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There are eighty-four bed frames, each containing springs tuned to an exact note. In each bed lies a flatulent artist. In coordinated fashion, they fart in a particular order to produce a tune through causing the bedsprings to reverberate in their respective notes, creating a choreographed echoing
symphony of twanging springs through breaking wind with expert timing.
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Annotation:
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I'd like to be the first to say "wind
instruments" to forestall a blast of bad
puns. |
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insert billy connely's "wanking" bit here for a scentless version. |
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