If the world was populated by slugs, I'd have a slimy wife and a five slimy youngsters. We'd live happily under a rock in a Bolivian rain forest. But slugs have it really bad right now, because there are humans who will lift up the rock and sprinkle salt on the slugs: what could be a happy slug family becomes a pile of short, gooey string beans, covered in Morton's. But I'd like to be a slug in Bolivia. How wonderful to feel soft, warm rain well up beneath me as lightning crashes above my granite home.
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