Tag Archives: travel

Daily Prompt: The Very, Very Long Awkward Phase

Going with the old WordPress Daily Prompt here, which is:

You receive a gift that is bittersweet and makes you nostalgic. What is it?

Photographers, show us GIFT.

And this one’s easy, because I really did get a gift today that was bittersweet and made me nostalgic. Want to see it?

South of the Border 

Yes. I received this gift on Facebook today, although it was really a gift from the guy on the far left to the guy in the white shirt. We were all 17 in the photo except one of us, which makes this photo twenty-five years old. As you probably guessed, I am the one wearing the stolen hat.

Here’s what happened. For some reason, despite being all children, all of our parents allowed us to take a five-day trip down to Myrtle Beach. I forget which one of us was 18, but that was the reason we were able to rent a motel room. Please bear in mind that six years before, my mom wouldn’t let my sister go to Grad Night at Kings Island overnight. At the time this photo was taken, me and basically the same crew had already been on a weekend trip to New York City, where we ran afoul of stolen merchandise vendors, and were nearly arrested in Chinatown.

Napoleon Dynamite and PedroYes, a bit of a parental double standard, but that’s cause I was a big strong guy, right? Who’s going to mess around with a man with his middle school pants still strapped on over tiny, chicken legs, wearing a baggy sweater in May? You should have seen my arms – like bones with panty hose on them.

Who cares. We drove down, checked in, and there was actually a fifth guy with us at first named Jeremy, who went sort of crazy after drinking a ton of alcohol, and brought a strange, self-proclaimed beach bum back to our room. He was an African-American male with long, tightly braided hair who was in his thirties, told us his name was St. George, and who – although ostensibly there because he had promised for no reason to buy Jeremy more alcohol – kept telling us that he could really use some marijuana.

None of us had any marijuana. It’s unlikely any of us had cigarettes. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing down there, but we had just been talking about the urban legend regarding cops, and how they had to say “yes” if you asked if that’s what they were.

Now, I’m not saying that’s a true urban legend, but I am saying that when I asked St. George finally, after he hung around our room for twenty minutes, if he was a cop, he said, “Yeah. I’m a cop. Psshhh.”

Rolling his eyes. Too early, culturally, for him to make a “W” with his hands, but I’m sure he would have.

That’s odd, I thought. A couple of us froze, exchanging looks. I said, “No seriously, say ‘no’ if you’re not a cop. I’m asking you if you’re a cop.”

Undercover Brother SolidSame answer. “Yeah – I’m a cop. Pshhh.”

And Monte and I freaked.

“Hold on,” Monte repeated. “St. George, we’re asking if you are a law enforcement officer. If you are, would you please identify yourself?”

“Pssshhh. Yeah – I’m a cop.”

Like a recording. Holy. Donkey shit.

So we all leapt to our feet and told him, sir, we do not want you in our motel room anymore. Please leave. We have no marijuana, nor any interest in any alcoholic beverages. We are but pilgrims traveling to learn the complex ways of this world, etc. etc. etc.

And St. George left, with Jeremy trailing him and telling him, come on, man, those guys are dicks. You’re not a cop, you’re my new beach bum pal. Let’s go to the liquor store, forget those guys. But alas, St. George was offended, and left.

Well, not completely. A half hour later, we spied him behind the front desk of the motel, making a phone call. That’s what you had to do in 1989, actually find a phone, and do you suppose the motel made a habit of letting beach bums use the phone whenever they wanted?

It didn’t take Jeremy long to find a couple of dudes who were willing to take him to the liquor store and buy him some much-needed liquor in exchange for paying for an extra bottle for them. Awesome – so off they went, and when they came out of the liquor store, there were cops waiting for them, nice and conveniently. Off to jail for Jeremy!

Now, it may alarm you to learn that we did basically nothing to bail him out. I’m not saying we were intoxicated teenage children who had no interest in going near a jail, but let’s just say it didn’t seem like a good idea to go poking around the police station, and let’s just say it seemed to us Jeremy had basically called a cab and asked to be taken there.

Dazed and ConfusedSo – off to the beach. We screwed around for four more hours, and then all crashed back at the room.

Jeremy arrived not long after, very upset. For a moment, I thought he was going to kick my skinny ass, but Mike explained to him that he would be doing no such thing – thanks, Mike! And then we all slept, and Jeremy slipped out in the wee hours of the morning, leaving a note explaining that he was pissed at us (!), that he owed some guys money (!!), and that they would probably be around looking for it and to “deal with them(!!!)”

Actually, it turns out, Mike has been walking around with the Actual Note From This Story in his wallet this whole time. I know, because he scanned it and sent it to me:

Awesome Curse of Future Tom Letter

So, we all sprang into action. The universe began playing hilarious banjo music while we threw all of our crap into the only car we had left, trashed the room like rock stars for no reason other than being idiots (and now that I think about it, that might have been Jeremy’s credit card), and then we screeched out of the parking lot without so much as checking out.

We got lost on the way home – again, we were jackasses, and there were no magic map phones, there were just maps and eyeballs and signs – and at some point we ended up at a tourist trap called South of the Border, which is where the picture up there was taken. Who took the picture? So far, none of us has any idea.

So today’s Mike’s birthday – he’s the actual first kid I met in Kindergarten, and we lived together in college, and the last time I saw him was a couple years ago, when his wife was frowning at me for stomping around their house in bare, filthy, Huckleberry Finn feet – and because I’m so sentimental, I put up a hilarious photo on his timeline from Killer Klowns From Outer Space. Monte followed suit with this one, and so there I was, looking at my own unbelievably awkward, jackass self from the past.

Wasn’t easy walking around high school looking like some kind of Third World freedom fighter, but it could have been worse and as you can probably guess, I’m like, Super Cool now. Note the blogging and the Star Trek knowledge and the long, bald guy hair – Cool City. Ah yes, we all go through an awkward phase, just for some of us, it lasts decades.

Stand By MeVery Stand By Me. Very nostalgic and bittersweet. Normally what I’d say, if I were in a country song or if I were an introspective writer returning to Castle Rock, is something like, “Man, what I wouldn’t give to go back and do that again.”

No thank you, though. It was fun fellas, but let’s go do something in our forties, with our brains working, and preferably, without our old pal Jeremy. Or I guess if he’s also in his forties and not a jackass anymore, Jeremy can come too.


Posted by on May 21, 2013 in Knuckleheads, Writing/blogging


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How Alpha Moms Go To Disney World

BruiserIt’s a little known secret that you can pretty much take your pet wherever you want, depending on how shameless you are. What you do is, you simply claim the pet is a support animal, that it detects upcoming seizures or something. Pursuant to the Americans With Disabilities Act, no restaurant or bar or anything really, is allowed to stop you from coming in with your support animal.

And of course they aren’t allowed to make you prove it. Have you ever seen anyone try to make a blind person prove he or she is blind, before allowing the dog?

So I guess that’s why this story from the New York Post makes sense, entitled Rich Manhattan moms hire handicapped tour guides so kids can cut lines at Disney World.

Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Disney – in their ongoing campaign to pretend to have a soul – allows families with a handicapped member to head straight to the front of the line.

But what if no one in your incredibly wealthy Manhattan family is in a wheelchair? Do you have to stand around with the wretched Morlock people, all hunched over and sweaty, waiting for hours as if you are poor? Where’s YOUR bailout??

Don’t worry. Manhattan has plenty of secretive, high-end escort services. Most of them are for Wall Street players and government officials who like hookers. But at least one of them is for rich people who would like to rent a wheelchair-bound tour guide to take along to Disney World with them, for about a thousand bucks a day.

Burns At DisneyNow, Disney World already has express service you can pay for to shorten your wait. You can get VIP passes for a chunk of change. But then you still have to walk around all over the place like a bunch of zombies. What you need is a big, handy motorized cart which seats six of you and has a Handicapped sign on the side. Park anywhere you want – you’re Kanye West, baby, and if you’re lucky, you’ll even have room on board for your Rented Human Being!

For a fee, I’m sure they’ll ride on some sort of exterior sled, so they don’t freak your precious kids out or depress anybody. Right? You soulless, shape-shifting reptile people? Heh? Am I right or am I right?

Say, do you think if you pay an extra thousand dollars, they’ll affix a steamroller to the front of it so you don’t have to wait for middle classers to get the hell out of your way? Ask ’em!

This is happening. This is real. Handicapped tour guides are all the rage – in fact according to the article, you’re kind of looked down on at the Billionaire Club if you’re walking around Disney World without your Paid Escort On Wheels.

And yes, they’re proud of it, squares. Don’t get mad at them just because you didn’t think of it, or because you don’t have an extra thousand dollars a day, or because you have an actually handicapped family member.

“My daughter waited one minute to get on ‘It’s a Small World’ — the other kids had to wait 2 1/2 hours,” crowed one mom, who hired a disabled guide through Dream Tours Florida.

“You can’t go to Disney without a tour concierge,’’ she sniffed. “This is how the 1 percent does Disney.”

Mmmm. Yes. I wonder what the poooooor people are doing today.

Death Becomes HerHow do you hook yourself up with one of these guides, you ask? Craiglist, you’re guessing?

No. It’s very insidery, like when they figure out immortality or time travel. They’re not just going to get online and scream, “Good news, everybody’s immortal now!”

There’s not enough room for that shit, man. There have to be people standing around miserable or it’s not worth it to be the special princess with the special tour guide, who doesn’t have to.

Apparently you have to know someone to even speak to the “black market tour guide” service. They’ll ask who referred you before they tell you a thing. One of those awful women from the Coldcreek Manor commercials has to give you the number, and then you speak her name into the telephone, and her name is power in their ears, like Lucifer or Beetlejuice.

“It’s insider knowledge that very few have and share carefully,” said social anthropologist Dr. Wednesday Martin, who caught wind of the underground network while doing research for her upcoming book “Primates of Park Avenue.”

“Who wants a speed pass when you can use your black-market handicapped guide to circumvent the lines all together?” she said.

Yes, it’s like on television commercials, when one family can only record four television shows at a time, but your family can record thirty, and so the other family gets to hang their heads in shame while you dance around with your eyes rolled back, chanting and humming and praying to dark, forgotten gods and whatnot. However you got so awesome, I don’t know.

And we can’t get mad at Disney, because what are they supposed to do? Start verifying physical disabilities? Lie Detector Tests for little Johnny?

Richie Rich 2We can’t even use the Evil Detector, because it’s Disney World. The thing would explode before you got it into the parking lot.

So it seems the One Percenters have won again, and all we can do is salute them for their vast riches, their utterly shameless sense of entitlement, and their uncanny ability to find everyone’s price tag and then pay it with a cold, reptilian smile. What a precious memory for their children, full of magic and greed and the sociopathic rental of human beings.

Do you believe in Hired Handicapped Companions, blogoshpere? Tinkerbell does, and so do I! So do I!

And now, off to be sick.


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Lurking Around In Zanesville

All right, listen I’m sorry I hollered at you yesterday. Sometimes I get into the whiskey and it makes me a little froggy in my bloggy. Here’s an ice cream cone.

Look – we’re going to Zanesville!

Road To Zanesville

Yep, seven o’clock in the morning, and we’re on the open road, headed for the Muskingum County Courthouse, home of the dude who set his own personal collection of zoo animals free into the wilderness a few years back, then killed himself, and cops had to chase his zoo animals all over the county. Obviously, that’s not how they word it on the sign coming into Zanesville, but if I run into the guy who orders the signs, I’ll run it up the old flag pole.

Zanesville is best described as lumpy, like they built the town on a giant, horribly messed-up bed. It’s old, too, and looks sleepy. A lot of lawyers, oddly.

Do you think this sign is at all confusing?

Shoppers Only

I am pretty sure they can’t write me a ticket for failure to shop. This seems pretty unenforceable. So I think the sign is saying, don’t drive into Zanesville and park your car and then just expect to lurk around, doing nothing at all. Because that seems like an obviously cool, fun thing to do, and I’ll bet people are always trying that.

Well, fortunately, I’m a guy who likes to lurk. Let’s go on inside and lurk around the Courthouse. The way I see it, if you’re going to hang around someplace, Security should know about you. You got to keep them on their toes.

I always try to walk into a Courthouse like I’m there to put the SYSTEM ON TRIAL. Make some noise with my heels – click, click, click.

Holy Christmas! Look at this!

Cake Auction

That’s today! There’s a cake auction today!

That thing on the wall of the elevator is talking about real cake. We could go bid on a cake – that’s all I’m saying. Jeez.

All right, third floor, this is weird. We come out into a plain hub office that’s full of stacked boxes. People are working in an area ahead of us, but we’ll follow the arrow for the Engineer’s office and there’s this hallway. Very quiet, completely empty, and with an Exit Sign clearly marked ahead.


A little blurry, I know. I am as you are aware, pretty easily freaked out. Because look – there are little white signs on every other door in the hallway. Guess what they say.

Not An Exit

Every door. Every door that isn’t an exit has one of these signs, clarifying that it is not, in fact, an exit.

So again, when people start putting up signs, there’s been a problem, like folks are always yanking random doors open around here. Hey, is this how I get outside? NO!

And these people have put signs up on everything. Look, here’s a fire extinguisher:

Fire Extinguisher

See? In case you didn’t know what it is. And that door next to it is not an exit, so don’t screw around with it.

Damn, fellas.

Fine – we’ll just go down to the map room at the end of the hall, but it turns out. We’re early. We need to kill twenty minutes, and I can’t think of a better way to do it than lurking. People think that lurking is just standing still but no, you can lurk in motion, you just do it slowly and dart your eyes around. Some people coming, voices from the workplace.

Let’s duck into the elevator and wait – there’s a door next to the elevator and it doesn’t say one way or the other whether or not it’s an exit. We’ll have to yank that open and:

Closet (2)

Some kind of utility closet. I swear I’m going to stand here for a few seconds thinking about how entertaining it would be to get in the closet and start shouting, pretending to have gotten trapped in it. They should put up a sign!

No, let’s get out of here, people don’t like it when you’re poking around government buildings for no reason. We’ll go lurk out front and maybe there’s a cart where you can get a hot dog with an egg on it or something. Aw dammit.


Where the hell are we? I’m not going back in the elevator, screw that but here are some stairs, a whole bunch of them. Two office ladies coming down, talking about someone named Mike. Sounds like Mike freaks them out a little bit. On up and here we are on a balcony overlooking the main atrium:


A little blurry, but we can see there’s some stuff down there to look at. Let’s go on down, take a look, try and be calm when we’re snapping pictures from now on. It’s just a blog, Tom, relax. Do your breathing.

Hmm, here’s a table with some stuff on it in front of the Seal of Ohio, and is it religious stuff? Yes! It is, which is fine with me. It looks like the ACLU has already been by and made them take down their Buddy Jesus statue or whatever, and so instead there’s a table and it happens to have a religious book open on it. I don’t think that’s a Bible.


Oh, I see, it’s The Bible In One Year. Huh. Okay, and the desk calendar also has religious stuff scrawled all over it; I can tell it’s religious because of all the colons. Personally, I don’t care if you want to put religious stuff in courthouses, mostly because I’m lazy and indifferent. But I know the ACLU loves going around picking on small town courthouses in the middle of recessions. Aw well – sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you.

I guess the idea is, when the ACLU comes by they’re like, hmm, I don’t know who left that there, go ahead and take that away. And then they have a whole box of books and calendars in the back, that’s what they do at parties, scrawl on calendars.

Okay, getting creeped out, let’s head over here and check out this bell in this glass case.

Old Bell

That piece of paper hanging on it looks like it was typed decades ago, and it explains that the bell was the original town bell, and that it donged when someone died and when there was an emergency and when the Civil War started. The paper explains that the bell was brought here by boat from somewhere and then carted up through town and that it’s a very, very special old bell.

So they keep it in a glass box tucked away behind this shiny, new, prettier bell in a beam of light at the center of the Courthouse.

New Bell

It’s a replica of some other bell. Man, you guys sure love that old bell, don’t you?

All right, starting to get the old Eyeball from folks. Let’s get up to the map room, hand a guy a piece of paper that we are not allowed to FedEx, and then seriously, get back in the car and drive back to Columbus. We’ll just blog about that.


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Action Blogging, Volume Two

Good lord, it’s a long, weird drive to Henry County, out of Columbus on 33 northwest about forty miles, then that’s it for the highway. Two lane roads all the way, remote roadhouses with creepy names, gigantic, lizard-eyed birds watching you over dead stuff on the side of the road. Is this an episode of Supernatural or what? Feels like it, and that stinks because it just started and that means I’m the opening gruesome death. Or you. I mean you’re here, too.

Farther and farther out of the city, we start to vaguely remember when things were slower, and you had no idea what was going on anywhere in the world if you just went outside and sat on a chair too far away to hear the phone. Are we feeling creeped out or nostalgic? Well, we were kids in the seventies, so – both.

Check this out:

County Road X

Are you wondering what’s down County Road X, my friend? Because I’m not. I would have to have a very good reason indeed to drive down County Road X while I’m this creeped out. Luckily, we don’t have to, we get to the Henry County Courthouse, hand things to people and smile at them while they stamp them.

Still feeling bizarrely Supernatural, like you know how Sam and Dean are always going to the library and helping themselves to a cardboard box of whatever obscure records they need from whatever time, to move the plot along? Check out the Henry County Auditor’s archiving system:

Analog records

You’re probably wondering if there’s stuff in those compartments up there and if so, where’s the ladder? Well, you’re in luck because I ask them. Of course I do. And yes there’s stuff in it, and there’s a special Pole they use to get stuff out. Better get Charlie in here with the Pole, is what they say, I imagine, and I don’t like the image. Not Charlie, not the pole.

The Recorder’s Office is similar:


So in summary, Henry County is creepy, but good luck hacking their records. Let’s get the hell out of here.

We’re starving, so we’ll eat a horrific breakfast sandwich from McDonald’s which makes us cry and punch the roof of the car as we drive, and then we’re headed down to Mercer County, passing the County Road X again and feeling better as it slides away in our rearview mirror.

And by the time we get to the Mercer County Courthouse, we’re feeling like a million bucks, because holy shit – it’s the best courthouse in Ohio!

For example, come on up the front steps with me and look what they have just inside the main entrance – where most counties keep security guards and metal detectors:

Lounge Door


Not saying I don’t appreciate it, it’s just what year is this again? I’m listening to the news all day in the car, and this place is the opposite of the news. It’s also clean as a whistle in here. I swear if I lived here in Celina, Ohio, I would haunt this place. They would be kicking me out all the time. Better go check the lounge, see if Tom’s in there in his underpants again.

All right, let’s quit screwing around and go upstairs, get some stuff stamped. Oh, the County Engineer has a question about the document I want her to stamp. The way we handle questions is we smile and shrug and defer to the question asker’s superior knowledge about documents and stamps, and nearly one hundred percent of the time, they figure it out for us. Again, ask yourself, what would a monkey with a sign around his neck do? But not literally, monkeys are gross.

On to the Auditor’s office. Holy crap, it’s the same woman from the County Engineer’s office, she just went through a door in the back while I went out to the hall and in a different door. I don’t comment, but somehow, vaguely, I’m not crazy about it. Let’s keep both stamps in that first room, or let’s have two people do the stamping. Is this a government office or a Monty Python skit? Cut it out.

Ah, well, she’s nice enough, nevermind. One more stop, and that would be the Mercer County Recorder, and they’re not going to stamp anything, they’re going to scan something and I’m going to give them a check. And I skid to a stop when I walk in the room, because the person behind the desk is none other than Actual Mercer County Recorder Angie King. I recognize her because last night I had to pull up the website for the address.

Most counties, the title of County Recorder is not so literal. Angie King shows up to work, and she records documents into official record. Rolls up her sleeves and does the job. Holy crap, I’d vote for her, if I lived in Mercer County, and if she was cool about letting me use the lounge.

Gotta hit the Men’s room now, and you can come along even if you’re not a dude – it’s not the kind of blog where I’m going to actually pee in it, dig? But there’s something in here you need to see.

One Handle To Flush Them All

Four urinals, but only one handle. A very special, center-mounted handle. One Handle – To Flush Them All.

Doesn’t seem very efficient does it? Flushing four toilets every time you use one? Well it’s apparently a little confusing too. Can you see those signs hung up on each side, above the fringe toilets? The toilets subservient to the One True Handle?

Here let me help you.



It’s a helpful picture of the handle just a few feet over, in case you’re really stumped. One of these signs on each side.

Now, typically when someone has to hang up a couple of signs, there’s been a real problem. This doesn’t strike me as Version One of the sign, either. Someone is making signs, and that person is getting impatient, but that person has to remain polite about it for some reason. I really wish I knew who that person was, so I could say, dude. Spring for a plumber. This is some of the craziest bullshit I’ve ever seen. Four toilets is too many. Pull yourself together.

But as I mentioned, I’m very busy and important, and we have to jump right back in the car and barrel back to Columbus, so we can review loan documents with people. On the way back, I spot a large chicken on the side of a country road, eating french fries out of a discarded Wendy’s container, and holy crap, the farm house is across the street. This chicken had to cross the road to get to the fries. I nearly crash my car, but there is unfortunately no time to take a picture of the chicken, but at least we know what happened, and why.

Here’s a picture of Foghorn Leghorn and Miss Prissy, instead. End transmission.

Foghorn and Miss Prissy


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Last Minute Christmas Shopping, East London Style

I know what it’s like because every year I end up wrapping up the Christmas shopping on a loosely-planned solo mission, and I’m afraid there are usually a couple of bars involved.  Also, there are Christmas parties and probably some kind of professional sport is in season.

So you have to watch it around the holidays.  You don’t want to let the festivities roll up into something irresponsible and dangerous.  It’s easy to understand, but there’s no real excuse for it.  I’m sure we can all agree on that.

However this article right here tells me about a gentleman in East London who took this to a bit of an extreme.  He was pulled over intoxicated with his wife and five kids in the car, and he wasn’t just a little bit intoxicated.  His blood-alcohol level was 32 times the legal limit – the article explains what the limit was, but they use the Metric system, so there’s no way to tell what they’re talking about.

But even if their legal limit is conservative compared to ours, that would mean he drank about 64 beers, or a half gallon of whiskey.  That’s pretty hammered.  So hammered that I’m reading about it on the other side of the planet, and now so are you.

I think it’s very clear that he would have been better off having his wife drive, or any of the five kids who had the power to sit up.  And fortunately, no one was physically hurt, though I’m afraid that the kids will probably be discussing this day with a series of counselors for many years.

Because if you clicked on the article, then you know that there was something else troubling about the traffic stop.  It’s in the last paragraph – the casual mention of the fifteen stolen sheep which were also in the vehicle.

The sheep had been stolen from various local farms, and apparently reports were filed and then I’ll bet he wasn’t difficult to spot, once they were on the lookout for a vehicle full of live sheep. 

Now, I have had the misfortune of driving a small Chevy Prizm with a pair of live goats in it, but I was stone sober – a long and unpleasant story.  I can tell you from experience that just two live goats in the car was extremely distracting, and witnesses have attested that there was a pretty strong odor as well. 

So I’m trying to get my mind around this idea of operating the vehicle with all the stolen sheep in it.  And that’s before even starting to get my mind around the reasons behind the big sheep heist.  It seems like it might take a half a gallon of whiskey for that to seem like a decent idea.

Let’s try to think of nice, innocent reasons for this, so our heads don’t explode.  I’m thinking that the owners of the sheep might have been crooks, and this guy was just settling an old score.  The kids might have been precocious orphans, and maybe they were in a Disney movie and the cops didn’t know it.

Or he could have been doing some last minute shopping.  East London is a different culture, and it’s not cool of us to judge him for deciding to give everybody a live sheep this year.  It’s the thought that counts, and what with the economy, he probably couldn’t afford to pay for the sheep.  Still the wrong thing to do, but we’re all human, right?

Anyway, I know there’s nothing funny about driving around drunk as an owl with your wife, five kids, and fifteen stolen sheep in the car, but I think that all the wives out there ought to stop and reflect on what a cool lady this guy’s married to.  She’s up for anything!

You want to go catch a movie?  She’ll go catch a movie.  You feel like hiking?  Hell, yeah, so does she.  How about a whiskey-fueled road trip from sheep farm to sheep farm, maybe some banjo music on the CD player, while I run inside each of the barns and steal some sheep?

You got it, sweetheart, says The Greatest Wife Ever.  But only if the kids can come!

See how she’s holding the family together, working with what she’s got?  She doesn’t want to stress out her man by arguing with him, and togetherness is togetherness. 

After a long week at work, the last thing any man needs to hear is “no.”  Cause it seems like here in the States, that’s all we hear.

No, you can’t have a second quart of whiskey.  No, we don’t need any free sheep.  No, put the crossbow away we’re pulling over.

I understand that you all probably want to spend most of your energy condemning this guy, but instead since it’s Christmas, let’s all reflect on his heroic wife, who stuck right by her man even when his destructive behavior lurched across the border into old-fashioned insanity, child endangerment and unlwaful sheep collection.

Time to look in the mirror, ladies.


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