Thursday, July 02, 2009

He With The Befoiled Spine, A Real Winner

We sat on the lawnmower, feeling that every blade was equivalent to grand larceny of the shins. Suddenly, the edge of someone's leg (or something analogous to the edge) erupted with more than 503 maggots from a hole less than the size of a Euro-coin. That was when we septuplets were 5-- it took several more years before someone had prettily patented an anti-cut blade. Of course, you're welcome to think the inventor had a greater sense of clerical air than your average non-cleric, pro-anti-cut blader, but of course, you will be wrong if you do.

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