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It's amazing how easy it is to get laid when you stumble into a bar on Veterans' Day and claim that you did two tours in the 'Nam. A word about Scandinavian twins... the sex may be fantastic, but it's highly unlikely they're going to cook you breakfast in the morning. That's the second goddamned time in a week I've had to make breakfast for myself, and normally I'd let it slide like Astroglide, but after hearing the results of the Raiders-Broncos game, I was plenty pissed off. I gave Magdalena and Hannah a couple of bucks for the bus, threw on some buttonflys, and began plotting measures to be taken against Ernest.

I don't really give a flying fuck if he's the Sealer of Weights and Measures in this town... if he vetoes another one of my fantasy football trades, that fat bastard is going down. I'm sick of him and his bullshit, checking the cab meters and the gas gauges and putting his little stickers on everything in town. He's still pissed off cause I cut his son Tommy from Pop Warner, but honestly, if the kid could even put the shoulder pads on right he'd probably still be playing.

I'm sorry. That's not the point of the story.

The point of the story is this: the Canadian money must go. All of it. The wannabe quarter with the big fucking antelope on it, the lame-ass dime with the schooner on the back, whatever crazy shit is on the coins they call the nickel and the penny... all of them. Gone. I've been carrying around this Canadian quarter for three weeks now and I can't get rid of it. The washer and drier won't operate with it in the slot. The Coke machine spits it back out. Even the coin slot on the bus wouldn't count it towards my fare. This, my friends, is a conspiracy.

Things would be fine if only the machines ignored this cheap-ass worth-only-60%-of-real-money quarter. But this morning, shortly after pulling the protective tarps down off the wall in the bedroom and heading down to the Store 24 to get a cup of coffee, the goddamned immigrant behind the counter wouldn't take the quarter. Handed over like fourteen coins for a cup of coffee, and the guy notices the Canadian quarter. "We don't take the Canadian money" he says in broken English. Fucker. He's the prime suspect for delivering the bastard currency in the first place.

Maybe later I'll give the twins a call. But first I'm buying a handgun. It's gonna be OJ's day, Falling Down style.