221 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
221 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
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*=-- --=*
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{ The file you are about to read is ficticious. Any resemblance }
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to actual people and/or events must mean that you shouldn't have taken
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{ that last dose of low-grade acid. }
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*=-- --=*
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*=-- --=*
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{ the }
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-=*/> Buzzz Bros. <\*=-
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present
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-------
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When Venus Crosses Mars
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{ Fiction by Havoc }
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*=-- --=*
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...after he swallowed his last bite of his Double Cheeseburger (from White
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Castle, because he liked the concept of the holes in the meat), I finally
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mustered up enough nerve to ask him....
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"If a chicken and a half could lay an egg and a half in
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a day and a half, how long would it take a grasshopper
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with a wooden leg to kick all the seeds out of a dill
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pickle?"
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He looked at me, and I could tell his eyes could see right through
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me...right into my soul, right inside my guts; like he was searching for the
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meaning of life (or at least for any undigested food...I could tell he was
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still hungry). He sighed. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and just
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sighed. What was he thinking? Did he even care? I needed to know! More
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than anything I just need to know that. It had been annoying me like an
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infected sore that wouldn't heal. Finally, after what seemed like the same
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amount of time it takes for a cum shot in a lame porno, he broke down and spoke
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to me.
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"It doesn't matter....I'm an atheist." He said.
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I smiled...and it felt good. It had been almost two (2) years since I had
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felt good, and that was the time I saw Wayne fall of the garage roof with the
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pipe wrench. I told him that leverage was the key, but he still wouldn't hold
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on to the satellite dish.
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"Are you going to watch Geraldo tomorrow?" I asked.
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"If he asks me too," He replied. "I'm more into Sally
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Jesse Raphael...see speaks from the heart."
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"I need a Diet Barq's...are you lonely still?" I needed to know this.
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"Lions are growing in the desert like yellow roses
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blowing in the cool summer breeze."
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His last reply made me quiver. I knew he was a great person, but never
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could I have imagined he liked Barq's root beer too. His poetic imagery was
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not to be equaled by the way he wore his Big Yank jeans.
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I envisioned him driving in a Jeep down an open mountian road. His
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speedometer reading ninety-six (96) kph, and his 8-track blasting out Meat
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Loaf's Bat Out of Hell. As the fringe from his vinyl "CHiPS Offical Junior
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Police" jacket blew in the wind, a beautiful red-head drives up next to him in
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a seventy-seven ('77) Ford Pinto.
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As cool and as deft as any woman should be, she leaned over and rolled down
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her window with both hands...because it gets stuck half-way down. Tiffany's "I
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Think We're Alone Now" can be heard ever so faintly in the background.
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"Excuse me..." The words rolled off her tongue.
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"Are those Big Yank jeans you are wearing?"
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She ends her question with a simple look. Although simple...it was
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subliminally drenched with sex. Sex and Vienna Beef hot dogs...she was hungry
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too. The back seat of her car revealed numerous Mello Yello cans, and a mint
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copy of X-MEN number one seventy-two (#172), the one where Storm gets a
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mohawk...I think.
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"Why yes.....yes they are" He answered.
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He knew she was as cool as he. He knew that she was impressed. He knew
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that he was damn lucky for going to Sears to buy pencil top erasers shaped like
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the General Lee from the Duke's of Hazzard....and running across those jeans.
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He knew that if he didn't get the Jeep home before seven o'clock (7:00), his
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sister ws going to take back her "Young Miss" magazines with the complete
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Susanna Hoffs autobiograpy.
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"I thought so." Was all she said....nothing more.
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Simple and precise. Elegant and beautiful. She understood him. She
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understood the bond they had. She understood that if she didn't see a doctor
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soon, her yeast infection would be running rampant like the mobs in Detroit on
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Halloween. She drives away. The first and last time they would meet. The end
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and the beginning in one quick instant, like the way a juice box has the straw
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right on the back of the package. With her Pinto reaching speeds only topped
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by a Renault Le Car, she is gone.
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"What do those white marks on the side of the label
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of a Budweiser bottle mean?" He interrupted my vision.
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"It's a conspiracy. They collaborated with Dorito's."
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I replied.
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That was another of my theories. The makers of Dorito's knew that Bud
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drinkers always wondered about that. Knowing that the thought process also
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triggers the hunger of beer drinkers, the white marks on the side of the label
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of Bud bottles are subliminally encoded to read: " Jay Leno is God, worship no
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others." Because the unconscious mind is truly brilliant, it realizes the
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connection between tortilla chips, and The Tonight Show guest host.
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"The Beastie Boys second album flopped. I feel this
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is the sole reason the Russians shot down Korean Air
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Lines flight 107 (KA-107)." He knew that I knew that.
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It was always my opinion that if Adrock, MCA and Mike D. would have been
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more cautious with their sophomoric release, flight KA-107 would never have
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been shot down that day. The flight recorder on board was played back,
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revealing miscellanious ramblings. They include:
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_ _
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| | "Hey Ladies sucks!" | |
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|A| "They could never top Paul Revere.." |A|
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|C| "Why did they leave Def Jam??" |C|
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|T| "...watch the Russian air space dude.." |T|
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|U| "And what about MCA's beard...looks shitty." |U|
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|A| "....<< KA-107 this is control, please |A|
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|L| monitor altitude and be aware that you |L|
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| | are straying into unfriendly | |
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|R| air space >>....." |R|
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|E| "...BRASS MONKEY...THAT FUNKY MONKEY!!!" |E|
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|C| "...dude...Dude...<DUDE!!!!!>" |C|
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|O| "What the......ahhh shit Bill...I told |O|
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|R| you to be careful with my CD's bro!" |R|
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|D| "...<< KA-107 BANK LEFT!! BANK LEFT!! >>" |D|
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|I| "Ahh, Bill?" |I|
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|N| "What up dude?" |N|
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|G| "You see that.....?" |G|
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|_| "Shit..........." |_|
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Proof positive that the Beastie Boys are soley responsible for the two
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hundred fifty-six (256) people that died that day. It is my opinion that MCA
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and Mike D. be brought to trial for these atrocities. Adrock's OK, becuse he
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made up for it in a cool movie about a troubled teen, called "Lost Angels".
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"If hotels don't have a thirteenth (13th) floor, why
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is there a room six six six (666)?"
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Another imponderable leaps from his lips.
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"Six plus six plus six equals eighteen (6+6+6=18). If you add the
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number of feet between the bed and TV, which is five (5),
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and subtract that from eighteen (18), it equals
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thirteen (13)."
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Another theory of mine is that hotels try to scam the general public with
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the abolishment of the thirteenth (13th) floor. In reality, room six six six
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(666) >IS< the thirteenth (13th) floor. Seeing that the people who would not
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want a thirteenth (13th) floor, would also not want a room six six six (666).
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Archetects, in conjunction with hotel general managers, have secretly built an
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entire floor in one room.....kind of like the Tardis effect if you have ever
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watched Dr. Who. When a guest is checked in, the instant a key is placed in
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his hand he is subliminally quizzed on his knowledge of important facts. These
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facts include: Meat Sauce contains no meat. Pop Tarts are used most often by
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the government to increase the dancing ability of M.C. Hammer; which increases
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race relations. Post-It notes were not meant to be removeable - in actuality
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they were a prototype for the heat resistant tiles on the space shuttle. The
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Nike "Swoosh" design actually has a biblical relationship...because Jesus
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himself was known to have this same mark on the outside of his left foot.
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If the guest then proceeds to answer these questions correctly, he/she is
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given access to the room/floor. Miscellanious activities abound here, most of
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which reflect the same things your mother told you not to do. Such as: running
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with scissors, chewing gum in bed, making funny faces until they permanently
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stick to your face, wearing plaid pants with striped shirts, and leaving the
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toilet seat up after you go.
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"I am a leper messiah. I have befriended creeping
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death, but yet the weak are ripped and torn away.
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I have lived my entire life trapped under ice.
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I am nothing but a harvester of sorrow, and there
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is never justice for all. We are controlled
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by nothing more than a master of puppets, who believes
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only in battery and the thing that should not be.
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I was born for dying."
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His poetic lust shining even more.
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"The alter of sacrifice has been nothing but a large
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war ensemble. A dead skin mask confronts us, but still
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we are haunting the chapel. Chemical warfare abounds...
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and will soon reign in blood. Soon you shall meet the
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undead - and be blissful with the Angel of Death. It is
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an epidemic, a permanent desease. We are forced to fight
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behind the crooked cross - moving on and on south of Heaven"
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My frail attempt at a reply cannot equal his.
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It had been hours, neigh, days since our initial contact. Although now I
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could see right through his initial intent of demoralizing me, I still had a
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thirst that only he could quench. I needed to know the true story behind Tucan
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Sam and the Fruit Loops. I had to be told why the Kennedy's had Marilyn Monroe
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murdered. It was imperative to know why Gorbechov (sp) had that mark tattooed
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on his head. He was a mirror image of me. A complete reflection of what I
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was. There was nothing that he didn't know about me, he knows more about me
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than I know about myself.
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But yet he hates me for being myself. He hates me for questioning the
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makers of A One (A-1) Steak Sauce for putting raisins in the recipe. He hates
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me for wanting to know why movies and the press call people who like punk as
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being "punk rockers", and not just "punks". Am I the victim or the crime?
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_______________________
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-=*/> Buzzz Bros. <\*=-
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(c) MCMXCI
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_______________________
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