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Can’t a person be particular about his desserts? I’m damn near OCD when it comes to blind-baking my crusts to the perfect golden brown. I was simply seeing if there were any like-minded precision-driven pastry fanatics out there.

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While it’s true we don’t have children yet, we’re going to someday. And they’re going to grow up—faster than you can imagine—and have lots of questions. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to have some answers.

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I know how much you enjoy the occasional spa treatment, so I wanted to surprise you with one. Guess that’s ruined now.

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It was going to be on your pillow when you got back from the facial. Also ruined.

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I’m sorry, but we don’t own any books called What to Do When the Cat Falls in the Toilet. Forgive me for turning to the Internet for feline-drying techniques.

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Apparently, you’re too busy—or is it callous?—to concern yourself with the fact that prostitutes need to eat, too. And guess what? Turns out they tend to crave poultry.

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Now that was just a typo. The c should have been an f. Those gays make me mad.