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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
That ain’t carp bait, that’s a chubby white pair of legs that are going to be nasty sunburned in a few more minutes, thought the carp.
God looked in the mirror and thought, “Carp bait, now he’s gone and made me in HIS image!”
“Carp bait!” thought Bob, miserably, glaring at the cover article on Sportsman Illustrated as he sat on the can, wondering if he could muster the energy to find a straght-razor to slit his wrists, “I can’t believe Ed Shushucker, that slimy shyster from high school, made ten million dollars selling carp bait.”
Occidentally speaking, I’ve never quite understood the magic of carp.
The Chief knew that security was always tight down at the court house, but he couldn’t help but wonder how easy it would be to slip past all the guards and their electronic surveillance equipment with a carp in his pocket.
Henry told his turtle how looking at their wrinkled skin made him reflect on his lost youth; the turtle said nothing, but staring up at Henry, found himself oddly recalling the time he’d eaten some bad carp.
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