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Fred's friends, a large group of minor league baseball players who
frequented the bar across from Fred's apartment, started ragging on him
about his date and McDonalds. "For crying out loud!" said Fred, going beet red. "You know where I work, you steroid-pumped bat-jockeys. You try taking out a wonderful woman to somewhere nice on the pittiance I get ever other Friday. Or Saturday if Jeff Smithers is smoking his weed again and forgets to sign the checks." Bethany's heart warmed. What a sweet weirdo Fred was. He was doing the best he could. Now only if he'd close his mouth and well, there was a healthy buffet down the road that cost just as much as McDonalds and didn't have heart attacks on a plate. Fred's friends went up to get their order, leaving the two of them alone.
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5/30/2003 9:06:58 AM
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