“There sure wuzzn’t a shortage of baling wire on the farm where you grew up, Trujillo.”
There are many things one can say about this, not the least of which is that, for me, there was no farm to grow up on. I’m a Las Vegas city slicker.
Baling wire? Oh, you mean that two-story pile behind the barn? Those tons of metal wrought by decades of having hay loaded on to the loft in the barn?
Let me explain:
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