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The lovely woman-child Kaa was mercilessly chained to the cruel post of the warrior -chief Beast, with his barbarous tribe now stacking wood at her nubile feet, when the strong, clear voice of the poetic and heroic Handsomas roared, "Flick your Bic, crisp that chick, and you'll feel my steel through your last meal."
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She
wasn't really my type, a hard-looking but untalented reporter from the local cat
box liner, but the first second that the third-rate representative of the fourth
estate cracked open a new fifth of old Scotch, my sixth sense said seventh
heaven was as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, so,
nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam,
I swept her into my longing arms, and, humming "The Twelfth of Never," I got
lucky on Friday the thirteenth.
The
countdown had stalled at T minus 69 seconds when Desiree, the first female ape
to go up in space, winked at me slyly and pouted her thick, rubbery lips
unmistakably--the first of many such advances during what would prove to be the
longest, and most memorable, space voyage of my
career.
FOR HEAVY METAL WE WILL DIE
*Headbangs to Kashmir*