I come from a proud family of accused murderers. Growing up, my mom used to remind us, ‘you can always depend on the kindness of stranglers.’

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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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Someone stole my Swedish car: it’s a real Saab story. I don’t mean to get emotional; I guess I’m too inVolvo’ed. Heck I’ve even considered going scuba diving, to see if it’s buried underwater – but I’m afraid of getting the Benz. I know, it’s my own fault; I really should be driving a Mazda Me-oughta, especially after the hos had blown on my loaner, a Poontiac. GM cars really make me Buick. (As for British imports – get Bentley!)

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