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Duluoz2 sent in this comment.
Date: 1999 Nov 25
Spirited, the tall man went down to the edge of the river in order to purchase a bucket of quarters. In doing so, he forgot his labrador, who was sadly becoming educated by a large group of eastern philosophers. I felt bad for that dog, because i well know the many pitfalls of recent typewriter failings. Anyway, when the man approached the river, he realized that his pants were much too apologetic for the current era. I'm pretty sure at that point he found a small piece of sponge in his pocket, with which he sopped up all of his worthless memories. That was when everything got a little hazy...the one thing that was certain was that photocopies were being run out of town at an alarming rate. No one could stop the mass exodus, save the Wonderful Sporting Pet. This was, obviously, an outdated kitchen appliance whose mother came straight off of the boat from Tulsa. She was a hearty woman, a woman who knew how to cook for her friends. Her most famous dish was a plate with delicate flowers around the edge, but Manuel the Questionable had forsaken his plaintain protocal earlier in the season, and the rains would never compensate his shortcomings. We all realized that friendship wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, and hastily drove to the southern most point of the street, where a lovely group of stool pigeons were singing some song they liked to call "Wake Me Up When the Sun Strikes Thirty-Seven." About half of them tried to convince me that this was a top forty smash hit, while the rest of them assured me that it was nothing but a dirty limirick with sharp edges. Sharp edges will cut you, they asserted. I disagreed, but then i've never been one to agree with anyone who says things to me.