Yeah, I remember the trade deadline before the Internet, that tells you how old it is. We'd all huddle around our fire, waiting for OG the village runner to return from the only payphone 10 miles a way where he'd phone his buddy who had cable TV to see if anything had come up on the news.
Then one year, the great disaster of 19 something something, the village had spend its communal pot of dimes on raman noodles for our winter cache, so Og the village runner took on the burden of becoming Og the village panhandler.
Then the fire went out a a dinosaur ate all the Raman noodles
F the trade deadline man, F it.
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My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
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