saw wispy strands fall off clump by clump. I smiled.

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  • Chemotherapy. Well, if I lose the hair, I could win the life. Now that I have cancer, maybe my wife will not leave me. Maybe we can work it out. Maybe she will love me again.

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  • I had my hopes up, even though I was sick, bald, and impotent. But then the worst possible thing happened. My wife fell in love with my oncologist. Then it occured to me that maybe

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  • the key to happiness WAS to be the final folder. As I wasted away from malnutrition, I hunted down every nine-liner, ensuring an obscure legacy of infamy. But a legacy nonetheless.

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