"Oh, fine," you mutter as you stumble around your room, snatching up T-shirts and less tattered copies of Alexander Pope and Skinny Legs & All & stuffing them into your backpack. You slide into the back seat just as your family's pulling away; you & laura amuse yourselves singing "500 Bottles of Ginger Beer" & reading this book (o near-postmodernism—o what is the nature of authorship?). After a while, you begin to feel a little peckish—"Hey Mom," you say, "got any delicious treats up there?" Your mother reaches intoa large paper bag & produces a stack of sandwiches, carefully wrapped in wax paper. "Your father ate all the cheese sandwiches," she spologizes, "but there's plenty left—take whatever you want."

"I want a white-bread-and-hardening-solution sandwich!"

"I want egg salad on rye!"

"I want chicken with honey mustard, tomato, lettuce, & a little olive on a toothpick!"

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