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As I write this tale of our tour of duty, I cannot remember who went where or when, but I do know
that my highway to hell somehow ended up in a plane drinking Nathason Creek Red wine, watching women
knit potholders, and trying to figure out how I ended up with an empty wallet.
A word to the wise, there is a toll before you get off the highway to hell, and nobody gets through without paying. Pay the toll, Motherfucker, LT. Candy Striper, Fernando |