Amazing, says Charles Mudede:

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Every morning, the old man, who has one bad leg (it was ruined by shoddy acupuncture), heads to the rice field on a cart that's slowly, ever sooooo slowly, pulled by the old ox. Each step made by this ox demands all of its strength, and the wheels on the wagon seem to be made of stone, and the old man listens without joy to ancient tunes on a busted radio, and all around them are the random sounds of insects, and around the neck of the ox is a bell that rings and rings, and on the side of the ox is hair matted by mud. The old ox pulling the old man is nothing but the end, the limit, the terminal point of stupidity.

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