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Too Cheesy to Fail

 

I know I am, but what are you?

Sculptress Gretel Muffet lived in an artists loft in the NoHo section of New York City; an area so named for its complete lack of prostitution. An ardent soul possessing more self-confidence than she really needed, Gretel usually looked to her grandfather Peter Muffet for guidance. Peter was one of those proud old WWII veterans who refused to discuss his war time experiences even though he merely served stateside as a baker. With this kind of role model it’s easy to account for her occasional absurdity. She was crazy about the old coot and whenever anyone asked why she revered her grandfather she’d sigh, “Oh for the love of Pete.”

Gretel was the first to admit she wasn’t very tightly wrapped. After all, she believed restrooms should be segregated not by gender, but by the concavity of one’s belly button. In her world all restroom doors would be marked either Innie or Outie. “Compliance,” Gretel averred, “would be verified with electronic navel readers so you’re either in or you’re out.” Her friends quietly agreed with her while smugly thinking, “Doesn’t this whack job know that nature has already predetermined who’s an Innie and who’s an Outie?”

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