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The marching band's use of rubber bands was banned. Between the hours of 2 and 5 they could not use them, they were stripped of their rights and acess to elasticity. A.M. or P.M.? We ten, the tree men, will accept your unconditional surrender this weekend. The end. Post-script, twenty-four lines remain, now twenty-three. Maybe a bit lazy, but that's all a matter of perspective. Just ask the salvation army band, or didn't I say they marched? Whatever it is you're looking for, you'll find it there, along with all the onion rings you can eat. I've gone and swept the floor for dust mites, for civil rights, for Mike and Ikes. See the fruits of my labor, I did it all for you. To deserve an outcome as illustrious as this, I really must have become a god at tap dancing. Unless you've got a better explanation, that is. Are you still there? Have at it, then, there isn't much time. But plenty of space, a vacuum, the portable kind, to replace the laugh track of your favorite sitcom. Dirt Devil, a looker, a real handsome son of a bitch. He'll take care of your lint problem and then he'll take care of you. For a flat fee you can get him to suck on your leghair. But that's not really my thing. And I hate onion rings.

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from Can't Date a Flannel Dilettante, released December 3, 2017

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Jeremy Vagrant College Park, Maryland

Bum dropout, preemptive surname, shallots, scamps, jubilee

Formerly of Malaise. I write and record stories and things like that

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