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The halloween candy bucket still lay at his

  • The halloween candy bucket still lay at his feet as he gazed over the array of corpses that lay in a pattern consistent with the general arc of his scream. Banshee? What did that

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  • have to do with my dual plight of male pattern baldness and the heartbreak of psoriasis? Plenty. You see, just the other day I was

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  • shampooing with a lethal melange of Rogaine and Head & Shoulders. It burns with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns, but I am the masochistic type who enjoys pain with my

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  • orgasm. I've been known to choke it and scrape a cheese grater across my sack. I'll never forget getting a blow job from an Armenian jockey while jamming paperclips into my

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  • nostrils. In fact any office stationary items I could get my hands on would do the job. I was addicted, a dirty secret I protected vigorously from my colleagues. Even my boss

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  • would barely raise an eyebrow as he looked over my office supplies request. Didn't I order a 6-pack of White-Out just last week? Fortunately for me, he was too busy to notice.

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  • Post-it notes, medium binder clips, legal pads, pen trays, filing accordions, staple removers. The neurotic office manager with an office supply fetish placed his

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  • Sharpie smartly up his secretary's bum, a permanent marker underscoring her continued loyalty to the firm. "Take a letter, Miss Witherbottom," he said. "My dear Archbishop Smoothy,

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  • due to recent events" Miss Witherbottom's hips began moving smoothly over the paper, her eyes never leaving mine "your account has been terminated. etc etc" she shimmied a few

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  • times, just to let me know that she knew i knew she knew i was watching. I gulped. My collar tightened around my neck and the oxygen slithered out of the room. "Marry me," she said

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