In fulmars, the proventriculus is very baggy, and has thick wrinkled walls lined with glands that excrete the waxy oil which courting birds pass to one another in small amounts, perhaps as a way of scent-marking their mate.
The biggest, scariest, scarriest man in the room said, “It's about time, Jones.”
We stood on the bank of the dam surveying the squooshy wallow of mud. Jonah scooped up a fistful.
“It means that I'm a king without a country,” Lowell answered. “I'm King Shit of Fuck Mountain, except there is no Fuck Mountain.
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