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spiders dropped down Jarg's throating wordering if all the spinach he ate created the wrong kind of gas? you know the type? the type that wafts heavy bubbles of rose collered perfume accrossed hallwaysd of dim white noise where a housewife sits collecting dust and smoking pall mall after pall mall wondering when hubby is coming back from the ejaculation joint down the street where the young girls don't give a damn what the motherfucker smells like, unlike dear wifey, who can't stand the smell of the cafeteria clinging to his breath.
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