I remember when we dreaded the rain, as our stick of soldiers walked through the damp, tick-infested long grass of the Zambezi valley,[…]
I am lactose-intolerant, so I can't drink milk.
Four polite Englishmen in their middle 20s, feigning like firewater drunks in a Eugene O'Neill play: it's exactly the stuff that makes their detractors groan.
Such is the whelping of the bitched bones two: Perjury, anger, cheating, homicide.
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