You know those tiny toll-free telephone numbers you see on the back of business cards with the European guy smiling, his bald heady shiny and his legs wide open, confident that some ordinary lady from the office would open the door to her microwave oven and put in his McPepperoni, Mushroom and Garlic Roll Up and just nuke it? I guess in Amsterdam they have that legalized by now, with an occupation that goes with it, some kind of European spa with illegally downloaded baroque music, fogged windows housing a male penis farm. Now imagine now me, the business-card holder, saying this to himself: “Some guy left his business cards at the bar and I decided to call for his assistance.” After all, you read this: “Facebook profile: $125 per hour’” and you either say nay, what are you, crazy? Or you say, eh, so what can you -- The Facebook Guy --do? . There is a high price on this earth that I would pay to have some chick invite me to sleep next to her while she reads more important literature and calls me her liberal arts lover while my guitar gently weeps. And for this high price, I needed to find the $29.99 that I needed so I could go downtown for the cell phone to call this European guy’s 800#.
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