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Area Dad Thinks Refs Should Just Let Them Play Football

DOYLESTOWN, PA—Facetiously questioning how the game had suddenly become a non-contact sport, local father Aaron Harper confirmed his belief Thursday that referees officiating a Thanksgiving game between the Philadelphia Eagles and Detroit Lions should just let them play football out there.
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Just Like Everything Else!: Fox 8 p.m. EDT/7 p.m. ABC Pete's wife is still on him about building that darn shed, these kids are going to be the death of Sheila and Dave, and the hot next-door neighbor is up in EVERYBODY'S business! Sunday nights on ABC couldn't be any more familiar!

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Dungeon Master

With the feast of the Thanks-giving nigh upon us, I thought it only proper that I graciously liberate a number of individuals currently chained in my estate's dungeon. Those who have earned pardons this year are:

Mr. Roger Upshaw, who I am certain has by now been cured of his delusional notion that he is a Census Bureau employee.

Mr. Kenneth Phelps, photo-play critic of The Onion, who in 1926 called into question the acting skills of my favorite male performer of the moving-daguerreotypes, Adolphe Menjou. Mr. Phelps has been hanging upside-down in shackles ever since.

Mr. and Mrs. William and Kristin Kronauer, tourists who took a wrong turn. Also, their children Tiffany and Jason, as well as their unborn baby. (At least, it was unborn at the time.)

The remains of Isabel C. Quinn, who I hear was actually named a martyr by the Roman Catholic Church due to her pious sufferings in my dungeon. Well, if she hadn't gone delinquent on her Onion subscription, she could have avoided this mess.

Mr. Woodrow Wood-pecker, whose well-documented history of uncouth behavior was for decades the Republic's greatest shame. What he did to that walrus gentle-man was inexcusable. After years of trying, my Swiss Guard finally snared him in a tiger trap, into which 10,000 gallons of quick-drying cement was poured. I am willing to excavate him, but only in exchange for those two back-sassing crows.

The long-missing crew of a merchant-marine sloop that was wrecked on the rocks below my estate. I was going to keep them for ransom at one point, but I forgot to get around to it. Just call me Mr. Procrastination, I suppose.

(I was only jesting just now. You may only address me as Mr. Zweibel. Any other appellation will be dealt with in the harshest manner possible. Do I make myself clear?)

Sherman Willetts, an editorialist for The Daily Worker, who once accused me of oiling my wheel-chair with the blood of laborers. While I appreciated the sentiment, I felt the premise unforgivably weak, as blood is an extremely poor lubricant. It dries much too quickly. Better to use pus.

Mr. Oscar Zzunivich, the last person listed in the local telephone-directory. Such ostentation is extremely off-putting in a democratic society, but I feel confident that Mr. Zzunivich has learned his lesson, and that in the future he will abstain from owning a telephone.