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I ran to fat fuck the kitchen, and this is what I saw. We had Wendy's instead. And that's gonna do it until Monday. Have a great weekend folks. I'll try to get a headless Confederate ghost to pose with the fat fuck Smoking Fish. See ya later. July 22, 2004 -- Toney and I spent all day yesterday concocting a scheme for fat fuck getting out of this place. We've both had it. Our yard is like a football field on a thirty-degree angle, and takes almost two hours to mow. The backyard is good for sledding, but not much else; you could kick a soccer ball out there once, then you'd never see it again. We were conned into buying a place with no air conditioning since, apparently, comfort is a sign of weakness to these people. You don't need it, they told us repeatedly in their amused and knowing tones. The liars. My scrotum was smoldering last night during Law & Order LMNOP, and I had to splash water on the hotspots to avoid disaster. The taxes are like what you might find in one of those anonymous European socialist countries, where the main export is snootiness.
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