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I have a love-hate relationship with my computer's mouse. It's like Randolph, constantly disappearing when I need it the most. Maybe I should attach a bell to it, so I can play a little tune every time it tries to escape.
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The other day, I was trying to find my car in a crowded parking lot, and I thought, "This is like trying to find Randolph in a sea of identical drawers." It's like my car has mastered the art of camouflage, and Randolph is the Houdini of household items.
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You know you're an adult when your idea of a wild Friday night is organizing your spice rack. I found Randolph in there too, disguised as a mysterious spice blend. I think it's time for Randolph to spice up his life elsewhere.
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I tried to explain the concept of Randolph to my pet cat. Now, every time he hides behind the couch, I'm convinced he's playing a game of hide-and-seek with Randolph. It's like having two stealthy ninjas in the house plotting against me.
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Have you ever tried to assemble furniture from a certain Scandinavian store? It's like playing a game of hide and seek with Randolph, the missing screw that holds your entire bookshelf together. If I had a dollar for every time I lost Randolph, I'd probably have enough money to hire someone to assemble it for me.
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I've come to the conclusion that my TV remote has a secret hide-and-seek club with Randolph. No matter where I search, it's always in the last place I look. I'm starting to think they're in cahoots, playing mind games with me.
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I've realized that my refrigerator has become a retirement home for expired condiments. Randolph, the ancient ketchup bottle, has been there so long; I think it remembers a time when tomatoes were still in the field. I'm half expecting it to start telling me stories about the good old days.
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You ever notice how everyone has that one drawer at home that's like the Bermuda Triangle? You throw something in there, and it's gone forever. I call mine "Randolph," because once my car keys went in there, and they haven't been seen since. I think they're on a beach somewhere with a tiny umbrella drink.
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I've started labeling everything in my house, hoping it will keep Randolph from hiding. I put a sign on the fridge that says, "You are being watched, Randolph!" Now, every time I open it, I feel like I'm in a spy movie with a rogue condiment agent on the loose.
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