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Get the Hell Off My Property!

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NFL Vows To Fix Bottomless Pit On Levi’s Stadium Field Before Super Bowl

SANTA CLARA, CA—Following persistent safety concerns regarding the playing surface throughout the regular season, the NFL made firm assurances Friday to both the Denver Broncos and Carolina Panthers that the bottomless pit in the middle of the field at Levi’s Stadium will be fully repaired before Super Bowl 50.

Area Man Would Hate Cam Newton Even If He Was Different Minority

MURRAY, KY—Adamantly stressing that his disdain for the 26-year-old quarterback is not based on any racial prejudice toward African Americans, local 49-year-old Michael Willet told reporters Friday that he would hate Cam Newton even if the Carolina Panthers star was a different minority.

Monocle-Wearing Oil Baron’s Cigarette Holder Splinters In Clenched Teeth After Hearing Bernie Sanders’ Environmental Platform

GREENWICH, CT—Leaving him visibly seething as he sat in his tufted leather wingback chair in his study, monocle-wearing oil baron Frederick Porter Harriman’s ivory-inlaid cigarette holder reportedly splintered between his clenched teeth upon him hearing presidential candidate Bernie Sanders outline his environmental platform during Thursday night’s Democratic debate.
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Get the Hell Off My Property!

A most distressing thing happened to me the other day. There I was, squatting like a baboon in my bed, trying to pass a bolus the size of a medicine ball, when a complete stranger burst into my chamber to ask where the restroom was. I nearly leapt out of my skin! How did this obviously crazed and demented individual get past the electric fence and platoon of Swiss guards that surround my vast compound?

I fumbled for the derringer I keep under my pillow, but my nurse restrained me, saying, "He must have strayed from his tour group." She then calmly left the room with the wretch, as though it were the most natural thing in the world!

As I later learned, to my deepest horror, my 650-room mansion and adjoining grounds have been turned into a public thoroughfare, a sort of boardwalk amusement spectacle, if you will! Recently, in 1954 or so, my wastrel son, J. Phineas, decided that the ancestral home of the Zweibels could be converted into a tourist attraction upon which, for a petty and nominal sum, the unwashed and unlettered masses could trod in complete disregard!

Now, I'm a newspaperman by trade, and I've always believed that the invasion of other people's privacy is a supreme right given to us by a wise and just God. But by gum, I just can't bear the notion of some Joe Lunchpail and his slovenly wife trundling clumsily through my private slaughterhouse, or trying on my world-renowned collection of 16th century undergarments.

A man's home is his castle, I tell you! Take that away from him and you deny him his very manhood. I refuse to stand for this outrage!

I thereby proclaim to you, citizens of the Republic: Get the hell off my property, you lowlives! I'll show you what for. You think you can eat my melba toast and soil my linens and listen to my gramophone? I'll fill your posteriors full of lead first! Nurse, fetch my musket!

Stay off my property. That is my final warning. After that, you're fair game. As God Almighty is my witness, if I find you wandering about my landholdings, I'll gut you like a deer.

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