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Seven generations of little scrappers
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born in the worst conditions you can imagine.
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Tell me.
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My cousin slid out feet first in a pickle barrel.
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My uncle was born during rainy season in a Mongolian sheep pasture.
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My brother, hmm, born under a crowded noodle bar
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while my grandfather finished his happy dancing shrimp.
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Nothing can stop us.
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Not the hurricanes. Not the communists.
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Not the Feds. Not the girl scouts.
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What are you doing? Get in there.
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Me? Forget it. I'm the worst.