245 lines
8.8 KiB
Plaintext
245 lines
8.8 KiB
Plaintext
Mike's Madness #21
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So anyway, I was sittin' in the park the other day, not doin'
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anyone any harm, not doin' anyone any good; just lookin' for
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wealthy older folks who might be wandering around the park, and
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this dude comes up to me. Kinda hippy-lookin' dude.
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"Whazzup?" I asked.
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His glassy, bloodshot eyes stared passed me. The thick, miasmic
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smell of bud hung around him, like a curtain of skunk spray.
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"Hey man, you either need a bath, or are carrying some very
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potent bud." I said.
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The hippy gave a wisend nod.
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"Whatcher name?" I asked.
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"Phinias Phreak."
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"Yer mom liked Head Comix, huh?"
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"Yup. M'brother's name is Fat Freddy's Cat."
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"Sorry to hear that . . ."
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"M'Daddy had torquette's and named my sister
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FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKSHITGODDAMNITSONOFABITCH - FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK."
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"WHAT?!"
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"Yeah, real tragedy in the family. Ma'd call sis in for dinner
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and half the neighborhood would call the police sayin' 'There's
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that horrible Mrs. Ratpoison yelling obscenities at her daughter
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again!'. And Fat Freddy's Cat would start crying because the cops
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were gonna haul mom off again . . ."
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"That's truly horrible. So tell me about this bud you have."
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"THIS bud?" he asked as he whipped out this reaking, brownstained
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bag of some unidentified black herbage.
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"That's BUD?" I asked in amazement. It could have passed for raw sewage.
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"Take a hit . . ." he challenged, offering me a bowl.
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I met his challenge with bravery and bravado usually reserved for
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Marines and other members of the mentally undead, and took a long,
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sucking hit. They don't call me the Human Tornado for nothing.
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And nothing is what I felt.
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"Sorry, doesn't get me . . ."
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Ba-WHAP!
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". . . Hi. I'm not in right now, but if you'll leave your name
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and number, I'll get back to you when I can remember mine.
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BEEEEEEEEEEEEP!"
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- THUD -
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And I sat/fell on my ass and my head floated like 8 feet above my
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neck. Then this door opened out of the side of this big oak tree
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and out strolls God. He walks up to me, looks me right in the eye
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and says "Oh yeah? Well I don't believe in YOU either!" and walks
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back. ---
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I could tell this was some good bud.
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"This bud," the hippy tells me, "is the end product of 1,200
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years of genetic experiments by Tibetan monks on a local species
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of grass that has up to 65% cannabinol in its sap. The plant this
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came from was one-hundred years old, over ten feet tall and
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35 foot around. It weighed 380 pounds when harvested. The monks
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dried it in a special room in the Abbey thats heated by the
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fires of hemp plants. After being dried, it was preserved in a
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protective cocoon of black Lebanese hash for the 7 month-long
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trip to market across the Himalayas."
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"Oh wow . ." I said intelligibly.
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"You look like a man who enjoys good bud, so I'll give you an eighth
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for free. If you see me without bud in the future, get me high. Okay?"
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"Oh wow . ." I said intelligibly.
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(I was honestly impressed with this act of charity, but speech or
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sentences beyond two words were about as possible to form as a
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Tel Aviv chapter of the Klaus Barbie Fan Club.)
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The hippy dropped the eighth in my lap and strolled away.
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So I sat there in Elk Grove Park. Stoned. Stoned stupid. For
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three straight hours I sat on a patch of damp grass and grooved
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on cars, truant high school students, squirrels (greatly amusing
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and not hard to pick off with a well thrown rock), clouds, small
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bugs, bigger bugs, BIG bugs, the public toilet, two rednecks
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drinking Old Milwaukee (a horrible breech of etiquette and a sure
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symptom of Conservativism) and endless other trivia that floated
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in and out of my field of view.
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I sat there and smiled an idiot's smile and lived in a fool's
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paradise. Then a white car with a green word on its door rolled
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into view. I wondered what the word was, but then remembered I
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could read. I tried to revive the dormant skill.
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"Sh . . ." the word on the door started.
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"Sh . . ." I said to myself, trying to assemble the rest of the
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letters into the rest of the word.
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"Sh . . ." I just couldn't get it.
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Then this big black man in a green suit with a black belt and a
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large gun filled my sight like the ogre in that painting by Goya.
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And then I filled in the rest of the word.
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"Shit."
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"Elk Grove Sheriff." the Ogre said. "Why you sittin' here on the
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grass grinning like an idiot?"
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The answer to which is, of course, "Because I'm a total fuckin'
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loadie and, as is my usual state, I am stoned off my ass."
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But some small section of my brain dedicated to survival didn't
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want want the Ogre to find this out, so instead supplied the answer:
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"Dolphins put me here to observe your culture. Pay no mind to me."
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That same section also instantly regretted the results.
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"Oh, think you're a funnyman, huh?" The Ogre asked in an edged
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voice. "Well why don't you just supply me with some I.D., or did
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the dolphins supply you with any?"
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This answer, unfortunately, kicked in my deep-seated sense of
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moral outrage. I was not so outraged that the local Bund member
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didn't believe my admittedly lame excuse, but that the peabrained
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little Nazi would actually have the gall to suggest that
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dolphins were in anyway imperfect. I love dolphins. A LOT.
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Probably more than is really healthy. But I haven't been caught
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yet and I can hold my breath longer than anyone in Sacramento.
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Regardless, I wasn't about to let this feebleminded twit get away
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with that little slight against the Cetacean race.
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"Dolphins," I informed the simp, "are far more advanced then the
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culture that spawned you and your Nazi-minded, authoritarian, law-
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enforcing ilk. Dolphins have lived on this planet in their
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current form for five million years! That's roughly 100 times
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longer than the entire recorded history of man. During that time,
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they never managed to destroy a rain forest, pollute a river,
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annihilate another species, kill billions of their kind in
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moronic conflicts, or produce Elvis Presley music. That's not to
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say they never thought about it. Regardless, they had the
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presense of mind to supply me with a perfectly legal California
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Driver's License, and here it is."
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The obviously humbled fuzz took my somewhat authentic California
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Driver's License and looked it over.
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"So your name's Pink Floyd, huh?" he asked, not quite believing
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my carefully constructed ruse, which was a total shame as I had
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wasted three crayons faking that I.D.
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"That's Floyd Pink, you simpering subhuman goose-stepping
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bastard!" I politely corrected him.
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"One more smart remark and your name's gonna be Blacken Blue!"
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"Watch it! My real name is Dr. Hunter S. Thompson and I'm a
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famous Gonzo Journalist and molester of aging porn stars. If you
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don't piss off directly, I'm gonna write a 15 page story about
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the failure of I.Q. testing in the local militia and mention YOUR
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name about a hundred-nineteen times!"
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That little gem of information so impressed the flat-foot that he
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grabbed me up off the ground, threw me against the white car with
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the green word on its door, and with detectable lack of finesse,
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searched me and found the eighth of the Fabled Bud. He opened the
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bag and took a HUGE whiff. Then he looked at me.
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"Any reason you're keeping cow shit in a bag?", he asked me.
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"Gotta have something to throw at cops," I told him.
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And that's why I was late for church, Father.
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-----------------
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RIP OFF COMPUTERS
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-----------------
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Spring 1990 Catalog
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TRS-80 Model III ..................... $900,000
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Osbourne Portable .................... $18,000,000
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TI-99/a .............................. $47,000,000,000
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Commodore Pet ........................ $732,000,000
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Apple II GS .......................... $1.75 (after the Crapple
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"A Good Reaming Never
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Hurt Anyone, Just Ask
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Any Faggot" Rebate)
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Y'know when you buy a Crapple Computer, you get some letter like:
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Dear Honored and Esteemed "Computer" Buyer,
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Dear Sir/Madam/Both/Other,
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We thank you for buying the amazing Crapple (insert model number
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here). We at Crapple stand behind this machine. WAY behind it.
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That way when you come looking for us after it fails, we'll have a
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good running start.
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As Father Bruce Ritter usedta say, "Bend over."
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With sincere and honest intentions,
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(bah-ha-ha!)
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Martin Borrman
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U.S. Rep., Crapple Computers
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(Not THE Martin Borrman)
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(Not THE truth)
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-----
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Remember: A fox, duct tape and a dirty mind -- instant fun!
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Obnoxious tripe conceived, written and performed by:
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Mike "Who needs women when we got sheep?" Beebe
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(C) 1990 Yucks For You, Inc.
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Comments & Flames to Author:
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{ ucbvax | uunet }!ucdavis!spked!sactoh0!smb (Mike Beebe)
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Mailing List Requests: smbancroft@ucdavis.edu (Steven Bancroft)
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All Back-issues are available by E-mail request from smbancroft@ucdavis.edu
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or by anonymous ftp from bikini.cis.ufl.edu [128.227.224.1] in directory
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/pub/mikesmad.
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