NASCAR Rednecks - with apologies to Jeff Foxworthy

Elisabeth was blogging about her NASCAR racing redneck neighbor and got me to thinking about several of my own lovely NASCAR neighbors. Once I started coming up with these I just couldn't stop. So here they are:

If you make less than $60k per year and yet somehow manage to spend over $100k building a racecar ... you might be a redneck.

If you know how to index a spark plug but have no clue what an index fund is ... you might be a redneck.

If you have invested more money under the hood of your car than in your house ... you might be a redneck.

If you own a car trailer that is bigger than your garage ... you might be a redneck.

If you have the number of your favorite NASCAR driver painted on the side of your truck, and it's the only paint on the truck ... you might be a redneck

If you know all about the life of Dale Earnhardt, but have never heard of Dale Carnegie ... you might be a redneck.

If you have ever put a racing muffler on your lawnmower ... you might be a redneck.

If you wear black every year on the anniversary of the death of Dale Earnhardt ... you might be a redneck.

If you work at a job where everyone gets a holiday for the annual NASCAR races in Talladega, Alabama ... you might be a redneck.

If you can name 12 NASCAR drivers, but can't name the 12 Apostles of Jesus ... you might be a redneck.

If you have ever named a child after a NASCAR driver ... you might be a redneck.

If you considered becoming an mechanical engineer just so you could build a better monster truck ... you might be a redneck.

If you have ever used a fence tightener and a tree to pull a dent out of your car ... you might be a redneck.

If you have every single episode of the Dukes of Hazzard on video which you recorded off the TV ... you might be a redneck.

If you have ever installed a turbo muffler on your wife's car even after she asked you not to ... you might be a redneck.

If you own more tools than books ... you might be a redneck.

If the only books you own are about hotrodding cars ... you might be a redneck.

If Hot Rod Magazine is the only thing you have read in the past year ... you might be a redneck.

If you make friends and enemies based on the manufacturer of their car ... you might be a redneck.

If you have ever skipped a wedding to watch NASCAR on TV ... you might be a redneck.

If you have ever been injured by a flying part from a racecar ... you might be a redneck.

If your backyard has more car parts than grass ... you might be a redneck.

If you have ever asked an attractive female neighbor to accompany you to the NASCAR races in Talladega, Alabama for a date ... you might be a redneck.

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100 Useless Bits of Information About Me - part V - 46 through 55

  1. I minored in math in college. 2 more senior math classes and I could have had a second degree in it.
  2. No one has ever offered me a job using any of my math skills.
  3. There are cave paintings in a cave (duh) somewhere in the park on top of Monte Sano Mountain in Alabama that I did out of boredom while My Wife hurled large rocks off the cliff and watched them smash down below. This scenario tells more about our relationship than anything I could ever think of.
  4. My Wife and I honeymooned on a cruise ship in the Caribbean.
  5. I scuba-dived off St. Thomas.
  6. I once ate squid on the cruise ship after someone at my table encouraged me to try it. It tasted like a rubber chicken.
  7. I once had a dream that I was a professional motorcycle racer. For some reason a team recruited me to drive their racecar in a rally. It was a 1990 Mustang GT, which was what all the other cars were, too (dreamed this in about 1990.) I was racing along, passing people on this 2-lane mountain road, and we were going so fast that the only way you knew to turn in time was by seeing those signs warning of sharp turns ahead. I missed a sign and ended up going off the side. I landed, car and all, in the top of a tree, where I stuck. I had to climb out of the car and down the tree and call the crew so we could figure out how to get the car down and continue the race. It was the most realistic dream I have ever had. For weeks I went to bed hoping I would have the dream again so I could finish the race.
  8. When I was young I used to sit in my room and draw for hours. I would finish my homework right after supper just so I could spend the rest of the night drawing. At one point I thought I might try to become a comic book artist. I quit drawing altogether after college. I have no idea why I quit. I guess I was all drawn out?
  9. I used to play piano and guitar. I haven’t touched either one in about 12 years.
  10. My guitar teacher graduated high school with me. He went on to join the band Brother Kane and make lots of money. Now he’s back in my hometown playing and singing at a popular club where everyone I went to school with occasionally pops in. Even though I don’t even live there anymore I swear I see more high school classmates when I go to this club than I ever did in school.
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My Zodiac Sign Explained

Aquarius - you are a water person. You dump water on shit.

You should have been a fireman, but you aren't. What is up with that? You play with computers all day when you could be riding a big, red truck and impressing the women? Idiot.

You should have been a swimmer, but you aren't. You play soccer and get the shit kicked out of you. Nobody gets the shit kicked out of them swimming, unless they're playing water polo. And if you played water polo you'd look so much better, with broad swimmers' shoulders and no waist. The women would love you. How many women do you see throwing themselves at soccer playing men your age? Really now, get a clue.

You should have a cool boat instead of a musclecar which just sits in your garage all day. Women in bikinis no less wait around at the docks for a man with a good boat. They bum a ride and drink his free alcohol. They get drunk and lose their tops. No one does this with a man and his musclecar. You dumb fuck.

You should have a SeaDoo instead of an old dirtbike. Women love a man with watertoys. When you hit the trails and get covered in mud, how many women are standing around your truck waiting for you to get back? None. Jackass.

You are the water sign. You should be in the water. The stars have foreseen it, you pinhead.

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New York City Cab

Times Square, and step on it!

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Evaned and Dangerous

Evan (masked) and the Supra

I was just running through Laura's archives when something she said set off a memory in my head.

I have a friend named Evan. He's a very unusual sort of guy, very artistic and very much to-himself. One day Evan called me on the phone and said "I found a gun. I think it must have been my dad's."

Evan's dad died when he was 12. I don't care what the man-hating feminists say about the unimportance of fathers. This affected Evan more than any other event in his entire life. He hasn't smiled a big broad smile since that day. If you knew him you'd know what I'm talking about. He just doesn't really smile, even when he wants to.

The biggest challenge of my college life was to make Evan laugh. Any time I could get Evan to laugh I knew I had accomplished a major victory. Evan used to say "everyone thinks they're so funny. Nobody is funny. Well, nobody except my friend D Bryan. He's the only person who is really funny." This was like dropping a gauntlet to me.

D Bryan (masked) and Evan (masked)

Evan's mom remarried while Evan was in college and moved into her new husband's very nice house. She gave her house to Evan since he was living there while going to college.

So on this particular day Evan was rummaging around in the house and found a gun in a shoebox.

"How do I tell if it's loaded?" he asked me over the phone.

"Well, is it a revolver or a semiautomatic?" I inquired through my massive 1940s Bell Corporation Bakelite telephone.

"I don't know. What's the difference?"

Are you serious? Oh my God, this is going to be harder than I thought.

"Evan, is it flat and rectangular with a clip or does it have a round cylinder?" I asked him as patiently as I could.

"I don't know."

"Maybe you should bring it over and I'll take a look at it," I finally suggested.

Evan jumped into his Toyota Supra and zipped over to my house with his father's old gun. I saw him walking up the driveway with the gun in his hand, holding it up like a cop about to draw down on someone. If you knew Evan you would know how hilarious this is. People say I have a very serious face. Dorky, but serious. Evan has the most serious face of anyone I ever knew. Even when he laughs he looks extremely serious.

So here he comes, walking up my parents' very long driveway in the middle of our neighborhood holding up a big black gun with this extremely serious face of his, like a man on a mission.

I imagined all of my middle-class, middle-aged neighbors peeking out their windows and screaming, "Dial 911, quick! Someone is about to get shot over at the Joneses!"

"Ding dong" Evan rings the bell and I open the door.

Just as soon as I had the door open far enough to get an arm through, Evan puts the gun, barrel first, into my chest and says, "Here."

Here indeed.

This is the gun:

Gun (not masked)

I leaped back, removing the gun from my chest as I jumped. I started to complain and then realized that Evan just really had no clue what he had just done or why I might be upset about it.

I turned the gun around so it wasn't aiming into my heart anymore and pulled out the clip. Fully loaded.

I pulled back the slide.

"Pop" out comes a .45 slug.

It was loaded and with one in the chamber, ready to fire.

"Jesus man, you stuck this in my chest with ... nevermind."

I took a breath and said, "why yes, indeed it is loaded."

I convinced Evan to let me unload the clip, which must have been holding those bullets for the past 12 years, and we put all the bullets in the shoebox he had found the gun found in. My dad looked the gun over, theorized that the spring in the clip was probably OK despite being compressed all those years, and then began to advise Evan on kits he could install into the gun to make it more modern and accurate. It was just an old mass production Army .45 and not anything special. To make it accurate it would need some upgrades. I didn't think Evan was really interested in all that, but he seemed to listen.

Years later, Evan still has the gun, has shot it quite a bit, and is apparently pretty good with it. And luckily he has never accidently shot anyone with it, perhaps in part thanks to me.

But he sure scared the crap out of me with it on that day.

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Anyone For Tennis?

Game, Set, Match!
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It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's ...

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Battle of Wills

There is a man in the bathroom as I enter. He is trying to pee. I go into a stall and do the same.

Long awkward silence. No one is peeing.

"Ahem," my throat clearing echoes like thunder through the tomblike silence of this bathroom.

"Why doesn't he just give up and leave," I wonder silently in my head.

He is no doubt wishing the same of me.

Tick tick tick tick.

I can hear my watch.

Good Lord, it's quiet in here.

Hey, I've got all freakin' day, Man. You can just give it up and get the hell out 'cause I ain't leavin' until I've done what I came to do.

Tick tick tick tick.

Time seems to just crawl by.

"Creak" - SLAM!

Ha HA! I win!

And now it just flows effortlessly. What is up with that?

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100 Stupid Things About Me - part IV - 36 through 45

The train of thought continues. Here are numbers 36 through 45 of some of the most trivial and useless details of who I am, as if you had some reason to want to know this stuff.

  1. I hate the show “E.R.” so much that I’d rather watch nothing at all than to watch that show.
  2. I met Cybil Shepherd and got her to autograph her autobiography for me. After reading it I didn’t like her so much.
  3. I met 7 time Ms Olympia Cory Everson and her husband at Gold’s Gym back when she was the champ. They were both really cool.
  4. The blonde CSI woman on CSI-Miami is dating an ordinary guy who lives in Memphis and used to be a client of My Wife’s.
  5. I have never been inside Graceland, but I’ve driven past it many times on my way to Taco Bell and the Post Office. It looks like an ordinary house with a graffiti-covered front gate.
  6. The fastest I have ever gone in a car is 140 mph. The car was a 1967 Camaro with a 427 equipped with a tunnel ram. We were on a street leading to a military base and it was about 12 o’clock midnight. No one was around. We went from 0 to 140 in about 10 seconds, which was slower than he usually ran at the dragstrip, but faster than I had ever gone.
  7. The first thing I did when I bought my 1970 Chevelle SS454 was to make sure it would spin the tires while driving at over 40 mph. I had ridden with a friend in high school who had a 1969 Oldsmobile 442 and when he did that with his car I was so impressed I swore one day I’d have something that could do it, too. What possible use this is I haven’t a clue, but it sure is fun to be able to be cruising next to someone and just start roasting your back tires before disappearing with a roar in a big cloud of tire smoke.
  8. The most painful wreck I ever had was on someone else’s motorcycle. And she wasn’t too happy when I told her I’d wrecked it, as you might imagine. We had both just done really badly on a Physics exam and the whole idea of riding was to let off some steam. Instead of letting off steam I took on asphalt.
  9. The most embarrassing and potentially painful wreck I was almost in was on my brother-in-law’s motorcycle, in a parking lot, in New York, involving a parked car. Just like the first motorcycle wreck this involved a patch of mud and a sliding backend (unintentional.) Luckily I regained control just in time to avoid tattooing myself onto the side of the parked car. One week later my brother-in-law’s roommate did the exact same thing except he hit the car.
  10. I nearly ran over my own face while still on the back of my motorcycle once when I was 14 and learning how to jump. I went over the handlebars just far enough to stick my face onto the treads of the spinning front wheel as I landed from a particularly awkward jump.
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Gotta rush out and get me one
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Another Scientific Theory Bites The Dust

For generations it has been believed that a man cannot sneeze and pee at the same time. Scientists and doctors alike were in agreement that the two could not occur simultaneously.

I have just proven that this theory has been completely false. And lest I seem arrogant or proud, I will humbly admit that it was all entirely by accident.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go clean the wall in My Wife's bathroom.
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It's [dunt dunt daaaaa] a quiz, a list, a "tell us something about yourself" thingy. And these are the questions along with my rambling, meaningless answers. I received the baton of The Quiz from Stacy the Peanut Queen, and if you aren't careful I may pass it to you next.


What Is Your Most Embarrasing Moment
Well, I’m sure there are many, so I’ll just start writing and see which one comes out. Back when I was single and living in My HomeTown I joined a church softball team from the singles department. There was one woman in particular that I had a massive crush on. At this particular game I was put at catcher for some odd reason. I never play catcher, but this game they put me there. And she just happen to be standing behind the screen in front of the bleachers not 5 feet from me, watching. Someone popped up a sacrifice to send the guy on third home. Our fielder tried to hum it in to me. I put my glove up and was trying to watch the ball and the runner at the same time. The ball didn’t have enough steam on it and so it took a bounce. Yes, it was one of THOSE bounces. And who wears a cup in softball, right?

Basically, it’s like being stripped naked, stretched out helpless and crying in horrible agony in front of everyone you know, and watching them laugh. It doesn’t get any more humiliating.

If You Could Be Any Animal, What Would You Be & Why
A grizzly bear because no one bothers them and they live in Alaska just wandering around, fishing and eating and screwing and sleeping and fishing and eating and screwing and sleeping. Nothing can bring them down and few men dare to even try. Give them a PC and their own blog and you've got the perfect life.

What Band/Singer You Would Never Admit Listening to
Well hell, clearly if I would never admit listening to it I’m not going to here. So it’ll have to be someone I never have listened to. Someone like … Clay Aiken. Or REO Speedwagon. Or the Spice Girls.

If the point is to list someone I will listen to that I wouldn't want anyone to catch me listening to it would have to be ABBA, or Neil Diamond, or Hank Williams Sr. Although if I were to be honest, I wouldn't really care if someone caught me listening to them. But I know I'd get hassled about it.

What is The Cheesiest Move You Could Watch Over & Over Again
Buford’s Beach Bunnies. It starred Tom Hanks’ younger brother and was sort of a semi-porn flick, but it was the damned funniest movie I ever saw. I don’t know if it just hit me the right way at the right time or if it really was all that funny because I haven’t seen it in a long time, but it killed me. I laughed my ass off and all the while I was fully aware that the story was really lame. But it was funny.

Which Superhero would you be
Well hell, last time I read comic books there was a trend of making all the female superheroes into basically super-gods in tights while the male superheroes were just regular superheroes, so I might have to actually go with a woman. Phoenix would be a good choice. They got really ridiculous with her powers at one point. And as an added bonus of switching genders while being a totally heterosexual male, all the female superheroes have incredible bodies, so there is that whole getting naked and looking at yourself anytime you want to thing, too. I suppose by now they’re making them all lesbians, which would work out fine considering it’s me in there.

How weird would that be, really, to be a lesbian having sex with a woman who turned out to actually be a man?

Which Movie Character Do You Most Identify With
Remember the movie “Falling Down” with Michael Douglas? Yeah? Well not him.

Pick any teen movie about a guy spending the entire film trying to get this hot girl he’s in love with and he is basically a loser with no shot in hell, ok? Now, take out the ending where he actually gets her ...

What Book Would You Recommend
I gotta tell you, "The Bible" is hard to beat. You can read Sun Tzu’s "Art of War," you can read Machiavelli's "The Prince," you can read Dick Morris’ "The New Prince", but all of that is in the Bible already. You just have to study and know what it’s talking about to get it. But there is so much in there that men have spent their entire lives studying it and never stopped learning new things from it. If it isn’t the inspired word of God then somebody was a freakin’ genius.

What is the Last Dream you remember
The last dream I remember was actually a sex dream. I’m trying to remember who she was. It was some movie star I’ve never met and clearly got no shot with …. I have no idea what set the dream off. I think it was Jennifer Garner, which is odd because I've never watched 'Alias.' Anyway, since I can’t remember it I’ll just tell you a more interesting dream.

I had this dream in about 1990. I was a professional motorcycle racer. Some guys asked me to drive their car in a rally in California. I said I’d do it even though I had never done it before. So, this being a dream, there was no practice laps to learn the course of anything, we just get in the cars, all 1990 Mustang GTs, and the race is started. It is in the mountains on those windy roads with no railings and the only way you know there is a turn ahead is to keep watch for those signs that show you how it curves. I was passing lots of cars and doing really well. Then I missed a sign. I didn't turn in time and went over the edge on a left turn that came up all of a sudden. I crashed into a tall tree. The car just stuck in the branches and hung there with me still in it. I had to climb down and ask people living in a house at the bottom of the hill if I could use their phone to call my pit crew. The crew came and had to figure out how to get the car down because this was a rally and after the next checkpoint the cars would stop and the race would begin again tomorrow. So I could still get back into the race if we could just get the car down. The dream went on from here, with the whole getting the car down and back to the checkpoint and everything. It was really intense.

And all of this detail was just a dream, but it was the most realistic and memorable dream I have ever had. I could feel the road and the engine and me shifting gears and everything. And I nearly shit when I flew off the road and into the tree. It was an incredible dream. I wish I could have more like that.

Or more like the sex dream with the movie star. You know, whichever.

What is Your Favourite Board Game
Chess. Not that I’m some kind of master at it or anything. I just like it.

What is Your Unusual Talent
Well, the doctors all seem pleased that I can pee in a cup most anytime I want to. But that hardly counts as a talent. Also, on a related note, on special occasions I can stand directly over the toilet (yes, straddling the damned thing) and still manage to pee in the floor. This only seems to happen when it is least convenient for it to happen, though.

I can fart just like my mom. You’d have to hear my mom fart to understand. It is fairly distinctive. I can’t really explain that one, but if you heard her fart and then you heard me do one like hers you’d go “hey, that fart sounded just like one of your mom’s farts.”

I seem to be really good at making beautiful women laugh and smile and feel really good after feeling really bad and then they go off with some other guy who made them feel bad in the first place. I guess that’s a talent. It isn’t a great talent, but it has some kind of purpose I suppose. It just doesn’t do ME any good.

I can tell you who did it in the first 10 minutes of almost any TV detective or mystery show. It’s either the white male with the weak chin, balding, and/or mustache, the white male whom you’ve seen acting in minor roles on other shows before and therefore he has some skill to play a bad guy (last night on CSI NY that was the guy who played Christina Applegate's brother on 'Jesse'), or the white male who seems to have everything going for him, but then he makes some remark that disparages women, blacks, or gays. On a rare occasion it’ll be a woman, but she has to have something about her that women don’t like. It will never be the black man or woman. And if there is a judge, it is either a black man with graying hair, a black woman with no hair, or a Jewish woman with a deep gravely cigarette voice. If the judge is a white male then he’s either going to be portrayed as incompetent or corrupt. Basically I can look at the characters in a show, see who the writers are, quickly look at the story they are starting to lay out and tell you exactly what the show is going to do from there. I don’t have to actually watch the show. I consider it a talent only in that it saves me from watching a lot of useless crap. And yes, it really annoys my wife, because she knows the second I know who did it without me even speaking a word, and for some reason she can’t do it, too. The original CSI is perhaps the only (American) show I’ve seen where this method for predicting who-done-it doesn’t work every single time. Unfortunately, this "talent" applies to a lot of movies, too.

I guess I can’t think of any really cool talents that I have, just this assorted list of poop.

I'd like to pass this one on to Retarius, but I know he hates these things. Brighton is always a good sport and always interesting. If she'll accept it, I'll pass it on to her. Has anyone passed this to Laura yet? I'd like to hear her responses, too, if she comes by and sees this.

OK, as Florida Gator Robin said earlier today, "stick a fork in me, I am done."

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Katya's Magic Eggs

Katya's Magic Chicken flew all the way from the UK to Memphis, TN to bring me some of Katya's famous creme eggs. Here is how they arrived:

"Bbbbb b-cock!"

"Bbbb b-ow shit!"

"Ow ow!

"Bbbbb-cocka-OH GOOD FREAKIN' GOD!

"Oh please oh please oh please ... "

"Oh God help me,
I swear I'll be a missionary in South Africa if you'll just
SON OF A - !!!!"


Ta Da!
6 of Katya's Magic Creme Eggs
flown all the way from the UK

Thank you, Katya!

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100 Things About Me You Couldn't Possibly Care To Know - part III - 26 through 35

Continuing this damaged train of thought ...

  1. Although I play soccer for my health it has resulted in 2 knee surgeries and possibly a future third surgery sometime later this summer, as well as a separated shoulder. The knee surgeries and separated shoulder caused me more health problems than the soccer playing can overcome. So maybe it isn’t worth it.

  2. I once killed the biggest cockroach you've ever seen with a Diet Pepsi. Caffeine Free Diet Pepsi, to be exact. They say roaches could survive a nuclear war, yet they can't survive swimming in toilet water mixed with caffeine free diet Pepsi? Something is terribly wrong with that.

  3. Every one of my sisters and brother and I are at least slightly ambidextrous. Left-handedness alternated with every other one of us. There are 5 of us kids. My oldest sister is right-handed. The middle sister is left-handed. My youngest sister is right-handed. My older brother is left-handed. And lastly, I am right handed. We can all switch hands as needed, even to write. It isn’t always pretty, but we can do it. When we all sat together at the table to eat it was a nightmare.

  4. I can double-fault in tennis using either hand. Yes, I meant to type it that way. My backhand is meaner with my left than my right. My forehand is better with my right. My serve is inconsistent with either hand and I usually end up hitting a weak spin-serve that sort of falls over the net and then leaps rapidly sideways after touching the ground. This fools the opponent a few times and then they start rocketing it back at me once they’ve figure it out.

  5. I kickbox left-handed. All my taekwando instructors told me to stop doing that. My escrima instructor said it was a good thing. All I know is that is how I end up, even if they make me switch to start off. My kicks are a lot better with my left foot than my right, but in soccer the reverse is true. I don’t know why.

  6. One horrible summer My Wife decided that a lovely vacation would be to rent a car and drive around in Connecticut for a whole week. Yes, seriously, Connecticut. No, she isn't crazy. She's just never been there. She had this tourism book that talked about all these covered bridges and various other touristy sites. So she, and her mother, The Mouth Of The South From New York, who was no doubt at least partially involved in this terrible decision, were all set to do just that. Well, I had just read about the murder of Martha Moxley up in Greenwich, apparently by a Skakel kid living next door, and didn't much like the thought of My Wife getting lost and killed because her mother, the most unaware-of-her-current-surroundings person I have ever met, led her into a lesbian Satanist biker bar without thinking twice. So I went along. They had only told me that they were going to rent a car and drive until they were tired. Then they'd just find a place to stay each night on the fly. Next day they'd move on. We were like hippies in a rental car. Anyway, much to my surprise, they started us off in New York, where we picked up her brother, who is in the Navy. They brought him along. There was no need for me because he was there and would fight off the lesbian Satanist bikers if the need arose. Too bad they hadn't told me ahead of time. I could have saved myself a wasted week of vacation. Oh, we saw bridges. We saw a large tree. We saw Yale. And we saw lesbians, lots and lots of lesbians. Connecticut apparently is a leading importer of lesbians. This was not listed in the tourism book, but it should have been at least mentioned as a kind of warning to men who end up there because of their wives and mother-in-laws.

  7. It is not unusual for me to get up to pee 3 times per night. I am not an old man, but ever since the water in My Little Redneck Town was polluted with EPA-rules-violating waste during a rainstorm and I got very, very sick I have had this problem.

  8. My Wife is part German, part Italian, part Cherokee Indian, and part black. No matter which one I fight with it's always a hell of a battle.

  9. One Saturday the allegedly former drug dealer and burglar who lives across the street from me, Yo G, told me he saw a “crackhead” messing with my truck, which was parked out in front of my house. When he yelled at Crackhead, the “good old boy” ran off like a scared little girl. This “crackhead” was one of the white-trash fucks who hangs out up the street at The Fireman’s house with his sons. They’re friends of the redneck who attacked me and My Wife when we first moved into town. These lovely individuals are among the primary suspects for the vandalizing of my cars and attempts to murder me and My Wife for the past 6 years.When a drug dealer refers to a neighbor/classmate/customer as a “crackhead” he’s not just assigning that person a funny nickname. He means it.

  10. I have 20/15 vision, which means I see at 20 feet what a normal person sees at 15 feet. How this is useful other than for shooting crackhead rednecks I haven’t a clue, but I’ll take whatever I can get.
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Nice Kitty

OK, all my photo sites are giving me problems so I very nearly went through this entire day without blogging anything. Nearly, but not quite. Still, this should be short.

This morning as I was leaving for work I put the cats out, like always. When I go, I stand at the garage door and then click it to open so that I can catch and herd any cats trying to streak into the garage.

Yes, this is a common problem at my house, cats leaping into the garage, peeing whereever the last cat peed, and then trying to escape.

So I stand at the door and lo, a black streak flyeth beneath yon door and hideth itself beneath my favorite Chevelle.

"Hey HEY HEY! Get OUT!" I yelled at my little black female feline. And she wasn't having any of it. No way was she leaving.

This was an odd thing right from the start because if either of my cats is going to try to make a break for the garage it is almost always The Boy (hence the name Booger Bear.) Finally I managed to get the Little Girl out of the garage and the door closed behind us both. As I walked to my truck I watched her slowly walking across the front yard, very afraid for some reason. Then I saw what she was looking at.

"Damn, that's a BIG cat" I thought, stupidly.

"Wait, that's not a cat."

No, it was no cat. Behind me I heard a dog. I looked and saw a stupid little yappy dog tied up to the back of my neighbor's truck in their driveway. He was sniffing the air and seemed disturbed by whatever he was smelling. I looked back at the "big cat."

Waltzing down the street in front of my house, as if he hadn't a care in the world, was the world's biggest raccoon.

As this realization was dawning on me it was also dawning on my Little Girl that the raccoon was moving in her direction. She turned back around and started to sprint for the garage. This time I opened the door to let her in, which she did fast enough to leave fur on the bottom lip of the door. I took a quick photo of the raccoon with my keychain camera and then went inside to get The Boy.

The Boy was on the back porch. He has a weak sense of smell. He was sitting there with his nose in the air trying to figure out what that odd scent was. As I already knew what it was I wasn't going to bother waiting for him to figure it out and ask to come in RIGHT NOW. I ran to the door and opened it up. "Get in here. Hurry up."

He slowly wandered in, just like always, as if he hadn't a care in the world. I locked the door behind him and told the cats, as if they could understand a word I was saying, "You're both staying in today."

Then I ran for my Sony miniDV camera.

Yes, I was late for work and yet my first thought after getting the cats safely inside was to try to get a decent photo of the raccoon. I may not be Laura or Leesa, but someday I hope to be as good (and have camera equipment as good, too.) I went back out into the driveway and started shooting photos. Aaah, this is much better. Now I can zoom.

The raccoon was fascinated with my neighbor's pickup truck, which he had left jacked up in front of his house after it became too dark for him to finish working on last night. But at some point the raccoon became aware of me. He stood up on his back legs and looked hard at me. And then, like Michael Jackson, he covered his face and ran for the fence.

Well, I say ran, but raccoons rarely run all that hard. I mean, I've seen a raccoon really sprint and they can move out when they want to, but they don't usually want to very badly. So anyway, he ran to the fence, walked along looking for an easy way through, and when he couldn't find an easy way under he climbed it and began to walk along the top, with one leg higher than the other just like the cats do. I watched him move along towards my neighbors' backyard until I couldn't see him anymore. And then I put my camera back in the house and went to work.

I suppose he might be the same raccoon I ran into last year, but that was late at night, when you expect to see raccoons out and about. This was 7:30 in the morning and I was definitely not expecting to see a raccoon working on my neighbor's truck. That caught me by surprise.

As for why I was in such a hurry to put the cats inside, wild animals do not generally waltz around in broad daylight in people's neighborhoods unless something is wrong with them. Also, anyone who ever made the mistake of feeding their cats outside and then feeding the raccoons who showed up as well should be able to tell you stories of finding their little kitties torn up and dead after the raccoons decided that they didn't like sharing food or territory with domesticated house cats. Raccoons have opposable thumbs and can grab onto your cat with a death grip that the cats can't get free of. And being twice your cat's size a raccoon can pretty easily kick its' cute little furry ass until it is dead. And they will.

So the cats are in the house and I hope to God the Little Girl didn't pee in the floor.

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Marital Infidelity and Ann Landers

Dear Dead Ann Landers,

what if you knew someone at work who was cheating on their spouse? Would you tell anyone?

Nosy Old Busybody

Dear NOB,

Are you fucking stupid? Do you just wish pain on yourself or do you honestly have no clue? Let me tell you a story from years ago.

I knew this guy. He had this friend who was dating a girl. The guy and girl had a great sex life and all was more or less well. But all the while they were dating my friend kept hearing all of these rumors about her cheating on him. He didn't know if the rumors were true, but he kept hearing it all over the place. One day the guy tells my friend he's not happy and maybe they're going to break up. So my friend, being young and stupid, decided that perhaps now would be a good time to tell him about these rumors he's heard.

What do you suppose happens from here? I'll give you a clue. You've just placed yourself between two people who care more about each other than they do you and you've given them both an enormous painful wound. It doesn't even matter whether the information turns out to be true or not. You have hurt both of them at the same time and now you're gonna catch hell. You're right in the middle of the whole thing and you put yourself there. Idiot. Why can't you just let the Earth turn without trying to give it a push?

Didn't you ever watch "Cops?" Don't you know what happens to people who get in the middle of things like this?

So, you think you know something is going on between two people at work? Good for you. Don't tell me about it, don't tell anyone else about it, and for goodness sake, don't Blog about it. Just get yourself a big, tall glass of Shut The Fuck Up. Believe me, this is the best advice I could possibly give you. No need to learn this the hard way. Don't say anything to anyone.

Dear Dead Ann Landers,

Some white-trash punks in my neighborhood sprayed oven cleaner all over my car and now the paint is pealing off. I know who did it. Should I call the police?

Perpetual Target

Dear Perp,

What do you expect the police to do, repaint your car? Don't you have any oven cleaner of your own? Don't these trailer-trash bastards have cars? Don't you see where I'm going with this?

Dear Dead Ann Landers,

My wife doesn't understand me. What should I do?


Dear John,

Apparently I don't understand you either. Do you actually want her to understand you? If she understood you she might decide that she could do a lot better and leave you. Maybe you shouldn't look a gift-horse in the mouth? Mystery keeps love alive sometimes. Are you looking for an excuse to go to a hooker? You don't need an excuse. You just need cash. And a condom. Don't forget the condom or you'll be really sorry.

Dear Dead Ann Landers,

Even though you've been dead for many years people keep writing to you asking for advice. What is up with that?

Curious in Georgia

Dear Curious George,

There will never be a shortage of people who can't take responsibility for their own lives. They are incapable of making a decision. The people who write to me are the same people who pay fortunetellers and palm readers. They check their horoscopes. They own tarot cards. They love Oprah and Dr. Phil. They believe CNN is objective. They buy lottery tickets based on the numbers in their fortune cookies. They bought a Mitsubishi Eclipse based solely on the girl in the hat dancing in the TV commercial. They still trust Bill Clinton and think he and Hillary make a lovely couple.They think the movies on the Lifetime Network are true stories. They believe what they read in the Enquirer and swear they've seen Elvis several times. They think Michael Moore's films are documentaries as opposed to propaganda. They don't know what the word 'propaganda' means. They are too lazy to look it up.

You see, George, it doesn't matter that I'm dead. A possum could respond to these questions. It doesn't require any intelligence. It doesn't even require that I be alive. You could practically place all of my answers on a wall and just have a monkey throw poo at them to decide which answer to give for each question. Oops, I've said too much.

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Epilogue: The Backyard To A Mouse

Having Mr English Mouse for Dinner
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The Backyard to a Mouse

Under the fence climbs the mouse, into a quiet little yard.

Carefully he sneaks along, hoping not to be noticed.

Suddenly he realizes that he is not alone.

Uh oh, he's been spotted!

"Run, run, as fast as you can," thinks the mouse,
"past the sleepy cat!

"Oh bloody hell, there's another one!"
(this is an English mouse, apparently)

The cat leaps and ... !!!

The End

[This lovely and educational story was brought to you by Memphis Steve.]

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Things I learned at the office – part I

  1. Any time you see the PC team attempting to throw out an old HP Deskjet color printer there is going to be a fight, an epic battle if you will, over who gets to swipe it for their own cubical. Those are the best things HP ever made. I’ve begun to suspect that the PC guys throw them on the recycle cart and then go hide just so they can watch this fight occur. They’re underpaid, overworked sadistic bastards, you know.
  2. When someone is leaving their job for whatever reason, saying to them “I’m sorry to see you go can I take your [telephone, yellow pages, stapler, etc]” is not actually being rude or cold-blooded. It is a necessary survival technique that we all must learn to master sooner or later.
  3. Blame always flows down the chain of command to where you are. Credit stops at the level just above you.
  4. If you thought the parking spaces were already too small, just wait until they repaint them.
  5. If it’s Spring and it’s Friday then yes, you really are the only person in the office after 3 p.m.
  6. Sooner or later the security gate is going to slam down on your car. Accept it. No, they won’t pay for the damages.
  7. You can be trusted with the entire database of customers’ personal data, including bank balances, home addresses and social security numbers, but you cannot be trusted with office supplies, which must be locked up by the secretary, whom you will ask for what you need as the need presents itself.
  8. A vacation is simply the time you spend working for 6 straight hours in your condo in Florida on the telephone with a ‘crisis’ that could have easily been handled by someone else who didn’t just spend $3000 and drive 400 miles to relax and get away from work.
  9. The only way you ever get a decent raise is by quitting and going to work doing the very same job for someone else.
  10. Yes, the janitor really is stealing things from your cubical. No, it isn’t your imagination. No, you'll never get any of it back.

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Ian is Dying

My friend Ian is dying. We went to high school together and knew all the same people, but somehow didn't really know each other. We met again or perhaps for the first time at Samantha's fabulous house just last year.

A few months prior to this Samantha had emailed saying that she couldn't believe any god would be so cruel. Her friend Ian was diagnosed with a brain tumor and may die. Another friend, also from our high school, was diagnosed with leukemia at the same time. Leukemia is tough to beat. Bridget Junen from my high school homeroom died of it just one year after graduation. But the brain tumor might potentially be removed, leaving Ian to live out his full life.

Vanderbuilt Hospital removed Ian's tumor. Everyone hoped and prayed it was over then.

It wasn't.

This time as the tumor came back apparently they couldn't remove it. The chemo, the medicine, all the attempts to kill the tumor are killing Ian.

Now his kidneys are failing and he is in real trouble. His wife, Diane, emailed us to let us know "If you want to talk to Ian or see him you should do it soon."

Samantha was freaking out when she first learned of his condition. I can't even describe how she is now. She is the sort of person who solves people's problems, who always helps out, who cries when you cry and will always be there for you. She has always had to be because her family required it. But she can't do anything about this and it is tearing her apart.

When Samantha first told me about Ian I was already in an argument with God. I won't go into the details of that, but my response to her questions about God was oh so bitter and less than helpful. Now I'm the one praying. Ian needs a miracle. Only God can give it.

Do you pray? Pray for my friend Ian. Please.
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The Power of Trisha

I once had several classes with a beautiful girl named Trisha while in college. We had gone to high school together, but I never knew her then. Trisha was always way out of my league. She had just gotten married by the time we became friends in college. We studied together, sometimes at her house, and her husband, Jay, would make us strong coffee while we worked. Whenever we went into the computer lab we'd end up sitting side-by-side on the PCs working away.

Trisha was blonde, about 5’8” or so, and a part-time model. She instantly lit up the room when she entered. She'd attract a crowd in a flash. She was beautiful.

Trisha got hit on constantly. In college we had several classes in a row together. In the computer lab she'd be working away like mad, completely focused on her work, and out of the corner of my eye I'd see some Star Trek geek suddenly spot her. It was unmistakable when it happened. His brain would go into hyper drive, his eyes would grow as big as basketballs, and his heart would nearly pound out of his chest. You could actually see his little ribs just heaving from the beating they were taking. But despite his terror, animal instincts would compel him to approach her.

Of course, he had nothing to say once he’d stumbled over to her. He’d invariably end up just standing there next to her for a long, awkward moment before finally attempting to speak.


Trisha was so used to this that she had already sensed his heart attack before he even got to her, but she didn’t want to talk to him so she’d pretend not to notice. Sometimes he’d lose his nerve, sometimes he’d pass out before he reached her, and sometimes he’d make it over, but never figure out how to speak and so have to walk away, now defeated and gasping for air.

On the rare occasion that he did manage to both reach her and speak, the conversation would invariably go something like this:

Geek: “Err, umm, wha … wha … um … Ahem .. Hi, don’t I know y…. Didn’t we have Calculus together?”

Trisha: “Mmmm? What?” she would half smile, but never take her eyes off the computer screen, “I don’t think so. Maybe.”

Geek: “Oh, I thought I knew you. You look … uh … familiar.”

[Long awkward silence while Trisha said nothing in hopes that Geek was all out of words and would walk away. Geek, meanwhile, was trying to breathe and thinking fast.]

Geek: “Soooooo … um .. watcha workin’ on? Maybe I could help you.” (Translation: let me do your homework.)

Trisha: It’s my CS499 project. (this was our senior project and it was highly unlikely that he had taken the class yet or else he’d be graduated and gone.)

Geek: (very disappointed) “Oh.”

[Long silence.]

Geek: “Sooooo …. um … want to … um … want to hear a … um … why do blondes …. why do blondes … um …. wear panties? Heh heh. This is a funny one.” (Geek would then smile a horrific smile.)

Trisha: (still half smiling, still working, and still not taking her eyes off the screen) “mmmm, what?”

Geek: (growing frustrated) “I said, why do blondes wear panties?”

Trisha: “Mmmm, I don’t know. Why?”

Geek; “hee hee, to keep their ankles warm! Get it?! Hee hee hee!”

[Long silence]

Trisha: “Mmm, that’s funny. I hadn’t heard that one before.”

Yes she had. I’d told it to her and heard a hundred other guys tell it to her after that. But the truth was that she hadn’t actually heard him speaking at all and wasn’t actually processing anything he said.

From here various things would occur. Generally at this point the geek was all out of gas. He wasn’t making any progress. There was no way he was going to get up the nerve to ask her out. There was nothing more to say. And the best that he could usually come up with was some lame quote from “Monte Python and the Holy Grail”, which everyone in the world had already heard 1000 times before. Plus, by this point he was desperate for oxygen and needing to pee really badly. And his knees were wobbling and about to give way. Worst of all, Trisha had not once taken her eyes off the computer screen to look at him. The only reason he’d managed the courage to stay for this long was because of the smile on Trisha’s face, which was a very pretty, reassuring smile that made you feel incredibly warm and happy inside. It was like a drug and once she’d flashed it for you it made you an instant addict.

Yes, I was hooked on her, too, but I was engaged, she was married, and I was too much of a chickenshit to even really flirt with her. One time, and I think she was just fucking with my head, she turned her ass to me and asked, “do you think my butt is getting big?” I couldn’t figure out if it was OK to look at her ass with her staring me right in the eye or what. I nearly shit my pants.

She was one year ahead of me in high school and her husband was a football player who had been two years ahead of me at that same high school. I sympathized with the geeks who had even less of a shot than I did, but they entertained me nonetheless. I saw myself in their desperate and feeble attempts to win her attention and was thrilled at the opportunity to study this phenomenon from an observer’s view rather than from the shaky guy’s view.

One night while we were studying at Trisha’s house, her husband had brought us some extra strong coffee to help us focus. We were both flying so high on the caffeine that we actually couldn’t study at all. We ended up talking for 3 hours at 90 mph. I found out her entire life story and she found out mine. We had both grown up with the usual engineer father who offered little emotional support and the teacher mother who was frustrated at the lack of emotion from the husband. We both had one older brother and some sisters. She had twin younger sisters and I had 3 older sisters. Her twin sisters were two years behind me and almost as hot as she was.

The biggest difference in our families was that everyone in her family was unusually smart (and good-looking.) Trish told me that she had learned to smile and act like she was listening to the geeks who bothered her from growing up with her twin sisters, Fran and Kay, who would always stir up all kinds of crises at home and then come running into her room to pour out their hearts while she was trying to do her homework. She would smile, nod, and even respond as if she were totally in tune with the conversation, all the while reading, writing, and comprehending the work she was truly focused on.

Her older brother had some sort of problem with epilepsy when he was very young and had to take medicine. But the medicine had affected his personality, taking the life out of it. But he was a genius. Trisha was sad about the effects of the medicine and said she’d always wondered what sort of person he’d have been if not for the medicine subduing his real personality.

Trisha herself was a genius, as I quickly found out from trying to keep up with her while we studied. Every time we studied, no matter what it was, she ended up explaining everything to me. I felt so embarrassed and stupid. She’d tried to reassure me by explaining, “that’s OK. It helps me to learn it better by having to explain it to you.” Yes, and now I feel like a total loser times ten.

That night, while pouring out our life story to each other, I asked her about being so smart and yet blonde and having everyone assume she was a ditz. She told me that in middle school she had been labeled a “brain” and didn’t like it. Apparently it is the most horrible thing in the world for a beautiful girl to be labeled a brain at age 13 or so. So Trish had tried to shake the label by acting dumb, sort of putting on the Marilyn Monroe routine. It worked. Everyone loved her again and all was right with the world. But, she told me, somehow she just got stuck acting that way. She wasn’t dumb, but she found that she really didn’t have to try very hard to pass her classes and got more of the right kind of attention by focusing on being pretty and fun. So school was a breeze and life was good. She was really popular. I knew this to be true from being in high school with her. She was REALLY popular.

When Trish got to college she made a lot of Cs and Bs and wasn’t really any more focused than she’d ever been. But eventually she’d met and married her husband, a very smart guy himself who graduated in engineering. Now that this part of her life was in order Trish was ready to graduate and get on with things. So now she was focusing more and more on school. And now, in the hardest classes of her entire college career, she was making As.

To get a BS in computer science at this college you had to minor in math. I don’t care what the feminists say about the president of Harvard’s remarks, almost everyone else believes he was probably right. Generally guys have a better aptitude for math than girls, with plenty of exceptions, of course. Trish made As in the senior level math classes that we had together. I would sweat and study my brains out to pass and Trish would make an A with one arm tied behind her back. During her final term before graduation her mother got very sick and had to be hospitalized, her father-in-law had a major heart-attack and had to be hospitalized, and her husband was diagnosed with a genetic flaw in his heart which was found to be the cause of his father’s heart-attack and could easily cause him to die of one, too, at any time. All of this fell on Trisha at the exact same time. She was going to school in the daytime, and spending every single night at the hospital, studying here and there when she could. And this, I kid you not, was when she did her absolutely most astounding work. It was so good that her professors started to accuse her of cheating by getting her husband to do her work for her.

In one of her computer architecture labs Trisha had breezed in, read the lab, figured it out despite the guys hitting on her, and finished it, all the while thinking about needing to get to the hospital to see her family. She was completely focused and not talking much to anyone. No one else in the class could figure this particular lab assignment out. Not me, not the Chinese students, not the Indian students, no one.

So we ALL copied Trish’s lab. Guess who got accused of cheating by the lab instructor? And how could we explain the truth?

“You see, Professor, that’s not how it is. She didn’t cheat off of us. We all cheated off of her.”

No way could we confess to this. So we had to stand there and agonize over her taking all this verbal abuse, and all the while she was smiling that involuntary smile that she did when she was under pressure, and seeming pretty and blonde and not at all likely to have been the actual source of the information rather than the recipient of help. I was so mad that I went to our professor and complained loud and long about the lab instructor chewing her out when I had sat beside her and watched her figure it out and knew for a fact that she had not cheated.

I got the lab teacher in big trouble. In the very next lab he came over to her and apologized.

Sorry, Mr. Indian Grad Student Lab Man, but you should never, ever rip apart a beautiful blonde girl in front of a bunch of guys who are in love with her. If we can’t beat your ass for fear of being flunked out then we’ll get you fired. You’d better think about that before you jump down her throat.

If there is one thing Trisha will never have a shortage of, it’s people who love her and will fight for her.

After Trisha graduated I heard she went to work for TRW programming in Ada for some government contract. I had hoped to follow, perhaps even working side-by-side with her and enjoying myself each day with the incredible warmth of her beautiful charisma. But it didn’t work out and I never saw her again after that.

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100 Things About Me You Never Asked - part II - 12 through 25

Previously 10 Things About Me You Never Asked, with the intent that I would post 10 things at a time until I hit 100. Oh well.

  1. My parents used to argue about the Cherokee Indian in us. Dad would say we shouldn’t tell anyone. Mom would say the opposite of whatever Dad would say no matter what. It made for a great, but pointless fight.
  2. No one in My Family other than My Dad is concerned about the Cherokee in us, but the Irish in My Mom is a huge embarrassment to her. Actually, she’s Scotch-Irish, which is Scottish, not Irish, but she’s got the temper of an Irishman all the way. I got her a big Irish mug for Mother’s Day one year. She exploded, “We’re not Irish, we’re Scottish!” Sometimes I’m a bastard. I think it must be the Irish in me.
  3. My Mother’s wedding ring was a gift from My Dad’s Parents. Being jewelers they could get rare stones. Her ring was a 1-carat blue and pink diamond, worth a fortune. For some reason they didn’t give My Dad any papers with the ring. Years after My Dad's Parents had both died My Mom took the ring to a jeweler in Alabama to have it cleaned. He cleaned it all right. When she got it back she commented to the jeweler, “it looks different.” Then she took it home and showed My Dad. He hit the roof. It was not the same stone. It was a piece of shit diamond. She never went back to the jeweler to try to get her stone back because without papers she couldn’t prove he’d stolen it. I don’t think My Dad ever got over that.
  4. When I was 6 years old a young family moved in behind us. You could see their entire backyard from our house. The wife was named Maria. Maria was only 24 and absolutely beautiful. During the summertime Maria would put on a bikini and lay out to get a tan in her backyard. After she’d lain down on her stomach she’d take off her top. My Older Brother and his friends would go upstairs to his room, close the door, and pull out binoculars to watch, wait, and pray that she’d get up without her top. And sometimes she did. This made My Mom and all the other middle-aged women in the neighborhood absolutely crazy. Mom would complain about “that woman” all the time, but she would never tell me why she hated her so much. My Dad thought it was hilarious. I would be over there playing with her oldest son, Mike, while this was going on, but we were usually inside the house or out front in the street. So I myself never got to see Maria topless. I have felt cheated by this to this very day, even though I was too young to properly appreciate what I would have been seeing. If only digital cameras had existed back then.
  5. The reigning Miss Alabama at the time was a student teacher for my 5th grade class. Her name was Miss Nixon and she was hot, hot, hot. I think this experience caused every boy in the class to experience early puberty the following summer.
  6. My 6th grade homeroom teacher and my 6th grade science teacher were both militant lesbian feminists. They hated all males and made sure to fully express this hatred to us boys. They had all the doors of the boys’ bathrooms, including the door from the hallway, removed. When we asked why, they simply said they didn’t know where the doors went, as if they’d evaporated by magic. When we went to the bathroom they would walk inside with us and stand behind us, screaming at us the entire time just to harass us, as if we were in the Marines. We were only 11 and 12 years old and just starting to develop. So we would try to cover up and pee while ignoring the abuse as best we could. Because they had removed the stall doors, too, and came all the way into our bathroom, it was simply not possible to use the sit-down toilets at all.
  7. The lesbian feminists ran the entire middle school I was sent to from 6th to 8th grade. There were only 3 men in the entire building and the feminists ran all over them. No new teachers could be hired unless she, and it had to be a she, said she was a radical feminist, too. During the middle of my 6th grade year the feminists took all the girls, and only the girls, to a lunchroom for “special education.” The boys were taken to an alternate lunchroom and simply monitored to make sure we didn’t escape. We were held there in silence. The girls were hit with a brief sex-ed talk, which the parents hadn’t been informed about, and then indoctrinated with radical female supremacist religious views. After this they were taught martial arts techniques specifically for sexually assaulting and mutilating males. Then they were told to do this to us boys “any time you feel angry for any reason.” Yes, this is an exact quote. After this feminist indoctrination we were brought back together. The feminists then informed us boys that the girls were going to sexually assault us and even mutilate us (using their pencils, pens, whatever was handy) any time they felt angry for any reason. We protested, of course, and asked them to clarify if they meant any time the girls were angry because of something we had actually done, or just any time they were angry even if it had nothing to do with us. They confirmed that the girls were being instructed to sexually abuse and mutilate us any time they felt angry for any reason even if it had nothing to do with us. The reasoning was that all males are evil and any unhappiness felt by females is entirely the fault of males (The Patriarchy.) They further informed us boys that we were not permitted to fight back or protect ourselves from being sexually assaulted or sexually mutilated in any way, shape, or form, and that if we did the teachers would jump in and help the girls attack us. They ended the discussion, if you could call it a discussion, by saying that this was entirely justified by virtue of the ‘fact’ that “girls are sensitive, but boys aren’t.”
  8. When I was in the 8th grade a girl decided to make use of what the lesbian feminists had taught the girls. She picked a very small boy in her class and kneed him in the testicles as hard as she could while he was standing in front of the entire class. She said she did it just to see if it really worked like the teachers had told her it would. She kicked him so hard that while he lay screaming in the floor he peed in his pants in front of everyone. He was hurt so badly that he had lost all control of his bladder and it poured out, making a huge puddle in the floor, which he was left laying in while he cried. He had to be taken to the clinic because he was injured. The girl who had assaulted him was not punished in any way or told that she had done wrong. The boy’s mother had to be called to take him to a doctor. Nothing ever came of this incident that I know of, but when My Niece attended that same school 8 years later she said that they were no longer teaching the girls to sexually assault the boys. Other than that, nothing had changed.
  9. 15 years later, when I learned that my 6th grade lesbian feminist science teacher, Delores Kornman, had died of lung cancer, I celebrated.
  10. My Older Brother told me that while he attended the Lesbian Supremacist Middle School that I was currently attending a girl murdered a boy at the school by stabbing him in the neck with an icepick.
  11. Back in the early ‘70s when I was little and home with the chicken pox I saw a huge black station wagon pull into the driveway of our next door neighbor’s house. I asked my mom, who was home with me, what the black car was for. She exclaimed with alarm that it was a hearse. My neighbor’s daughter, Christine, whom I believe was about 14, had died in the middle of the night. At about 2 a.m. she had started screaming, “Mom! Mom!” and when her parents came running to see what she was screaming about she was already dead. She died of natural causes, the details of which I can’t remember, but all sorts of ugly rumors quickly spread throughout the neighborhood. The family eventually moved away. I met her younger sister, Valerie, years later when we both went to the same college. We talked only very briefly about her sister’s death and the ugly rumors people had spread. Then we never mentioned it again.
  12. Around the same time that Christine died suddenly in the middle of the night, another neighbors’ daughter, Debbie, also died. She died in the middle of the day. Debbie was in high school, but she had skipped school and gone out with some friends. At some point they all got really high. Then she went home. When she got home she started to notice that something was terribly wrong with this particular "trip." She called her mom at work and said “Mom, something’s wrong. Something’s really wrong!” By the time her mom got home Debbie had died of a drug overdose. She was only 18. Even though I was just a little kid I have remembered that for the rest of my life. Debbie’s car, a 1970 Barracuda, was left parked in front of their house for a long time and I’d pass it every day on my bike when I rode over to Mike’s house, who lived next door to her. The entire time Mike and I were playing in the street, while his mom, sexy Maria, was virtually naked in the backyard (dammit) we’d pass that car and I’d think about how Debbie had died. I can barely remember Debbie’s face because she was so much older than me and I only saw her a few times, but that car is burned into my memory forever.
  13. I have never had a sense of smell. There is some faint sense of it if the smell is incredibly strong, but beyond that there is nothing. This was a big problem in chemistry labs in college, when our instructions said to wave a heated test tube of something under our noses to detect a particular odor. It could be toxic and I could hold it under my nose all day without detecting anything. But this came in handy when the instructions said to heat to a boil, record the results, and then dump the mixture into the trash. I did exactly that and the trash exploded into flames. The resulting fire apparently stunk to high Heaven because everyone else in the lab was crying, but it didn't bother me at all. The instructor, an overworked and underpaid grad student, tried to extinguish the flames with the emergency shower that every lab had. The emergency shower did not work. So he kicked the flaming trash can into the hall and shut the door. Problem solved. On with the lab. Seriously.
  14. I owned and drove more different cars while in college than I have owned and driven the entire rest of my life.
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Oh, I Come From The Land Down Under!

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Phone Story

Stacy told a marshmallow story, which in a roundabout way inspired my little phone story.

Many years ago, My Dad the electrical engineer, decided to outsmart the cable company by wiring the entire house for cable and hooking up every single TV we owned. At some point way back before The Day it was apparently really "in" to have more than one TV. I mean, it must have been some kind of big deal. So My Dad, not being one to do things in a small way, put a TV in every room except the bathrooms. Keep in mind that we didn't have a small house either. It was a 2-story 5 bedroom, den, living room, dining room house. And we had TVs in all of those rooms (which pissed Mom off royally since we'd watch TV while eating supper in the dining room - again, some sort of ancient taboo.)

Dad, being an engineer, was very proud of his accomplishment. Mom, not being an engineer, was very pissed off that he had run the cables for all of this right along the top of the walls just beneath the ceilings, big black ugly cables which went through little holes he had punched in every wall.

Yeah, Mom was ecstatic.

Anyway, many years later My Father discovered the cheap-skate joys of Garage Saling. Woo hoo! He'd preach to me about how I needed to go to garage sales because you could get all kinds of good crap for cheap.

And then he discovered the church "rummage" sale. Oh hell.

Dad came home one day with a bunch of old telephones. And when I say old I mean this

I shit you not. This was the phone I ended up with in my room. He installed the wall version in the den. It is still being used there to this day.

Naturally, along with all of these new phones came the need for new phone wiring to be run to all of the rooms that weren't already wired to have a telephone. This meant more holes and more wires coming through the walls. And this naturally thrilled My Mother to death.

My Father, luckily for me, never cared much about the novelty of the old phones he'd installed. To him they were normal since he grew up with them. I say luckily for me because something bad happened.

I don't remember who I was talking to or trying to call. I think I had made some kind of call to a business or something and they wanted me to press "1" to continue or something (today "1" is to speak English.) Naturally I couldn't press anything and so, being My Mother's Son, I got mad and slammed down the receiver really hard.

It broke and the mouthpiece fell out onto the table.

You can't slam down a Bakelite phone that is 50 years old. It just can't take it. Now, you can bash somebody's head in with the damned thing and it won't even scratch the phone, but you can't slam down the receiver like I'd done.

So now I had a broken antique phone that had been really cool and was now determined to prove to me that it was invented way before the age of Superglue. Yes, by God, I tried. I glued it and I taped it and I wrapped it up with everything I could think of, but eventually the pieces would fall out and the mouthpiece would fall to the floor, usually while I was talking to a girl, who would hear something along these lines, "so you wanna go ... oh shit ... RUMBLE RUMBLE CLUNK RATTLE KKKKKKKKKKK ... OK, I'm back. Sorry about that."

Yeah, very impressive with the ladies.

Getting back to the problem of the ruined phone, I decided to try to escape from this predicament. I bought a pushbutton flip-phone (my friend from high school, John Onder, showed me the world's first flip-phone back in the 9th grade. His father was an engineer for Motorola and had invented it.) I set the switch to pulse or whatever and then tried to hide the ruined antique phone. But this thing was a monster. There weren't any good places in my room to put it. Eventually I ended up sneaking it out back, to My Father's workshop. I found a big wooden crate where he had a whole bunch of telephones in various states of disassembly. I tried to bury it in there.

One fateful day My Father caught me talking on the flip-phone. "Where's the phone I put in?"

"Huh, oh, I switched it out with this new phone. This one can do tone dialing which I need sometimes. I put the old one outside in the building."

"Oh, OK," he said and then left.

I thought I had solved my problem, but here is the catch. That was 20 years ago and that old broken telephone is still out in that crate which is still in My Father's workshop behind the house and one day I know he's going to find it. And he's going to remember me suddenly not using it anymore. And he's going to know that I broke it. And old as he is I'm going to catch hell. I think about this every time I go home to visit them. I've been avoiding going out to his workshop ever since, in the fear that he'll come out there to see what I'm doing and just happen to find the phone at that very moment. And I'll be trapped out there in that old dusty building with him and that phone.

One of these days while I'm visiting I need to sneak out there at about 2 a.m. and steal it. I found a guy on the internet who fixes those old phones. I could get it fixed and put it back. Maybe he'd never notice. And finally, after all of these years, I'd be off the hook.
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Dell Doesn't Want My Money

I bought a new Dell computer for my wife. Dell offered a 3 months no interest payment plan so I took it. Now that I’m trying to make a payment I find that they don’t want my money. They sent me a sort of Dell credit card. They set me up an account online. They offer me phone numbers to call. But just try to make a payment.

Forget about it.

They never sent me an actual bill. I tried to call them and get them to send one. No luck. So I called all the other numbers they gave me. The only payment option they offer is for me to give them direct access to my bank account, which I will never do.

Is there a problem with cash, credit cards or checks? If so then we have a problem because I see no need for a computer manufacturer to be in my checking account at any time for any reason. And I work for an enormous financial corporation, much larger than the one Dell uses to handle its’ accounts.

I’ve called Dell’s financial services line several times. You can too if you want. It’s 1-877-577-3355 extension 7268970. No matter what extension you choose, though, you’re calling India and you’re going to get an Indian who swears to Vishnu that his name is Dennis.

“You don’t sound very much like a Dennis to me. Are you sure your name isn’t Sanjay? I have a friend named Sanjay and he talks exactly like you.”

“I sware. My name ees Din-nis. How may I ass-ssist you?”

"Dennis" will take you around in circles for a long time before transferring you to another number. The number he transfers you to is 1-800-663-3355. This just happens to be the wrong number and you will find this out after you have been informed by the operator that you are transferring from India to the United States and are about to be charged for an international call.

When you finally connect you’ll get an answering machine with a message informing you that “Dennis” has sent you to the wrong number. The correct number, which would keep you in India, is 1-877-663-3355. Dial this number yourself and you get more people named "Dennis." These Dennis’s will ask you for your social security number.

“I bought a fucking computer. I’m not filing my taxes here. Why do you need my social security number? I don’t think I even gave Dell that number. How would you find that useful if I never gave it to you?”

“I need your social sick-yuritee number, sir. For the see-stum.”

“All I want is for you guys to send me a bill that allows me to send you a payment because I am not going to give you access to my checking account and never agreed to that when I ordered the PC.”

“I need your social sick-yuritee number, sir.”


“I cahn’t help you if you ..”

“That’s right. You apparently can’t help me.”


So I have this Dell computer. And it seems to run all right. But at some point I either have to find a way to send them some money or box it up and send it back. That is, unless my attorney tells me that my good faith attempts to pay are enough and now it is considered a gift.

Thanks Dennis.

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Paul and Stevie?

Ebony and Ivory
... go together in perfect harmony ...

Now that song is going to be stuck in your head all day long.
So very sorry.
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Castration and tolerance at UNH - by Mike S. Adams

March 30, 2005

Recently, one of my readers wrote saying that my school, UNC-Wilmington, had the craziest feminists in the entire nation. That was incorrect. The honor belongs to the University of New Hampshire (UNH).

This March, posters depicting a woman grasping a hammer with “Feminism” stamped on the handle were hung all over campus. With clenched fists, the woman on the poster was saying “If I had a hammer...I'd SMASH Patriarchy.” Another caption above the hammer said, “I FOUND IT!”

The Feminist Action League (FAL) organized the on-campus event, which featured poetry readings, skits, monologues and an open microphone. Members of FAL said they wanted to share experiences of oppression in a “comfortable setting.” The UNH campus is a good choice, as long as you aren’t a man, of course.

One member of FAL was quoted as saying that “Ninety-nine percent of sexual perpetrators are men. They are the root cause of the rape and oppression against women.” That pretty much sums up the tone of the event. Nonetheless, it gets worse.

One FAL member’s monologue follows: “Hello, my name is Mary Man-Hating-Is-Fun. I am 23 years old, and I am what a feminist looks like. Ever since I learned to embrace my feminist nature, I found great joy in threatening men's lives, flicking off frat brothers and plotting the patriarchy’s death. I hate men because they are men, because I see them for what they are: misogynistic, sexist, oppressive and absurdly pathetic beings who only serve to pollute and contaminate this world with war, abuse, oppression and rape.”

Other members of the FAL wore scissors around their necks and sang a song about castration.

David Huffman, a writer for the UNH conservative paper “Common Sense” was outraged by the, shall we say, mr-ogyny of the event. Huffman was asked to leave the public university event during the open microphone session. Despite the fact that he wasn’t singing songs about castration, FAL members said he was making women feel uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t singing about castration that these women felt uncomfortable.

Huffman pointed out that nowhere did the posters advertising the event say “Women Only.” He was simply excluded from an event at a public university based upon his gender.

The evening of man-hating was simply an example of an extremist group promoting stereotypes and encouraging violence towards another group. This is the kind of thing that is tolerated in the name of campus diversity, simply because the targets are the “right” group (Read: Not blacks, women, or gays).

After hearing poems that talked about castrating men, read by women with scissors tied around their necks, Hoffman asked “How is this any different than hating African-Americans or Jews?” The answer is simple: It is no different in principle. But, of course, the FAL is not based upon principle. The organization is based upon blind hatred.

But the women weren’t the only lunatics in the audience. Rob Wolff, of the Men Against Patriarchy, said the following: “I hope men are confronted. That's what it's going to take. Events like this are the beginning of a women's revolution.”

But many observers ask whether a fraternity advocating female genital mutilation at a campus event (and throwing women out of the event) would be as cute and entertaining as the stunts FAL pulled recently on the UNH campus.

But there’s no need to contemplate hypothetical cases at UNH. Just look at what happened to sophomore Timothy Garneau last semester. The university kicked him out of his dorm after he posted fliers mocking freshmen women who gained weight.

Although he had to sleep in a friend’s car while temporarily homeless, things could have been worse for Timothy. He would have been castrated if the FAL ran the university. In a few years, maybe they will.

Mike S. Adams will speak at Monmouth College in Illinois on Wednesday, April 13th. The school will provide an athletic supporter and cup to protect him from campus feminists. The author wishes to thank Shannon O'Neill of the New Hampshire for the quotations in this article. Also, thanks to David Huffman and another anonymous source for confirmation of all important facts and quotations.

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The Engineer - part I

I grew up in a city where everyone's father was an engineer working for the government and everyone's mom was a teacher. We didn't tell lawyer jokes because there were no lawyers (those were the days!), but we did tell engineer jokes. Everything you read about engineers in the Dilbert comic strips is true.

Anyway, I was just remembering a conversation I had with my Engineer Dad years ago. He was telling me about a problem he had solved and he seemed quite proud of himself. It went like this:

A guy Dad worked with mentioned that his son had tried to commit suicide the other day. He had driven his car into a brick wall as fast as it would go. But the car was an early '70s Ford LTD stationwagon and could not be destroyed by God or man or brick wall crashing. So the boy was bruised, but not dead. And the car was damaged, but still driveable.

The man was mystified at this odd event and turned to my father for advice.

Related side note: men do not tell men things like this as a matter of making small talk. Men tell other men things like this when they want advice. Women, on the other hand, talk about these things without wanting the least bit of input from anyone other than the sympathetic "oh my Lord, that's terrible" and a lot of listening with complete and full attention. Men who are engineers, in particular, cannot comprehend this oddity of women and will offer advice almost involuntarily, as if they can't control their problem-solving urges. When the women do not accept the advice and get irritated over the interruptions, the engineer-men begin to lose focus, finding that they cannot keep their attention tuned to any problem that they are not permitted to try to solve. This further aggravates the women, who then throw shoes at the engineer-men and call them bastards before divorcing them and shacking up with their personal trainer.

Getting back to the assignment of solving this man's problem with his suicidal son crashing his car into a brick wall - My Father and this man discussed the problem at great length and thought about it for a long while.

Finally, My Father came up with The Solution to the problem. He had once purchased a 1963 Plymouth Valiant for $200 for My Oldest Sister when she turned 16. The car had a push-button transmission with the controls on the dash and was generally a go-cart with a trunk. It was a fun little car, but wouldn't go any faster than about 50 mph. Being a Chrysler/Plymouth/Dodge product of the Pre-Bankruptcy Government Bailout Era it was completely indestructible, much like the man's son's Ford LTD stationwagon. But it had the added benefit of the inability to exceed 50 mph.

My Father had concluded that the solution to the problem of the crashing of the car into the brick wall was to buy the son a car just like that Plymouth Valiant, which was sturdy, reliable, and unable to go fast enough for anyone inside the car to be hurt in the event that it was driven at top speed into any brick walls.

The man agreed that My Father's solution was excellent and should solve the problem.

Now, even way back then when I was a kid listening to My Father tell of this great achievement it occurred to me that there was something slightly wrong with this whole thing. Perhaps it has occurred to you as well.

These 2 engineers had taken the problem of a boy attempting to kill himself by crashing his car into a wall and defined the problem like this:

Problem: Son crashes car into wall. Car and Son damaged, creating expensive repair bills.

Given: Car can propel Son fast enough to do harm.

Solution: Replace Car with slower, less expensive vehicle, thus preventing problem from reoccurring.

Ta DA!

I never heard if anything more came of this or not. My Father never mentioned it again, as I'm sure in his mind the issue was resolved and there was nothing more to do or say about it. I always wondered if the boy ever succeeded in his suicide attempts. If My Father, or any engineer for that matter, were the sort of person to accept input from others, I would have told him how I saw the problem. But since he wasn't I'll tell you.

My View of the Problem:

Problem: Son crashes car into wall in attempt to kill self.

Given: Father has no clue what is going on with Son and is avoiding confronting 'touchy-feely' issue.

Solution: Find out what is wrong with Son and try to help him through it before he finds your gun and uses that instead. This will likely require speaking to Son, followed by listening to Son's response. It is likely that special training will be required for Engineer Father in order to teach him listening skills beforehand. Wife will probably be enthusiastic about said training, too, which could be an added bonus, possibly in the form of sex.

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Interview With An Atomic Indian

This interview was blatantly and shamelessly stolen and modified from the blog of Elisabeth. Yes, I am a thief and have no shame. Get over it.

1. If you were stranded on a desert island, and you could only bring one of the following with you, which would it be: a fully-staffed cruise ship, an extension cord, an apple core, a jar of sand, a life-size marble statue of the interviewer, or a ninja riding a unicorn with a gun mounted on its back?

I would choose the cruise ship, if only because I have no interviewer and simply stole this quiz with nothing more than a small note left in Elisabeth's comments section to warn her. Plus, the cruise ship should have extension cords, apples, sand, and probably some statues here and there. If they have no statues I happen to know they'll make little statues out of towels and leave them on your bed each day. The turtle was My Wife's favorite. I have known too many freaks with intentions of becoming a real live ninja to want one of them along with me. They are usually guys with a ponytail who watch too many Steven Segal movies and have no sense of humor.

2. If the Indians had the Atomic Bomb during the French and Indian War, would they have used it? Would you? Why or why not?

I must answer this as a Cherokee because I am one and can't really answer as a Commanche. We would not have used the atomic bomb during the French and Indian war. The reason is simple. We did not have airplanes to drop it from at the time. We do have them today, though, so watch out.

I do believe, based on my years of friendship with a full-blooded Commanche back in high school, that those crazy motherfuckers would have tried to use this thing, even if they had to set it on the ground and bash it with rocks to make it go off. Same thing with the Apaches. I don't know if they were as crazy as the Commanches, but if so then they'd be out there with them, rocks in hand, bashing away at that thing. If the bashing failed to set it off, and it takes a tremendous amount of force to set off an atomic bomb, then they would most likely have taken it up to a high cliff and dropped it on some soldiers without much regard for whether they were French or British. I mean, once you've hauled something like that all the way up there you're pretty much going to drop it on the first soldier to come along.

There were several other tribes who were just as crazy as the Commanches and Apaches, but less organized and effective. If they were available, the Commanches would have gotten one of them to set it off. But they'd still try to be close enough to watch, which as we all know would have killed them slowly and painfully from the radiation anyway. We Cherokees wouldn't have watched because we feared and respected the Great Glowing Cancer Cloud. We'd have sent that Ute on his way with written instructions (since we had writing, unlike the other dumb mofo's living around us) and then high-tailed it out of the area as fast as possible. Instead of the Trail of Tears we would refer to this historic event as the Glowing Trail Of Dead Frenchmen.

3. Should academic performance-enhancing drugs be banned from the classroom? What if they were chewable? Or had a colorful candy shell, with chocolate on the inside? On an unrelated note, is it responsible to sell M&M’s over the counter?

I believe that students are going to use performance-enhancing drugs so long as there are "My Child is an Honor Student" bumperstickers to pressure them into it. Also, the high prevelance of violent morons in the easy classes inspired a great many of us to press on into highly competitive classes like Chemistry and Physics if only to avoid getting knifed. Now that kids are being gunned down en masse in the hallways the pressure is even higher, with students wanting to leave their schools altogether and go to a private school that doesn't have hallway shootings. This, I think, guarantees that students will use performance-enhancing drugs for as long as they remain in existence.

I don't think the chewability is a strong factor. Same with the colorful candy shell and the chocolate inside. I think the knifing and the hallway shootings are still the primary factors.

I do think it is safe to sell M&Ms over the counter as the sugar high only lasts a little while and then you need another hit before you crash.

4. Should butchering be an Olympic sport? If so, aren’t we just asking for a special interest feature about the vegan medalist who overcame long odds? Must we continue to subject ourselves to such manipulative, pseudo-journalistic drivel? Do my Capri pants match my v-neck sweater?

Based on some of the crap that is in the Olympics I would say that butchering might as well be thrown in, too. Especially if it is done in a traditional African manner, with the L-shaped knife and the blood spilling into a wooden bowl which you must drink from. Joe Whatshisface from Fear Factor would no doubt be the reporter covering it. That dickhead ruined "The Man Show" and now it's gone. They should slit his throat and let him bleed into a wooden bowl. Hey, I'd watch that.

Yes, the vegan story is inevitable. It will happen even without the butchering in the Olympics if only because it's so popular among lesbians. They like to claim on Network TV that men love lesbians, but the truth is the networks themselves are overrun with them and can't get them under control. Men don't hang out with lesbians and rarely like them once they've seen real ones. But lesbians have egos, like anyone else, and like to think that men want them but can't have them. Truth is we don't want them, but they won't stop making them writers, directors and producers of bad TV shows and Julia Roberts' movies.

Your Capri pants make your butt look too long and narrow. Wait, that wasn't the question. Lose the V-neck sweater. It's Spring and you don't need it anymore. In fact, I think you need to go to Kohl's and buy a whole new wardrobe just for Spring. That's my recommendation. Now get out there and shop, girl!

5. Do you smell that?

No, I am legally smell-blind. It would have to be a monumentally powerful stink for me to even detect that there was an odor. Even then, I could not distinguish a good odor from a bad odor. I would simply know that there was some sort of odor present and thus the cat probably did it. Get off my lap if you're going to do that.

And there you have it. These are my responses to questions never asked of me. Ta da!
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