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avatar test - ignore if you wish - Page 2

post #16 of 38
Quote:
Originally Posted by faustian bargain
sheer brilliance.

Well, thank you. This inspired dreck is the result of a delicate and precise combination of boredom and creativity.

The muskrat theme started out way back in high school as a one-paragraph bit of nonsense for no special reason. Over the years, I came back to it to practice certain word processing functions as I learned about them, and the cast of characters developed out of that. This is the first time I've written it as an actual coherent story. It's kind of fun to see how many cliches I can load into it.

FB, you seem to be my only audience.
post #17 of 38
Dude... if I had the patience to read something that long, I wouldn't be wasting my time on a web-forum... I'll get it when you release it on CD with Christopher Walken reading it.
post #18 of 38
Thread Starter 
sorry
post #19 of 38
Quote:
Originally Posted by Nantucket Red
Well, thank you. This inspired dreck is the result of a delicate and precise combination of boredom and creativity.

The muskrat theme started out way back in high school as a one-paragraph bit of nonsense for no special reason. Over the years, I came back to it to practice certain word processing functions as I learned about them, and the cast of characters developed out of that. This is the first time I've written it as an actual coherent story. It's kind of fun to see how many cliches I can load into it.

FB, you seem to be my only audience.

oh, it's very readable...after about 4 drinks. lucky for you, i can hold my liquor.

i really admire people who can write and tell stories. especially when they're bored. when i'm bored i get mental paralysis.
post #20 of 38
Quote:
Originally Posted by truestorytravis
sorry

For providing the vehicle for these hideous literary abominations? The Forum should thank you.

Quote:
Originally Posted by faustian bargain
Quote:
Originally Posted by Nantucket Red
Well, thank you. This inspired dreck is the result of a delicate and precise combination of boredom and creativity.

The muskrat theme started out way back in high school as a one-paragraph bit of nonsense for no special reason. Over the years, I came back to it to practice certain word processing functions as I learned about them, and the cast of characters developed out of that. This is the first time I've written it as an actual coherent story. It's kind of fun to see how many cliches I can load into it.

FB, you seem to be my only audience.


oh, it's very readable...after about 4 drinks. lucky for you, i can hold my liquor.

i really admire people who can write and tell stories. especially when they're bored. when i'm bored i get mental paralysis.

Sorry. I hate to think that my literary success (or failure as the case may be) has come at the expense of your liver.
post #21 of 38
hey, you've got two livers, might as well use one up! ...anyway, the drinks are going in, story or no.
post #22 of 38
Chapter 5; Part 3: Our Cup Runneth Over (the exceedingly overwrought continuation of Babes in the Wood, in which the young muskrat twins, after finding shelter from the storm, find solace in excelsis (with apologies to Masters & Johnson and Forever Amber (not that there's any particular reason to apologize to them (and they are strange bedfellows (and you, dear reader, may soon know how it feels to drown with them in a vat of molasses))))


The storm raged deep into the night, its torrential rains inundating the land and swelling the rivers without surcease, its gale-force winds rending dead branches and even living limbs from massive trees. Many woodland creatures got flooded out of house and home, and were forced to flee, terror-stricken, from the unrelenting blast and prodigious thunder and lightning in whatever way they could and with what few possessions they were able to salvage. For most, it was the greatest storm in living memory.

Inside the hollow oak, the muskrat twins cuddled together safe and warm in the burrow of the abandoned nest. The rain beat furiously against the tree trunk and the limbs of the mighty oak creaked eerily in the wind. Thunder crackled and boomed, causing the ground to quiver ominously. Occasional bolts of lightning cast sudden ghostly glows of pale blue-green light on the bleak interior of the old abandoned nest. Their narrow escape from almost certain death mere moments before made the old burrow seem all the cozier to the cuddling twins. Never had they taken such comfort in each other's company.

"Oh, Beauregard," Octavia sighed, "We were nearly goners!"

"We're safe now," Beauregard assured her, "We'll wait out the storm here."

"I've never been so frightened in my life!" she said with a shudder.

"You have nothing to worry about now. I'll keep you safe," he said firmly.

"I'm so glad you're here with me. I'd have perished without you," Octavia pouted forlornly.

"I -- I'd never be able to go on without you," Beauregard stammered desperately.

Lying there in the dark with the storm raging outside, Octavia began to feel a strange and unfamiliar longing grow within her. She felt an unusually warm tenderness for her twin brother and yearned to open up to him as she never had before.

Cuddled so close to her, Beauregard felt a surge of affection swell his heart to bursting with the urge to fill his twin sister with resolute courage.

As if with one mind, they drew each other closer in their embrace, and then closer still until the contours of their bodies all but merged.

"Do you remember during big storms when we used to climb into bed with Mama and Papa?" Octavia asked softly.

"It always felt so safe, didn't it?" Beauregard replied in barely more than a whisper.

"This feels even safer," Octavia offered.

"It feels even better too," Beauregard ventured.

"So much better. Why haven't we ever been together this way before?" she inquired tenderly.

"I don't know. You don't suppose it might be wrong to be together this way, do you?" he probed tentatively.

"How could it possibly be wrong when it feels so right?!" she moaned breathlessly.

And with that, the young muskrat twins gently rocked each other off to dreamland.

*****************************

Heaving and swaying with a dreadful fury, bespattered and drenched to the last nook and cranny, their supple limbs straining against the terrible breath of the tempest, the forest trees presented a spectacle of the fearsome power of the storm to Papa Muskrat as he made his way cautiously toward the Dismal Dell in the Ghastly Grove out on the Peninsula of Peril. He was beginning to weary of getting pelted by the rain and buffeted by the wind. In these conditions, he could hardly tell how far he'd come or exactly where he was. Exhausted, he paused briefly in the lee of a large oak to try to get his bearings.

As he peered into the murky depths of the forest to search for a familiar landmark, he thought he heard a voice. Yes, he heard a faint voice calling him. Where could it be coming from? Was the storm driving him mad? There it was again - a strangely familiar voice! It was coming from the great oak he stood beside, from a large hole in the trunk. In the dim light that glowed within, he could vaguely discern a familiar silhouette. He crept closer to the hole in the tree and suddenly the voice became quite clear.

"Hector Muskrat! Good gravy on buttered toast! What the devil are you doing out there in this weather?" It was Old Snoozebag the vulture craning his great neck out from the hole in the tree. "Get in here before you succumb to the elements, you foolish rodent!" he exclaimed.

Before Papa Muskrat could quite make sense of the situation, a huge door in the side of the tree opened and he was dragged inside in the grip of giant talons and placed gently on the floor of a vast and luxurious wood paneled room encircled by a spiral staircase ascending the inner circumference of the tree into the obscure darkness high above. He stood with his sodden coat dripping on an impossibly ornate parquet floor composed of a bewildering variety of exotic woods. The great vulture closed the heavy oaken door, in which the hole in the tree formed an elegant round window with a latticed framework.

"Old Snoozebag, what are you doing here?" was all Papa Muskrat could manage to ask.

"I'm enjoying a fine single malt in the privacy of my own home," he explained in a leisurely cadence, his head bobbing slightly and his glazed eyes gazing into some unseen distance. He was drunk as a lord. "The question is, what are you doing out there in such godforsaken weather?" He asked, wrapping a big cotton towel around Papa Muskrat. The great bird, dressed in a maroon satin smoking jacket with black velvet lapels and the sash tied with a stylish abandon, towered over the large rodent.

Before Papa Muskrat could explain, Old Snoozebag said, "For heaven's sake, come join me for a drink and dry off for a spell." Saying this, he led the still-marveling muskrat through the gothic arch of a massive passageway that opened into a cavernous wine cellar stocked with a prodigious quantity of ancient, dusty bottles, opposite which stood an enormous bar made entirely of some long-extinct hardwood. Muttering all the way about how glad he was that he'd had storm windows installed the previous summer, the great vulture showed Papa Muskrat to an adjacent lounge with large brown leather armchairs and gestured for him to sit.

"Chauncey, two more glasses of scotch," he addressed these words to a younger vulture in blue-grey livery who was standing behind the bar.

"The Speyside, sir?" the younger vulture asked in a distant and disinterested voice.

"That will be fine."

"Neat, sir?"

"Naturally," Old Snoozebag replied. Then turning to Papa Muskrat, asked, "You do drink yours neat, don't you?"

"You mean straight up? Hell, yeah - I mean, why yes, of course," replied Papa Muskrat, in a somewhat feeble attempt to appear at least somewhat refined.

Chauncey brought two tumblers filled about a third of the way with the tawny single malt. Old Snoozebag raised his glass in a toast.

"To a carcass!" he chanted in a mellifluous baritone. "Ah, there's naught so glorious as a carcass!" he added exuberantly, his eyes suddenly gleaming.

"Uh, to a, um, a carcass," said Papa Muskrat hesitantly. He found mere thought of a carcass, not to mention the old vulture's enthusiasm quite disconcerting. He took a gulp of the whiskey.

"I must take you on a tour of the catacombs - ah, the lovely catacombs, so redolent of death and decay . . . But you don't seem terribly thrilled by the prospect of a carcass," Old Snoozebag observed.

"Christ, no - I mean, to tell the truth, not really," Papa Muskrat replied. Since he'd managed to get a word in edgewise, he continued, "The reason I was out in this fucking nasty weather - I mean, this awfully nasty weather - is that my children are lost and I was out looking for them."

"Lost? In this weather? Oh my! I certainly hope nothing terrible has happened to them," the old vulture sympathized.

"You mean you aren't hoping they show up as carcasses?" asked Papa Muskrat tensely.

"Goodness gracious, no!" Old Snoozebag replied. "When I toast to a carcass, what I have in mind is a nice deer or moose - oh, how a dream of a fresh moose carcass!" he mused wistfully. "This storm is sure to turn up a few fine carcasses, but I don't much relish anything as small as a muskrat - the way the tiny bones get stuck in your throat, it's so unpleasant. Any carcass that small is strictly for the crows," he explained.

The thought was of scant consolation to Papa Muskrat. "Old Fox said he'd caught a whiff of them alive in the Dismal Dell in the Ghastly Grove out on the Peninsula of Peril."

"Wonderfully dreary place, that, but no place for young muskrats in weather like this. It's a wonder Old Fox didn't eat them."

"He was headed home with a fresh kill at the time."

"That was a stroke of luck."

"It sure as hell was. Anyway, could you give me directions to the Dismal Dell?" Papa Muskrat asked hopefully.

"Well, certainly. I can even take you up into the aerie and show you where it is, but stay here a while longer. We can have another drink, and perhaps I could read to you from my favorite author, Poe. The Cask of Amontillado would be just the story to accompany a drink," Old Snoozebag offered.

"That's damned nice - I mean, very nice of you, but I can't fucking relax - um, can't very well relax until I know those kids are safe," Papa Muskrat stammered.

"Well, if I were you, I wouldn't be quite so anxious. If your children have even half of your swamp-smarts, they'll have taken shelter in a hollow tree. You can't swing a cat carcass in the Dismal Dell without hitting a hollow tree. Besides, even if you were to go out there and find them, you'd have to try to get them home safely without getting hit by flying debris or running into a dastardly rogue badger or something even worse. For lord's sake, be sensible. Don't get yourself and them killed trying to be a bloody hero. Stay here and have another drink," Old Snoozebag admonished.

"Hell, I guess you're right, Old Snoozebag," Papa Muskrat conceded.

"Please Hector, we're on a first-name basis here. Call me Terence," the old vulture said.

"Your name is Terence?" Papa Muskrat asked stupidly.

"I wouldn't ask you to call me that if it weren't," the old vulture remarked wryly. "Shall we go up to the aerie and see if we can spot the Dismal Dell?" he continued.

"What the hell?" said Papa Muskrat, beginning to feel tipsy. "Just think, a bird's eye view of the whole goddamned forest!"

*************************

Will the dark and stormy night ever end? Will Papa Muskrat find the twins in time? Will Old Snoozebag find the moose carcass he dreams of? And what of Mama Muskrat? Don't touch that dial!
post #23 of 38
Chapter 6; Part 1: The Diaspora (The saga of the young muskrat twins lost in a terrifying storm of awesome power begun in Chapter 5 continues in Chapter 6, which details how the storm permanently changes the lives of a great number of creatures in the Greater Woodland and Marsh area, often with unforeseen and tragic (or humorous) consequences.)


The unrelenting storm lashed, pounded, battered and otherwise molested a vast area, wreaking havoc with ecosystems far and wide, and forcing forest creatures for miles around to evacuate their homes or face certain death. The odds of survival for those who fled were often slim. Many succumbed to exposure, dying slowly and painfully, praying for help that never arrived. Others met swift ends, killed instantly by the sudden fall of a colossal tree limb, crushed under the massive weight of a collapsing lodge, or mauled and devoured by marauding predators. Many drowned, swept away in the powerful current of rivers that swelled their banks to overflowing, uprooting trees and casting the lofty boughs into their murky depths. The storm left untold devastation in its wake. The mass displacement would be known forever after as the Diaspora.

*************************

Mama Muskrat's anxiety over the twins and her husband's infidelities had reached a fever pitch. She fidgeted restlessly, unable to concentrate. At times like this, the only thing able to distract her from her worries was her "trusted companion." She crept furtively into her bedroom and booted up the computer in anticipation of surfing the steamy "muskratlove.com." Flipping the switch of her "trusted companion" on and off several times to check the batteries, she slid it slowly toward her nether regions with one hand while navigating the explicit content of the adult muskrat website with the other.

Just as her loins began to quiver, she heard a loud, importunate knock on the door to the lodge. Dropping her "trusted companion" and carelessly throwing on an indecently short t-shirt, she hurried to the door and flung it open to reveal her brother-in-law, Frank Muskrat, drenched to the bone and carrying two large suitcases.

"Frank, well, what a surprise," Mama Muskrat stammered awkwardly, smiling coyly and quickly trying to arrange her hair. "Does this mean you've finally left Mildred?" she asked hopefully.

"No, Agnes. We got flooded out. We've lost everything. We're going to have to stay with you until we can find a new place," the haggard Frank Muskrat replied. "Mildred should be right behind me with the kids," he began to explain. Then, seeing the scantily-clad Mama Muskrat, he cried out suddenly, "Oh, Agnes, I must have you now!! I can't wait another second to consummate our love!" Saying this, he threw her to the kitchen floor and began to ravage her right then and there, leaving the door wide open.

"No, Frank, don't!" Agnes Muskrat implored, "Stop!"

"I should have known," Frank sighed, "this isn't the right time."

"No, Frank, don't stop!" Agnes Muskrat moaned in desperation and, aching with desire, yielded to his passionate advance.

They tumbled furiously about the kitchen floor, moaning with insatiable lust as he plunged his throbbing manhood into her quivering love muffin. The sounds of the wind rattling the windows of the enclosed porch and the violent patter of the rain that beat against them filtering in through the open door were barely sufficient to muffle their frantically impassioned cries. Just as their white-hot froth of passionate passion reached its passionately delirious crescendo, they heard the storm door slam and the tread of heavy footsteps. Suddenly, a dark figure loomed in the open doorway brandishing a shotgun.

Mama Muskrat screamed, "He's a madman! Frank, do something! Ohmygod! He'll kill us!" The memory of Mr. Bunny's tragic escapade back in Chapter 3 was still too fresh in her memory.

"Hiya Pa," the dark figure said.

"Junior!" Frank Muskrat exclaimed with relief and a broad grin. It was his son, Junior. "You gave us quite a scare. What the hell are you doing with that shotgun, anyway?"

"It's a madhouse out there - a total free-for-all!" Junior exclaimed, wild-eyed. "The bastards might try to break in and try to loot the place. I'll stay out here and stand guard."

"You're - you're not going to shoot us for indulging in our forbidden love?" Mama Muskrat asked, still trembling with fear.

"Nah," said Junior matter-of-factly. "Everybody's known about your little affair for ages now. It stopped being news long ago. Carry on."

*******************************************

Elsewhere, other little swimmers were being displaced.

Snuggling safe and warm in their burrow inside the old hollow oak, the twins had very much enjoyed rocking each other to dreamland and wanted to visit there again as often as possible. This led them to the discovery of a new game that delighted them so much they played it over and over again. This so occupied them that they nearly forgot about the storm raging furiously outside their cozy refuge.

"Remember when we used to spy on Mama and Papa through the keyhole at night?" asked Beauregard.

"Yeah. I think they were playing the same game we're playing now," Octavia said.

"Remember what Papa used to say to Mama?" he asked.

"Some of the things he said could have peeled paint," she opined.

"What about that horse thing?"

"That was your favorite too? Wanna play?"

"Let's!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "Now, scoot around that way . . . yeah, like that."

"Are you ready? I'm ready!" she signaled in anticipation.

"Hi-ho Silver, away!" he called. "Giddy-up! . . . Whoa! . . . Giddy-up! . . . Whoa! . . . Giddy-up! . . . Whoa! . . ."

"Ride-"˜em Cowboy!" she gasped in ecstasy.

"You go girl!" he grunted in a delirium of pleasure.

Octavia whinnied at the top of her lungs.

Thus they spent the entire night, collapsing into sleep at intervals, then waking and playing their new game again.

****************************

Papa Muskrat and Old Snoozebag slowly ascended the spiral staircase up to the aerie. The staircase was constructed of thick hardwood dowels protruding from the wall and hewn partially flat on the upper side. Its lack of outer railing caused Papa Muskrat more than a little apprehension, for he was not a creature of heights, and by the time he had reached the top he was experiencing acute vertigo.

The aerie was a circular platform situated at the very crux of the tree's loftiest boughs. Its floor was formed from an oaken lattice overstretched with an exquisite cane mesh. Extraordinarily high varnished oak French doors with polished brass fittings surrounded the entire platform and the vaulted ceiling rafters nearly vanished into the darkness high above. An unusual covered lamp dimly illuminated the chamber.

Papa Muskrat's vertigo was hardly helped by the fact that the entire aerie was rocking and swaying at a tremendous amplitude with the movement of the tree and the movement of its enormous limbs in the mighty gale. He gripped the cane floor for dear life. His mild state of inebriation helped matters even less. Slowly and cautiously, he edged toward a table and several chairs arranged in a peculiar configuration, mounted on some sort of nautical swivel that allowed the whole unit to remain level in spite of the violent swaying of the treetop tower. Chauncey had brought up bottles of single malt and tumblers ahead of them, and these rested placidly on the tabletop, beckoning.

This was sufficient incentive to incude Papa Muskrat to clamber aboard the strange chair, and once he had, he immediately began to feel better. The aerie started to feel more like an amusement park ride than a storm-wracked treetop, in spite of the howling of the wind and the violent rapping of the rain against the numerous window panes.

"God-fucking-damn! This is like being on the deck of a goddamned ship at sea! Goddamn, I damn near spilled my fucking cookies!" exclaimed Papa Muskrat, completely forgetting his manners.

"Yes, it is quite a storm. And you certainly can cuss!" Old Snoozebag remarked with a chuckle.

"Sorry - force of habit," explained Papa Muskrat. "Where is the Dismal Dell? Can we even fucking - can we even see it in this goddamn - in this weather?"

Old Snoozebag was beginning to chortle gently. "The visibility is terrible. I doubt we can even fucking see it," he said with a guffaw.

This remark made Papa Muskrat chuckle. "Well, which fucking direction?" he asked.

"Way the fuck over that way," Old Snoozebag said, pointing with a wingtip. He was now barely able to contain himself.

"Nope. Can't fucking see it," laughed Papa Muskrat.

"Well, fuck this fucking weather. We'll just have to wait for it to clear the fuck up," said Old Snoozebag. He was now so doubled over with laughter he could barely speak.

The laughter was contagious, and Papa Muskrat was soon laughing uncontrollably too. He regained control long enough to say, "I'd like to propose a fucking toast!"

"A fucking toast!" Old Snoozebag repeated laughing till he wheezed, slapping his knee with his wingtip all the while.

"To a carcass!" Papa Muskrat managed to say through his laughter, "A great - ha-ha - big juicy fuck - ha-ha-ha - fucking moose carcass!"

"To a fucking car - aaaaaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha - carcass - whaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha . . ." Old Snoozebag could no longer contain his mirth, and it was quite a sight to see the venerable old bird swearing like a sailor and giggling like a schoolgirl. The two of them had by now become quite drunk, and this only made the scotch flow more freely.

At length, they descended to the very depths of the lowest form of thoroughly drunken humor, and were keeping each other in stitches by simulating the sound of flatulence with their hands (or feathers) pressed to the sides of their mouths followed by crude comments.

"Brrraaaappphh! Damn, that one left soot! Whaaa-ha-ha . . ."

"Brrraaaaaaappphh! Did you see the flames shoot out? Whaaa-ha-ha-he-he. . ."

"Don't burn the place down! Here, let me blow the fire out. Brrraaaaaaaaaaappphh! Whaaa-ha-ha-he-he-ho-ho . . ."

And so they milked this sort of juvenality very nearly till the dawn's early light.

*******************

Meanwhile, the twins were busy playing their new game again.

"Let's pretend we're Mama and Uncle Frank," Beauregard suggested.

"They say lots of different things. Which one should we play? "˜I must have you now'? Or "˜You dirty slut, you filthy whore'?" asked Octavia.

"Those are both good," Beauregard opined. "Which do you like better?"

"I like "˜You dirty slut, you filthy whore' better," Octavia said.

"They sure do that one a lot - probably more often than Mama and Papa do the horse thing."

"Yes, but let's save the best for last," Octavia suggested.

"Oh, Octavia, I must have you now!! I can't wait another second to consummate our love!" Beauregard gushed.

"No, Beauregard, don't!" Octavia implored, "Stop!"

"Damn, you're good!" he remarked.

***********************
post #24 of 38
works for me.
post #25 of 38
+1 for: - Use of 'maladroit' - "don't want to be at this altitude" - A vulture who likes Speysides - muskratlove.com - the nod to 'The Naked Gun' ~ Huntsman
post #26 of 38
Quote:
Originally Posted by Huntsman
+1 for:

- Use of 'maladroit'
- "don't want to be at this altitude"
- A vulture who likes Speysides
- muskratlove.com
- the nod to 'The Naked Gun'

~ Huntsman

Thanks. I'm having great fun with this little bit of nonsense, and the inspiration just keeps coming.

In case you were wondering, the Speyside the vulture is sharing so generously with the muskrat is Cragganmore 12 year, a personal favorite.

Of course, I've drawn from many different sources for this, but I can't recall consciously incorporating anything from 'The Naked Gun.' I'd be interested to know which part you thought was a nod to it. Of course, 'The Naked Gun' is a favorite, so I'm rather flattered that you found some similarity.
post #27 of 38
Quote:
Originally Posted by Nantucket Red
Thanks. I'm having great fun with this little bit of nonsense, and the inspiration just keeps coming.

In case you were wondering, the Speyside the vulture is sharing so generously with the muskrat is Cragganmore 12 year, a personal favorite.

Of course, I've drawn from many different sources for this, but I can't recall consciously incorporating anything from 'The Naked Gun.' I'd be interested to know which part you thought was a nod to it. Of course, 'The Naked Gun' is a favorite, so I'm rather flattered that you found some similarity.

Us too (having fun, that is).

Craggy 12? A favorite of mine, as well! On the permanent stocklist. Actually, I thought it was a somewhat generic Speyside that goes by The Speyside, but this is sweet.

As for 'The Naked Gun,' well, the best writers synthesize unconsciously, but I heard Agnes moan, 'Frank' (as in Drebben) in Lisa Marie's voice, and then there is,
Quote:
he plunged his throbbing manhood into her quivering love muffin.

which I'm pretty sure is a direct quotation. Drebben is at a podium reading that passage for some reason...my memory fails but that's the spot.

Anyway, carry on! (as life allows, naturally)

~ Huntsman
post #28 of 38
good
post #29 of 38
Quote:
Originally Posted by Huntsman
Us too (having fun, that is).

Craggy 12? A favorite of mine, as well! On the permanent stocklist. Actually, I thought it was a somewhat generic Speyside that goes by The Speyside, but this is sweet.

As for 'The Naked Gun,' well, the best writers synthesize unconsciously, but I heard Agnes moan, 'Frank' (as in Drebben) in Lisa Marie's voice, and then there is,

Quote:
he plunged his throbbing manhood into her quivering love muffin.


which I'm pretty sure is a direct quotation. Drebben is at a podium reading that passage for some reason...my memory fails but that's the spot.

Anyway, carry on! (as life allows, naturally)

~ Huntsman

I had no idea I was quoting The Naked Gun directly. I was just going for something over the top and ridiculous.
post #30 of 38
Quote:
Originally Posted by Nantucket Red
I'd rather be a good liver than have one.

Formerly known as Pussy's Boyfriend

i had to mention: just now when i glanced at that sig, i thought it read "I'd rather have a good pussy than be one." which sortof goes without saying, i guess.
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