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wake up call from the zombies a new morning to listen while they wail like babies with canker sores on their assholes. they want to get together in a sweaty apartment, to jerk off their egos and shoot smack over the milkyway. when they run out of that a fresh can of rubber cement, a sandwich bag. and you can do the math at how many real life encounters any of them have had, living over a type writer, thinking they are on to something novel.