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You've lost the feeling below your ankles.
When you walk you have to waddle like a duck, so you fabricate a story about a knee-injury to dismiss curious onlookers.
When you wake up in the morning you can still see the impression of where your keys were in your pants pocket the night before.
The last time you tried to retrieve your wallet from your back pocket you lost a finger.
Your farts take up to three-and-a-half minutes from start to finish, and produce the sound frequency of a dog whistle.
People ask you questions like, "Are you a professional scuba diver, or do you just wear the gear?"
The last time you sat down, the top button of your pants snapped off with the speed of a hunting rifle, injuring a co-worker.
It takes you forty-five minutes to put them on, even with the aid of a small crane and a power winch.
When you ask for an honest opinion, your spouse tells you your pants look great.
Your name is Al Roker. |
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