The man with a pair of aborted goats wanted everyone’s sympathy, claiming he had two fetus kids.

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I was looking for a place to roost, so I went to the poultry hotel to chick inn. The guy at front desk was a bad egg (he called me a pecker!) but despite his unpheasantness I didn’t fly the coop: after all, it was only hen bok-boks a night. ‘Only hen clucks,’ I thought. I agreed to the feed, and was given free range of the place.

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