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Paos, a prehistoric clovis culture American warrior who lived large on the land and reigned over so many women that they could not be counted, invented soap - which is Paos spelled backwards. Men called him their friend, and went to hunt with him, and baked the bread as only a man chef can bake it. Paos The Great, his story we tell.
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Once upon a time, the Big Bad Wolf was in a terrible mood. Some might say it had something to do with the paper cut on his left paw; others might go into detail about how he had just broken up with his girlfriend twice in the same week; and still others might point to the eventual realization that comes to all people and animals that life is ultimately pointless and fleeting. But in truth it had nothing to do with any of these; it had everything to do with location.
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I am at a Target store.
The one just past Mount Penglai's Chinese Buffet,
The one with the flimsy sneeze-guards,
The day-old slop resting under the heat lamps,
The slimy sucrose procession of fat-asses,
Scooping the communal gunk into their plates, into their holes—
I ate Singapore Lo Mein and met General Tso there.
He said, "I will suppress your sadness—
Like I suppressed the Taiping Rebellion.
I will be a friend for whom your words,
will be like spring rain to morning flowers,
If flowers were your stomach in this metaphor:
You fat, ugly fuck.
Hey, at least you've stopped drinking cough syrup."
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