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Saturday, December 04, 2004

Again

This morning Fat Old Molly threw a spoon at me and told me to cook my own oats. Why does she suffer these seizures of fury? What does she think I pay her for? Apparently I pay her to
a.) waddle and flop about in the caverns below,
b.) guzzle gin, and
c.) exercise her poison tongue with the hot breath of Hades at her back.
Cook my own oats? And how, pray tell, am I to cook my own oats when I am not allowed into her infernal kitchen? I tried to eat them raw but they just sort of stuck to my tongue. Someday I will buy a new cook - one who doesn't hate me so, and one who doesn't burn every pudding that walks through the door.

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