Fleeing the Plantation
I waited for Mark from 11:30 to 12:05, and he didn't show. Scott and I went to the grocery store. We smoked a fatty on the way.

The sushi is fabulous. I got a dragon roll and a California combo. It was all imitation crab and shrimp, no raw fish. I ate half of both and put the rest in the pop cooler for dinner.
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Melvin, the gentleman who delivered last night's oration, appeared to be sober when I last saw him a couple of hours ago. Hopefully we'll get some peace and quiet up in this bitch tonight.

A rather persistent fellow tried to sell me meth in the parking lot tonight. He either sold it or gave up and moved to greener pastures.

People are still asking for pop, but I'm too damned tired to get up and go out there and get it, and wait for a staffer to let me back in.
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The background music today is tequila polka instead of the usual shitty rap, courtesy of Jorge (pronounced hoor-hay), an obese Mexican man in a wheelchair.
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I'm thinking about writing a shocking sex story for Literotica.
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Troy and his wife and a few others spend their days under a shade tree in the median near the intersection. Troy slung his dog Rebel's heavy duty leash over a low, dead limb and wiped it down with what appeared to be a wet nylon bag of the sort they give away down here. I wondered idly whether he'd be able to get the leash back down out of the tree again, and concluded that he could break the limb if all else failed.


Rebel is a large dog who gets aggressive and hard to control when other large dogs are around. That's why he needs a heavy duty leash, I suppose. He's a hard headed mutt. Troy often has to jerk him around by the leash to make him mind.

The irony of expecting a dog named Rebel to be obedient.
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I feel like this entire thread needs to be expressed in song.
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I'm resisting the urge.
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You're welcome.
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A couple of the leeches are ardent butt pickers. They spend the whole day picking up cigarette butts and smoking them.

Their talk of getting a job and whatnot comes to naught. Butt picking is their calling.

One of the butt pickers is the fellow of whom it was said he has lice. The other is an even moar scraggly looking chap. The latter eyeballs smokers while they're smoking, and scrambles for the butts when they hit the ground.
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Scott sits there in his truck, backed into the parking space so he can see the whole parking lot, and sings songs about the people hanging out.

There's a new guy who wears a cowboy hat and talks a lot. He's the most talkative cowboy you ever saw. Scott sings "Rhinestone Cowboy" when the guy starts bumping his gums.
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Every other day, a squadron of geese buzzes the parking lot.
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A song forĀ if you start selling sausages at Ice Cold Pop stand
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I'll have to listen to that when I bring my headphones in. Too much noise in here. I'm not complaining because the tequila polka in the background is a welcome change from shitty hip hop.

I'm thinking them little weenies in a can will be the most likely meat I'll carry. I can't find regular Captains Wafers in the stores, only sandwiches. I wonder if they only sell them to restaurants.
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Ice Cold Pop II: Little Weenies in a Can
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The reputed lice having butt picker has shaved off his dingy beard. I hope he washed his wretched feet.
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THIS MEANS NOTHING TO MEEEEEE

HHHHUUUUUOOOOHHHH VIENNNAAAAAAAA
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Mark is one of those pigs who throw their trash down wherever they happen to be. He was yanking tags off a new pair of pants and throwing them on the floor in the dorm just now. This was five minutes after his shower time started. He had said he was going to get ready for his shower earlier. Evidently he got distracted by some bullshit since then.
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I know people who were raised in a barn and they have better manners than Mark.
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You ain't lying. The ladies always say "excuse you" when he belches.
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