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Upjohn Dillforth wandered the loamy meadows in search of whortleberries, hummocks and sedge. He crossed an icy rill that wound its way round the shaggy trunk of an Iberian musk elm and decided this would be a fine place to eat his snack of water.
He rested his back against the tree and set his wicker creel down beside him. The shepherd’s moss was spongy and warm. He opened the basket and took out his writing tablet and chalk.
“D’uh, A-E-I-O-U,” he said as he scratched the letters onto the slate tablet. He stuck his tongue out of his mouth, too, cuz he was a retard. A nineteenth century retard.
Date Written: March 30, 2002
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