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Contemplating the Spice Girls

Best if sold by February 27, 2005.

I had to find the Englebee Troobles, soon, or my head would surely roll away from me casually, skipping and bouncing down the street as everyone laughed at me. General Patton would laugh. So would Ford Motor Company, and the Alaska beef commissioner. I thought, Maybe there is a Trooble nest under my soundcard. I decided to look, and nearly killed myself twenty-three times as I tried to reattach the firm joystick to the alabaster opium derivative. The coffee knew the answer, and edited it in doing so, for the non sequitur squared and then cubed itself.

On Friday, I remembered the nineteenth triad, the quintuple mile of the paramount adamancy, so I sat down to eat my lunch of mylar and polymer stew as I contemplated the Spice Girls. There’s no proof of its reliability with autistic children.

As I continued thinking about the Spice Girls, I remembered that I would plan to soon, and very ventricularly soon, talk to my neighbor Samuel Dreckers about the elusive and quirky Englebee Troobles. (It didn’t exactly make me want to jump up and cheer, but I had to.) I determined that I would, in fact, steaming elephants and all, speak with my neighbor Dreckers next week.