Finished Folds (201—220)
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2go back to elementary school and act like a buffoon to the delight of the idiots millions." Dr. Kowslowski made a few notes on his pad. "And what of the maroon sun gods?" he asked.
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9burst out of the dressing room and onto the world's biggest stage: FARM AID 2054. "You can call me Rev, or you can call me Fyn," he began. "Or you can call me Suckerpissed," he
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3on mobile devices at the airport. "I can't believe you made $78,000 a year working at home!" he responded to the facebook spam on the article about the kumquat shortage. "Where can
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4nostalgia for a time that hadn't yet come. Remember 30 years from now when I won local derby? Gosh, it will be the pinnacle of a life I can't live. We're all swimming in this lost
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3Soon, I saw everyone's flaws, but my own were the most egregious. I shaved off all body hair and constantly applied calamine lotion to folds, joints and crevices. Lord Cataract bl
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2them to know when to hold'em, and know when to fold'em. Squawkers chuckled at his age-old joke. It never failed to get a giggle at the Christmas mass when the C&E crowd packed in
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0before long, the lure of the stage was too much. He watched Tootsie for the 27th time in a week and plotted his next transvestigal steps.
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0"I have a request for the faux trumpeter," said the old woman at the early bird dinner. "Knock it off." Her bridge club mates chuckled at the joke she made every time they
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4The lords gave up their vassals.
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0+15 rebound action to salve the wound. He jumped out of the gurney and zipped directly to the college dance clubs to get all cuddly with the laaadeeezzz, in his words. At closing,
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1sold to Disney and relieved of his dignity and intelligence. Now, he was parading around with cartoon mermaids and computer-modeled cars. Soon, he felt the pangs of suicide.
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6cawed "Pamela! Pamela!" to remind the critic that while Bulwer-Lytton's turgid prose was a pain, there is much worse literature in the world. "Virtue rewarded my ass," the critic
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0and his purple hat deserted him. "Blast!" he exclaimed. Any tiny wind would expose his combover, and the butcher's cleaver blows to the rotting flesh was enough to
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2.com, sister!" the radio hollered, followed by cheap sound effects and fake DJ laughter. "Iiiiit's time for our wacky fart of the day!" *boing* *toot* went the radio. "Ugh," I said
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2Except for Norman, in the corner. An odd duck. No one had been to his house, nor were they certain how he made it to school every day, American flag draped around his slight
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4the political right and the physical left, causing a minor logic emergency, as my saber-toothed armadillo takes things too literally sometimes. We sped along en route to the
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3to a flannel-wearing lumberjack and used the proceeds to bury my sorrow in Boston Cream Pie and a fifth of 7up. That's when the dame with legs up to here walked into my
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4Le poissons jumped out of le frying pan, and the fromage melted in the tower de eiffel. The sitcom star said something about having a cat in his pants, and the vapid audience
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4super-size excited for the extra cheese. "Hold that pickle!" she encouraged Ron, as Jack malted Ron's shake. In that moment, Jack remembered: he'd forgotten his condiments.
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5squished fruit with my bare hands for 40 days and 40 nights. The citric acid burned my open cuts, but I persevered. Finally, after collapsing at their throne, I had my franchise.