https://themilitaryguide.org/14days/cheap-reflective-essay-editing-sites-uk/55/ c3 essay of glucose about my uncle essay college application essay for mature teaching student viagra high fat meal https://ergonetwork.org/publications/african-american-literature-thesis-statement/91/ best rated resume writing services watch who needs to use viagra o que um viagra faz sildenafil abz 100 mg kaufen https://mswwdb.org/report/analytical-essay-rose-for-emily/96/ baisse de tension viagra bibl 105 essay 4 me late summer fires poem analysis essay how to write an argumentative essay ppt why i should go to your nursing school essay essay introduction text response communication types essay click here should i crush viagra https://dnaconnexions.com/last/viagra-how-to-get-best-results/25/ https://themauimiracle.org/bonus/what-is-best-cialis-or-levitra/64/ https://tetratherapeutics.com/treatmentrx/aldara-generico-de-cialis/34/ essays a portable anthology how does prednisone affect your period watch antigone quotes essay word doc fabricant cialis do sildenafil tablets work clemson university essay requirmentws viagra grapefrukt Justin Case was elected as 2015 “Village Idiot” at Story, IN:  population 5.

The balloting was fierce in the hamlet’s annual April Fools’ Day contest for this prized title.  To commemorate this honor, Justin received a $100 gift certificate redeemable at The Still—the tiny tavern in the basement of the Story Inn.  You can read about it—and LYAO!!!—at this link:

The Story voters had five pages of Justin’s follies to consider before voting.  Justin’s folly presented in the following excerpt from Chapter Seven of Rallies, Fests, & Hot Tubs:  Having Fun Can Be HELL on Relationships II wasn’t even included in Justin’s “Village Idiot” campaigning . . .

Justin’s then-wife was not thrilled when he woke up the next morning and walked . . . to the motel room bathroom.  “What’s that on your ass?”

“Uhh, a hickey, I’m hoping?  Hell, don’t ask me.  I wasn’t even there when it happened—whatever it is . . . or was.  What is it?  Do we have any coffee?”

“It looks like somebody wrote something on your ass, in red.  To me, it looks like an e-mail address?  Is it?  Was that your idea?  Are you going to use it?”

“Hell, I don’t know.  If it is, I can’t even read it from here.  Was she cute?”

“You tell me.  I wasn’t there, didn’t you notice?”

The bathroom didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

The likelihood and synchronicity of someone at Fantasy Fest carrying a Sharpie and also being just close enough—among fifteen thousand revelers on a Tuesday night—at the precise moment and exact spot on Duval Street at which a third person—nude and body-painted—wants to write her e-mail address on a butt cheek is so implausible . . . and yet it happened.  We don’t know what any of this means . . .

Or thought we didn’t, until Reverend Sharpie Night at Justina’s third Boogie.

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