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Marge bought the rug on-line.
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No jagged bits of crust were thrust up/
through the prairie’s black gumbo/
to give us cataclysmic mountain views.
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I bit her ear and /
it was burnt toast
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Content may contain ordinary, everyday, and all around average happenings.
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Fat robins are chirping –
loudly – at 4 a.m.
They’re trying to delude
the worms into thinking it’s
dawn already
The worms get up underground
They’re grumpy, they
bump into things
They come up to the surface
and Wham! That
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“There’s no real freedom in this world. But a car and the open road is close enough for government work.”
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* Dedicated to Bernie MaddoffThere was a long line at the men's room.You know,when men reach a certain age,there is an urgencyto their frequent trips.So I saw an opportunityI said:" I know Bernie I can get you in.""Really?," they saidbut I played it coy"It ain't easyBernie…
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The door shuts slowly to something that’s allegedly mine
and it sits there and waits until I come home
just like you.
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We are all in big trouble. Here's some fiction to let your soul experience the beast.
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When Mt. St. Helens erupted, I knew that was the end of Bigfoot.
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I can't take it bird by bird because I have neither.
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She Waited for the other Shoe to Drop
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Shakespeare had red hair / Van Gogh never painted a nude
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@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; } …
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A woman is fishing in the Seine at the far left
of the painting, while time is suspended and light
remains. One man plays a trumpet. A half dozen
people sit or walk under parasols. Couples stroll
and children run or sit or stand beside their
p
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—It’s difficult to say, he said. I have mood swings. Women don’t like that. They become upset.
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I hold them to the light...
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As black as his socks with a hole in them she used to sew while watching. The octopus has three hearts you know. Yes, No and Maybe.
As black as inkpots, inkjets, as black as typewriter ribbons and the Gutenberg press, as black as the ink of a trillion
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This must never get out in the press, for it would cause widespread panic. The priests would surround my house, not to mention the police and possibly the army. Castor Desayuno has come back from the dead!
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Warning: Open and read before making any dumb-ass New Year's resolutions.
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For you have waited. And waited and waited. And soon your slice of bread will be ready.
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Say the world is a smudged charcoal drawing. Slit from its frame, smuggled out of the Vatican. Don't say it couldn't happen. Who would know.
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It is within my nature, and many others I know, to cling to what’s consistent and certain: the battles fought in the war for survival and the organic camaraderie borne in the trenches. Sometimes the quest and the people we commiserate with along the way
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We slept beside dripping glaciers
people like us
We were never meant to be housed
contained, kept, petted, cleaned
We could only be gutted
You used us one time
and threw us out
people like us
We sprouted the wings of desire
by watchi
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As the four flew beside each other, they shared their stories and got to know one another. Soon they learned from the voice what was happening.
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The Judge waited for the perfect wave.
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"Dennis," she started "exactly what the fuck are you looking at?"
"Your tits" I replied.
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