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Story No. 33511
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Andy's left hand was smaller than his right
nostril. Which was even smaller than a gnome's pinky fingernail. But not smaller than the amount of remorse I had for lighting your hair on fire. Don't mess with me again, or I'll
smack your head upside down and twice till Wednesday. Clearly, he thought, the man was insane and in need of
medical attention. Or maybe that was just the old lady down the street. She's always mumbling stuff about people that were alive in the 1930s, like anyone cares now. God I hate old people. They're like the
dark skinned tribe of Nepopapaloopoos in Eastern Africa. Here they thrive on a simple diet of
espresso beans and bat feces. It doesn't taste so bad if that's all you have left in the world. Maybe that's all we've ever had to begin with.
