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Call me Itchypants. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on TV, I thought I would shuffle about a little and see the porcelain ship. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before secluded bushes, and picking up the moist rear of every pants I own; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically crafting mud biscuits- then, I account it high time to get to the goblin seat as soon as I can. This is my substitute for clenching and worry. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the throne. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the one-holer with me.

Moby Pants

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