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Donkeys

I don’t actually have anything to write about donkeys. However, Teresa is feeling sick. Aspen still strips in the night. Ariah is still bursting with boundless bounciness. And I … ah, me. Yes, that bottomless mystery of self. What of me? What am I? What are you? Why are you? But this isn’t about you, it’s about me. I am a boy. I’m not a squirrel or a bird orĀ  a fish. Sometimes I like to crawl up the walls like a spider. But I’m not a spider. I do like fluffy rabbits, however. Not real rabbits, that is. Sometimes I see women in the mirror. But only when they’re standing behind me. Other times I drink beer. Root beer. And thus ends the Chronicles of Cardiac the Crocodile Cretan. To learn more, please visit www.whitehouse.gov. Or just visit your local barber. Ask for Dave. And remember, never eat soggy waffles.

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