An actor wanted to know "if the take took" the next morning so he might be allowed to travel to his other appointments. When word of "socked in" came, he cried. "The master is reduced to tears," an ornry "town crier" told the village of condo mates.
"All my life," he gasped to pull himself back from the asthma attack ledge. All his life he'd been training and strategically experiencing. In another room, a person was having an allergic reaction to pineapple juice.
"Now what?" A wife wanted an answer to how in the hell can I pay the bills. "I guess," the man sipped slow on one of the last four inhalers, held his breathing still until he almost choked, "I guess I'll just," he took another intake of the medicine, "Stay here and be just another dough-dough bird in the big pile of doo-doo."
"He seems calm now," a medical technician reported back down the line of communications. The actor traced the top of a salt shaker round and round with his dyed finger. He laughed, funny-sounding because of his chest muscle constrictions. "Yep. Dough-dough bird. Doo-doo pile," he picked up and wailed the salt shaker at a revel rouser, "Because of him and him and," his finger pointed as fierce as a sword in Saratoga during the Revolutionary War days.
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