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Health & Fitness

The Fourth Amendment

The air conditioner didn’t really work.  It made the noises, which are comforting and put you in mind of cold air, but it didn’t actually pump cold air.  The beds had those horrible “just long enough to cover the mattress and no more-can’t tuck them” sheets.  The soap was sliver thin and smelled like nothing.  It wasn’t like the old days.

            The four RAF soldiers in room 217 of the Snooksberry Days Inn were in a mood.  As Leftenant Cogson leaned back on one of the two twin beds, trying in vain to prop enough tiny pillows behind him to make him forget that this is what colonialism had come to, he thought of his mother, his beloved hunting dogs, Margaret and Thatcher, and the old days.  Captain Richard Hollandaise entered the room with a bucket of ice and two President’s Choice Orange Sodas.

            “Seriously?  That’s the best you can do for refreshment?”

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            “Damn colonials.”

            “Which president do you think actually chose this?”

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            “It doesn’t mean that the president chose to drink it, just to sell it.”

            “This is bollocks.”

            “Not like the olde days.  No, not a pip.  Back then you could knock on a colonial’s door and demand entry.  The wench would cook you up some ripping supper, a nice game hen or a meat pie.  The man would offer you a bed and perchance his daughter.  Then they’d play you some fife music and you’d all bless the Queen and go to bed.  Those were the days.”

            “Damn fourth amendment.”
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