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I bought a Play-Doh set for my nephew, and it said "ages 3 and up." I'm pretty sure that "up" refers to adults who secretly still love molding tiny pizza slices and pretending they're master chefs.
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You know you're an adult when you get excited about finding a long-lost container of Play-Doh in the back of your cupboard. Forget winning the lottery; I just hit the homemade-slime jackpot!
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If Play-Doh taught me anything, it's that no matter how carefully you separate the colors, they will eventually unite in a glorious mishmash. It's like the United Nations of the toy box, promoting unity in a rainbow of chaos.
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Play-Doh is the only place where "mixing genres" is acceptable. You can seamlessly transition from creating a fierce dinosaur to making spaghetti for your Play-Doh family. It's like a mini Pixar studio in the palm of your hand.
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I admire the confidence of kids who believe they can sculpt anything out of Play-Doh. Little Timmy over there thinks he's creating the next Statue of Liberty, but it looks more like a melting snowman with spaghetti for arms. Close enough, buddy.
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I asked my niece what she wants to be when she grows up, and she said, "A professional Play-Doh sculptor." Well, forget astronaut or doctor aspirations; the future belongs to those with the most colorful imagination and the ability to avoid accidentally eating their creations.
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Play-Doh is like a stress ball for kids. Except, with stress balls, you don't accidentally mix the colors and end up with a weird, grayish-brown blob. Life lesson: Always keep your stress separate!
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The smell of Play-Doh is so distinct; it's like a childhood-scented candle. I want someone to create an adult version that smells like nostalgia and bills—maybe call it "Responsibility-Doh.
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I tried to explain the joy of Play-Doh to my grandma, and she was like, "Back in my day, we didn't have fancy colors and molds. We just had dirt and imagination." Well, Nana, dirt doesn't cut it when you're trying to craft a rainbow unicorn.
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