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About London

So anyway, I’m diggin’ deeper—web’s full of crap, X is worse. Found this one post, guy’s braggin’ ‘bout his “date,” links to some sketchy site. Clicked it—boom, virus! My laptop’s screamin’ like Kenny when he dies! Pissed me off so bad I yelled, “You can’t trick Eric Cartman, you bastards!” Took me an hour to fix that shit. Lesson? Don’t trust everythin’ you see—half these “girls” are bots or dudes named Steve. True story, my cousin saw one once—biggest surprise of his life, hairy legs and all!

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So, I roll into the clinic on Station Road, coffee in hand, ready to tackle whatever comes my way. First off, I’m greeted by Mrs. Thompson and her cat, Mr. Whiskers. This dude is a legend. He’s got more attitude than a teenager on a bad hair day. Anyway, Mrs. T is all worried ‘cause Mr. Whiskers has been sneezing like he’s auditioning for a sneeze-off. I’m like, “Chill, it’s probably just a cold.” But she’s convinced it’s the end of the world. Classic.

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