Ya'at'eeh.
Bonan Tagon.
Peter Chase had come in and put his feet up, turdburglar and anti-Cincinnatus, and he was saying, "If I were not Peter Chase, I would prefer to be the master of the house." And I laughed, not because I doubted his word, not because of the nature of his aims, but because it was so bitterly honest of him, and here at the end of the winter.
Little River had played at Hammersmith Odeon. Where I scored the tickets, Chaffon, who variously had holdings in WMT, P and G, along with some other, I traded in some bitcoin, doing some shingling for some bitcoin jangling, some .25 BTC. I wanted to eat some Tony the Tiger before I got done with the work, as per remembrances of a more innocent time. I had ate Frosted Flakes until it finally gummed up my works, and that a few weeks after 9/11.
jang a lang, the thang a lang.
I was looking at a week of some dozen or so hustles, some dozen or so sundry paying tasks, doing things around, a sort of itinerant handyman, and a journeyman and all. I didn't have a swerve like Peter Chase, who some knew had blackmailed a state senator, a former state senator who had represented Horry County(was I not supposed to say that? What we all know already?). I was yet a different breed of horse, and yet with the similar endgame of monetary gain.
Hustles, hurtles. Sort of statistical omelettes, as it were, each one.
Vi havas bonan tagon.
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