When I arrived home from farming the fields, my wife suggested I be seeded. She gave me a baleful look. There was bad news. It appears someone stole harvest. “Somebody dung us wrong, in an awful manure,” she said. I was upset, and wanted to cull the crops, so they could catch the fallow. “I till you, he must sty!” Such events make farmers almanac. Indeed, it seems like part of a larger plot, made my mind acre just threshing out the possibilities. When I finish with him, he won’t be live, stocking at all.

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If you go to CERN but you bring your own hadron collider, they’ll make you pay a quarkage fee.

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The surfer enjoyed a white cap every night before bed. But when it was too dark to surf and he got injured, he couldn’t sue anyone. He had already waved his rights.

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