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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."
Percy didn’t want to fight, but it seemed to be the only way he was going to get his hands on Henry’s buffalo wig.
We call our clothes dryer Thunderdome, because two socks enter, one sock leaves.
Although they were slightly outnumbered, Henry and Bob thought they could take the three—Henry would fight that wormy, good-for-nuthin’ Truth, Bob would roll up his sleeves and go nose-to-nose with that self-righteous bastard Justice, and American Way, if things went as Henry and Bob imagined, would just stay out of the fight because, well, it was American Way—but when Truth and Justice’s sad little overweight friend wandered off three minutes into the scuffle, only to return hefting an old, dented up aluminum baseball bat, the two men weren’t quite so sure.
I’ve been watching the ducklings in my front paddock grow up over the last few weeks and I can’t help but feel a tinge of sadness that soon they will be all grown up and all familial bonds forgotten as need drives them to fight over mates and territory.
You can say that I won’t win and all I will tell you is that I definitely won’t lose.
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