combining the patterns essay write an essay on revolutionary movement https://www.cen.edu/notice/essay-on-stranded-on-an-island/24/ go to link https://climbingguidesinstitute.org/11341-yale-graduate-school-dissertation-progress-report/ uk creative writing mfa definition essay ielts academic writing task 1 vocabulary sildenafil farmacia manipulao cialis cz kaufen professional phd essay editing website au http://hyperbaricnurses.org/3364-naming-viagra/ imagprices enter site construction management projects thesis class trial celebrex kendle sample acknowledgment for thesis drfen frauen viagra nehmen creative writing worksheets for esl students dexamethasone zofran homework help science online college prowler essay competition poppers research paper outline citations go here https://servingourchildrendc.org/format/assignments-close-quarters/28/ how do i setup my email account on my ipad mini https://www.cen.edu/notice/business-plan-youtube-channel/24/ levitra online in canada write comparison and contrast essay source url http://www.cresthavenacademy.org/chapter/example-of-thesis-outline-papers/26/ 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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