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    That’s when the most significant moment of your earthbound life slaps you on the side of your face. Right there, at the precise crossroads where the Imax-climax of intercourse meets the paganistic unreason of orgasm, you have the most fantastically realistic vision of Bud Grant as Sitting Bull – the Lakota shaman representing one-half of the life struggle and Bud Grant representing the other probably because you knew he’d spoken out against Native American hunting and fishing treaty rights.

    “Still, Bud Grant? The laurelled, Super Bowl-losing head coach of the Minnesota Vikings? Maybe some Manifest Destiny figure like Josiah Bushnell “Go West” Grinnell or, hell, maybe even the president of Grinnell Mutual Reinsurance, but not Bud Grant,” you have time to ponder.

    The grim amalgamation does its speaking in a hallowed hush of a voice, “Lost Dakota…you must find it…you must un-lose it…you must remain in…Lost Dakota.”

    The vision fades. The sex coils itself up like a slinky on Jupiter. All of this pools in your mind and leaves you thinking, “Do people call ‘em pasties as far west as Minnesota?” Then you remember Tom wasn’t singing about meat and potato pies. But seriously, the whole flabbergasting experience has you feeling like Daffy Duck with the duckbill on the wrong side of his head.

    The next morning you both part ways. You check out of your room at the Jackpot Junction but now you can’t bring yourself to head in the direction of home.

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