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Phil

Phil Villipiano, erstwhile tyro linebacker for the injury-riddled Oakland Raider juggernaut, posed nude yesterday in the Burly Lounge of the Sheraton Plaza Motor Mart for approximately two hours and eleven minutes.

Mr. Villipiano was reportedly busily engaged in the consumption of heather bog.

Seeing his son in over his head like this, the Elder Sarcoptic Squire of Treacle Street twisted and severely bruised the beluga trapezius muscle just under the right cardiod where it abuts the Le Mans Superior. His face was clouded at the time.

Of course, the philosophical implications of this reaction did not escape his Coolness, Ernest Nagel.

As he walked briskly out of his midtown domicile. On the way to the pharmacy.

Nagel arrived at the Sheraton and immediately launched a monologue directed more or less at Villipiano’s instep. The conversation rose and fell, cresting briefly while the margin for error grew less with each passing moment.

So sang the tinted julep on his off wing.

The reconciliation, however, was never really in doubt. For when a rennet tern greets a semi-trunk, the usual discussion of Ferlinghetti can only take place in the sitting room; but when pharmaceuticals are implicated, it takes a naked sense to meet the driller rail inside.