There I was, trying to toast some crumbs of stale bread for my supper. The rat-chewed wiring shorted out, and — once again — the west wing of the Mansion went up in flames. The firemen arrived in the nick of time to quench the blaze. But in a panic I ran outside without my shirt on, and those damn paparazzi who hang out at the gates caught me like THIS.
I really must cut down on those bowls of Lucky Charms.
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I am particularly enamoured of the wife-beater tan lines.
Might I suggest formal dining attire from this point forward?
Every time I think of the Lauderdale Library being licked by flames, I keep picturing the final scene in The Name of the Rose.
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