224 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
224 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | /________/ | | / / /________/ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Wuss Vandals Get Hassled by the Man
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by Rev. Anna Truwe
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10/31/1997-#342
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__///////\ -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc- /\\\\\\\__
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\\\\\\\/ Everything You Need Since 1986 \///////
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___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___ _ _ ___
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|___heal_the_sick___raise_the_dead___cleanse_the_lepers___cast_out_demons___|
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Last year my small band of rebels had a date with Destiny,
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in the form of thirteen rolls of duct tape. Let me begin by
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explaining that the four of us (myself, S---, B--, and M----)
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have made it our mission to redecorate the school under cover of
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darkness. Among other things, we've stapled bacon to the rafters
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of the outdoor walkways, sprayed the bushes with Santa Snow, and
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deposited nearly sixty bowling balls about the grounds. We've
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only been caught once, and that was because we grew bold enough
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to leave a manifesto. Plus, some Drama Club kid squealed.
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We've a bit of a grudge against the school rock, a boulder
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that serves as an acceptable surface to spray paint when the
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tagging urge becomes too great. After an all-day attempt to bolt
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a chair to the rock, involving a lengthy drilling session, a
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couple of lock washers and a tube of Lok-Tite, our efforts proved
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to be in vain when, the next morning, a couple of jocks just
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yanked the whole chair off. Jocks (not athletes, mind you,
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jocks) either can't stand change or only know how to express
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themselves through destruction. We're constructive, or at least
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additive.
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The question on all of our minds was what to do next. It
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had better be darn spectacular, now that our identities were
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semi-public knowledge. It was my idea, as usual, that we should
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somehow enlarge the rock.
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"How?" asked S---. "Cement?"
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"Well, that would take too long to set, we'd have to either
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mix it and carry it in or bring water and mix it there. Also
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they could get it off with a jackhammer." B-- is practical about
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this sort of thing.
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"That blows my suggestion of paper mache right out of the
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water, then." said M----.
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"How about just covering the thing with duct tape? They'll
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just paint over it, then we can do it again in a month. It'll
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grow slowly until it's the size of a Buick, then it'll be too
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late!" It seems I have most of the ideas. I wouldn't mind that
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if it just gave me a reputation, but I'm worried how it might
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stand up in court.
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After discussing the price and durability of duct tape it
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was resolved. We would purchase enough to cover it twice and
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stealthily wrap the offending boulder with it. When I next saw
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B--, I reported we'd bought five rolls. He seemed stunned.
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"Five rolls? That's not even enough to wrap M---- up! How
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do you figure five rolls?" He promptly drove off to buy more,
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returning with eight shrink wrapped rolls of the sticky stuff,
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bringing us to a total of thirteen rolls. I trusted my original
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calculations of surface, but figured that a few extra layers
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wouldn't hurt. Besides, B-- paid for them.
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The big night finally arrived. Sunday. We'd arranged to
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meet at home base, my house, at nine p.m. At half past I placed
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a call to S---, with B-- and M---- waiting impatiently beside me.
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"Oh! That's tonight? Sorry, be right over."
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While waiting for S--- to turn up, I cut the shrink wrapping
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off the duct tape and stacked them all in an imposing grey tower.
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I also went on a last minute hunt through the house, looking for
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something to tape to the rock, hopefully giving the whole thing a
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deeper meaning. I ended up with a legless goose decoy I'd spray
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painted silver the previous summer in a fit of inspiration and
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since forgotten.
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"Oh, I get it, we're using duct tape and it's a duck."
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M---- said, warming to the idea.
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"No, it's a goose." I said for what would not be the last
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time that night.
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At ten of ten, S--- knocked on the door. After we finally
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got him to stop apologizing and explained that it was a goose,
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not a duck, we set off on the long, hard, three-block drive to
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the school. We took S---'s vehicle, a sleek, aquamarine marvel
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of technology, in case we needed a quick getaway, and because the
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only other auto around was a 1960 Volkswagen Transporter in a
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particularly memorable shade of yellow.
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We parked excitedly in the deserted parking lot. The dim
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yellow streetlights gave a jaundiced cast to our faces as we
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surveyed the surroundings. The rock was freshly painted with a
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Mexican flag on beige background, rendering the paint thinner and
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rags we'd brought to prepare the surface useless. There was no
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one in sight. The soft drink machines hummed as I went back to
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the car to get the duct tape.
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I got the phallic tower of adhesives from the back seat and
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started to hand the top one to M---- when I realized that I
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couldn't. In the half hour they'd been stacked, they had bonded,
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raw edge to raw edge, and were nearly inseparable. I had to
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stand on them to bend them enough to break the seal. While I
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separated the rolls, my comrades secured the goose to the rock
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and, as I worked more tape loose, started to wrap the rock.
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At first we carefully stuck each length of tape to the rock,
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patting it down to assure adhesion. In less than fifteen minutes
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we were running around the rock like a maypole, while the goose
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oversaw all with a proud tilt to its plastic head.
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The rock was completely covered by the time we finished the
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first four rolls. B-- looked a little sheepish when this was
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pointed out, but we had all gotten into the spirit of things and
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didn't mind the extra tape. Time lost meaning as we danced a
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fairy ring around the rock, spooling out tape like kite string in
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a hurricane. Some of us walked faster and would have to duck or
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stretch to pass a slower taper. Soon we had only four rolls, of
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different but quickly diminishing size.
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B-- finished first. He stepped back to admire our work,
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then lay back on the pavement, squinting at the stars. M----,
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who was the slowest and still on her third roll of tape, finally
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finished and sat on the curb, egging S--- and me on. The night
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was clear and blue, and it felt as if we four were the only ones
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alive, here in our pool of yellow light.
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It was eleven and S--- and I had a quarter of a roll each
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left for the masterpiece when M---- suddenly sat up straight.
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"Guys..." she said, and S--- and I slowed in our wrapping.
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"Someone's coming." My heart raced as I saw two men at the
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parking lot entrance and two at the other end of the courtyard.
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They walked slowly toward us. All the color drained out of S---
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's face. We made eye contact and I realized he was thinking what
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I was thinking. Jocks! He, perhaps, was a little more worried
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than I was; his gender put him in some danger of physical
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violence. I unconsciously patted my pocket to see if my pepper
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spray was still there.
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"S---." I whispered. He looked at me for an instant before
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his eyes darted back at the figures slowly moving closer. "S---.
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Keep wrapping. We can't run, maybe if we act natural." He
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nodded, looking petrified. We'd both kept slowly circling the
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rock, our bodies on autopilot, and only now did I become aware of
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my movements again. My hands were numb and sticky and smelled of
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industrial chemicals. My heartbeat rang so loudly in my head
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that I could barely hear anything else. In my peripheral vision
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I saw M---- leaning over to whisper to B-- that he might want to
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sit up. I thought quickly of what might be about to happen as
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the shadow men walked slowly towards us. We might be attacked,
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chased off, or have the rest of our high school years made into a
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hell of "lost" books, kicked-in lockers and slashed tires. Or,
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maybe, possibly, with a little luck, oh please, maybe I can
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convince these muscleheads that we're not from North and that
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we're completely harmless and engaging in an activity that will
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boost School Spirit. Maybe they'll just laugh at us. Or
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maybe...
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"Medford Police. Put your hands in the air." Which we did.
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The adrenaline that had hit my system prevents me from
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remembering exactly what happened next. The policemen all seemed
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quite young, the same build as jocks but not quite as
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threatening. S--- looked even more terrified than before. I was
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going to say something to him to the effect of "We didn't do
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anything too wrong, things should turn out okay." when I
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remembered his father was on the force. Poor S---. M---- looked
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a little worried, but she knew she was far too young to get
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anything on her Permanent Record just yet. B--, oddly enough,
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seemed unfazed. He was still lying on the pavement, hands more
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or less up.
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As soon as the officers saw that we were not vicious
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adolescent hooligans, they let us put our arms down and asked us
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what we were doing. We answered truthfully that we thought it
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would be a lark to wrap the school rock with duct tape. The
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policemen were very interested in the rock, and it was an odd
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sight to see them staring at the rock, flashlights trained at the
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goose, wearing full uniforms and giggling.
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Two of them left on other business, snickering at those
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crazy teens. The other two took our names down in case the
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janitors wanted us to clean up.
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"S--- M------ McC-----? Hmm, any relation to T-- McC----?"
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S--- was visibly relieved when the officer said that if nothing
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came of this Dad wouldn't necessarily have to know.
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They told us they'd gotten a call in that a Hispanic gang
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was tagging the school. Luckily, I had thought twice about
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bringing paint for the rock and decided tape was enough. I told
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them that under the tape we'd seen a fresh coat of paint with a
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Mexican flag, and pointed out the fresh graffiti on the walls.
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The two young policemen seemed very glad that they had only found
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a four-member gang consisting primarily of nearsighted fat
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people. Eventually they left, telling us to finish up soon. We
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did, a little discouraged that we couldn't convince them that our
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goose was not a duck. We got home at a quarter to twelve.
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None of us ever heard anything more about the incident.
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When I arrived at seven the next morning, someone had already
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made off with the goose. When I came back from my lunch, the
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tape was all off the rock. Perhaps the strips we'd used were too
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long. I cursed the jocks to S---, but he told me that he'd seen
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who destroyed our handiwork.
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"Some darn slacker kid. When I left for lunch he was just
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picking at it, and when I came back he had it all off and was
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carrying it around. Some people have way too much time on their
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hands."
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.-. _ _ .-.
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/ \ .-. ((___)) .-. / \
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/.ooM \ / \ .-. [ x x ] .-. / \ /.ooM \
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-/-------\-------/-----\-----/---\--\ /--/---\-----/-----\-------/-------\-
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/lucky 13\ / \ / `-(' ')-' \ / \ /lucky 13\
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\ / `-' (U) `-' \ /
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`-' the original e-zine `-' _
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Oooo eastside westside / ) __
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/)(\ ( \ WORLDWIDE / ( / \
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\__/ ) / Copyright (c) 1997 cDc communications and the author. \ ) \)(/
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(_/ CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a registered trademark of oooO
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cDc communications, PO Box 53011, Lubbock, TX, 79453, USA. _
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oooO All rights reserved. Edited by Grandmaster Ratte'. __ ( \
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/ ) /)(\ / \ ) \
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\ ( \__/ Save yourself! Go outside! Do something! \)(/ ( /
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\_) xXx BOW to the COW xXx Oooo
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