Lint
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Lint!
O, Glorious, frabjous lint of my pocket!
How I despise it.
Many are thy fibers, or fibres if thou preferest.
As if I care.
Others ignore you, but I am loyal and true. I knoweth thy moods, and what thy favorite flavor of gumdrop is.
Have you tried 'my-fist-to-your-teeth' flavor?
Can I have your lint, good sir? I'll gladly pay.
Er, sorry 'bout that, "madam."
Thimbles and hair clogs, staples and fat hogs! None of them compare to lint (in terms of linty-ness).
Or in terms of suckitude. I'd rather set my toes on fire than see or touch another bit of lint.
Whence cometh the Linty Legion? I shall present myself to their officers, and prove that I am as great an adherent of lint as ever could be found in a ditch.
Yeah, I live in a ditch with this stupid lint. Can I have a sandwich?
Stiff and dense from my pockets, light and warm from the dryer, dusty and musty from the old closet! It's all good lint.
Enough.
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