By Hugh Jass. Gooseberry Hill. Jass must have come on the scenes minutes after the event, as the parched ground is still damp. More telling is the lack of crows as evidenced by the intact chips. Since he didn’t see “beak one”, I would say(unless he dropped this breakfast of champions himself), the unfortunate muncheur was crushed beneath his car. 
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Any war is like a game of chicken, Chip could voucher for that. Some of his mates had died heroes’ deaths. He’d watched them drop from the landing craft only to die, wreathed in the choking Gooseberry Hill dust. “You’d rather be eaten?” his commander exhorted over the deafening yet retreating engine noise. “Let’s take out that gay snorkel!” From behind, golden-jacketed fellow soldiers began to jostle Chip; who, like a hungry yet somehow defiantly weight conscious south-eastern suburbs teenage mother of three at a fast food restaurant counter, hovered on the edge. He thought not of the enemy in front of him but of that summer long ago, of Becky, and of their love’s bane, Marie – of the times she’d laughed at him for being different, for wanting to write. He’d rather anything, a roasting even, than her oilily hissing disdain. If only she could see him now. An unforgiving sun beat down; he felt fried. “Fuck, I’m really a chip anyway,” he recalled.
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Bane, Marie FTW.
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Pitiless: the chips are down. Superb worst.
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A perfect Worst.
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9/10. Evidence of the stem having been scraped this monday morning to harvest the “black death” would have propelled this to perfection status.
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Don’t forget the escaping cone piece which can be seen in the bottom right. Was teh bong hungry and wanted a chip? Is that why the cone piece came off?
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Bottom left*
Urgh Monday
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Chicen Treat cRapture
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Nice dirt.
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They know how to register a lawn.
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Piss in a bottle whilst inhaling and munching on chips, we’ve all done it
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