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Story No. 198
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Everyone around me was tapping away at their keyboards, locked into their own little worlds. A man to my right was making barely-perceptible groaning noises as he thumped they keys, hunched-over like an old
shag deprived horse
manure manufacture process simplified to allow more in the way of system enhancement. The clients are unable to express an interest in this process since the clients are all dead horses.
Soon the frothing baboons returned from their 'Happy Biddy Marching' parade, each with a fistfull of
broken clocks. They were all guarding piles and piles of stinking clams
smothered in a creamy aeoli reminiscient of a fromage bought from a boulangerie in a street just off the champs elysee back in '63 when we were forced to make a diversion from our shopping due to a freakishly turbulent storm!
thegit
Ray Reardon
thos_thom
Harold Bishop