Monthly Archives: October 2007

Don’t Fear the Leaf Dudes or should ya?

A few years ago…..actually about 20 years ago we had some fun with trick-or-treaters.  We were downtown P’boro at our friends house.  They had a ton of kids come that year.  

Anyway, I dressed up in some old clothes, put on gloves and a mask.  I stuffed leaves in my sleeves, in the chest area of the shirt, in the neck area and in my socks.  Totally, absolutely totally looking like one of dem stuffed leaf dudes people put on their lawns. 

I plopped down into a lawn chair on the deck right next to the stairs. 


The poor unsuspecting bastards.

When the kids came to trick-or-treat I would wait until they came up on the deck.  I’d sit and wait until I was barely in their peripheral view.  That’s when I would move, slightly, just a wee bit of a move. 

Just a slight twitch, like a leaf had moved in my collar.

Their heads would spin around and they’d stare at me.  They’d stare right into the eyes of the mask…..looking to see any sign of life… 

I’d wait until they looked away and then move again.  Just a slight movement, nothing definitive, like a shadow.

Once again, they’d jerk their heads around and stare at me.  A stare you’d see as if they were looking into the dark woods for the boogy man himself.  Not really quite seeing, not really wanting to see whatever it was they were looking for.

hehehehehe, I had them right where I wanted them….

Sometimes that would be the end of it.  Maybe one more movement, nothing more.  Let them leave thinking about the leaf dude at the house on Main St.  Leave them talking amongst themselves about what they swore they saw.

Leave them thinking about the fear they felt.  You know, that little tingling on the back of your neck.

 Then there were the other times.

Once more I’d move so as to attract their stare.  I’d do this a couple of times.  You know, get them nudging their friends, whispering and pointing at the leaf dude.

It was at about this time that I’d move and scream BOO at the same time.


I almost felt bad when a few younger ones screamed and started to cry.  Hey, its Halloween ya little fucking gremlins….toughen up. 

I am sure I made more than a few of those trick-or-treaters leave a snickers or two in their costumes.


Fear is a funny thing and the mind knows exactly how to tap into those fears.  Sometimes all it takes is that special key to unlock that fear door.  A key that you might not even know exists.  A door that you don’t even know exists.   A key like a leaf dude.

Leaf dudes ain’t suppose to move. 

Just like there ain’t suppose to really be a boogy man. 

So, next time you’re walking past one of dem leaf dudes and have the urge to kick or hit it.  Remember, sometimes things ain’t what they always appear to be. 

Maybe one of those times the leaf dude is gonna grab your leg and drag you screaming into the dark woods and introduce you to his friend, the boogyman. 

Then in the dark, damp woods the leaf dude and the boogyman will introduce you to a fear that your mind could never imagine. 

A fear your mind can’t comprehend. 

A fear your mind will never release you from…..a door that you can never close…..



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The Invisible Man and Bob

So, do you have a costume picked out for Halloween?  

I picked mine out the other day.  I am going as the invisible man.  No clothes, just gonna go trick-or-treating in my birthday suit.  Since I am the invisible man no one will be any wiser.  They’ll open the door and a brown grocery bag will be there about 3 feet off the ground.  To them it will look like it’s hovering. 

I am sure they’ll be inquisitive about how the bag, grocery bag you sick mutha effers,  is staying in the air with no visible means of support.   

Did you ever wonder if those “magicians” like Copperfield, Angel, etc., go trick-or-treating.  Well let me tell you a little story…..let’s pretend….there you are, all chilled up in your house after firing up some major doobage, handing out candy to the little costumed bastards like methadone to the junkies in the city when all of a sudden there’s a knock on the door and there’s fucking Davey Coppertone.   Yep, the one and only.  So he says, “trick-or-treat.”

I ain’t no idiot.  When Davey Coppertone says trick-or-treat you better say trick…cuz he’s davey coppertone.

Next thing you know, POOF and there’s an elephant standing in your front yard. 

“Wow, that’s pretty fucking cool,” you think to yourself.  Shit, that’s worth three Reese’s peanut butter cups.

You politely hand him the candy and say thanks.  You then shut the door and as you head back to the couch you think, “must be really good doobage.”

Sitting on the couch you start laughing that you can’t believe you just hallucinated an elephant on your front lawn….

Seconds later you’re stirred from your doobage induced coma by a loud sound coming from your front lawn.  A sound that strangely sounds like that of an elephant.

Getting up off the couch you walk over and open the door and look outside.

“What the fuck,” you mutter as you stare in utter amazement.  There is a fucking elephant in your front yard. 

“Bastard,” you think.  “Fucking bastard really made an elephant appear.”  What the fuck.

As your doobage encrusted synapses finally muster up enough energy to string together a few rational thoughts you say to yourself,

“That sonofabitch, he made an elephant appear and now he’s gone.”

“Hey Coppertone,” you scream.

“Yo, magic dude, where the fuck are ya.”

“Hey Copperleg, come get your elephant.”

No luck.  “Where the fuck did he go, bastard.”

“What the fuck am I gonna do with an elephant,” my few remaining brain cells ask each other….

“Hey elephant, I call out, “what is your name?”

The elephant looks down at me, wrinkles his eyebrow – this causes his ears to wiggle – he then takes his trunk and attaches it to the top of my head and makes like a vacuum.

“Stop that,” I yell as I wipe elephant boogers off my head.

I look over at the elephant and I swear he’s got a smirk on his face.

“What is so funny,” I ask to no one in particular.

The elephant just stands there staring at me.

“What the fuck am I gonna do with an elephant,” I think to myself.

Goddamn.  Who the fuck do I call about getting rid of an elephant?

That’s when I heard it.


Looking at the elephant I say, “did you just say your name was Rob?” 

No response.

Looking around the yard I cannot see anyone else.

OK, what the fuck is going on?

Then it happened –  

“No I said my name is Bob, you idiot.”

Ok, now I ain’t shitting ya…..the elephant said his name is “Rob.” 

“Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah Rob?” I stutter

“Waddya hard of hearing?  I said my name is Bob,” yelled the slightly annoyed pachyderm.

“Where the hell is Copperfield?” he asked.

“Ah, ah, ah, Bob, I don’t know,” I stammered.

“I think he left you here.”

“He’s an asshole.  He’s always doing this to me.  Last time he left me at Michael Jackson’s place for a month,” said Bob.

Standing there I say to self, “deep breath, OK, don’t panic.  I have a talking elephant in my front yard, no big deal, everyone has a talking elephant in their yard,” then I remember, shit I only have two bags of peanuts….”

As my brain continues to process the scene Bob reaches over with his trunk again and affixes it to the top on my head.

“Stop that,” I yell, “what the fuck am I supposed to do with you Bob.” 

“Shit, you won’t fit in the house.”

“He,he,he,he,he” Bob laughs and then winks.

There’s a bright flash and next thing I know Bob has shrunk himself to the size of a house cat.

“Whoa, that’s so cool,” I say to Bob.

“This should make things a little easier until we figure out where the fuck Coppernutz is,” says Bob.

“Right on Bob, I got some peanuts inside, it’s much warmer in there, let’s go on inside and figure out what we’re gonna do,” I say. 

“Works for me,” says Bob as he bounds up the stair of the deck.  “I’m starving.”

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Evil Giant Ants

Just fucking great….

Ma just emailed me and told me there was an old rumor that someone had hanged (hung) themselves in the basement at 48 Pond St.  Sweet Jebus, I knew the damn place was haunted. 

I remember having a reoccurring nightmare when I lived in the EviL HOuSe on Pond St.  It would wake me up and I’d run into my parents room and climb under their bed.  I remember lying there under the bed and looking out into the hallway and watch in horror as the giant ants marched by the doorway.  These ants were easily a foot and a half tall and they walked upright.  I ain’t shittin ya.  They were evil ants.  Large, black, evil fucking ants.  I am convinced they were all part of the Nasty’s evil plot to get me.   

I remember it like it was tomorrow.  What I don’t remember is whether the part about running to my parents room and climbing under their bed was part of the dream or I really did go into their room and then fell asleep under their bed.  Then again, maybe the whole fucking thing was a dream.

To this day I have little tolerance for ants.  It’s all the Nasty’s fault.

Down the hallway was the closet that contained the entrance to the attic. 

An attic that I can honestly say I only went into once.  Part of the issue was that the closet was a big walk-in type thingee that was filled will all kinds of shit and the hatch to the attic was in the back corner. 

The one time I went up there I opened the hatch and proceeded to stick my head through a think, dusty old spider web.  Ewwwwww.   I was distracted for a moment but I thought I saw one of dem Nasty’s outta the corner of my eye. I quickly closed the hatch, jumped into a pile of old clothes and made my way back to my bedroom.

I may have never seen them in the attic but I sure as hell heard them as I lay in my bed trying to sleep.  They’d fuck with me all the time.  They let me start to fall asleep and then make a little thump on the ceiling above me or in the wall next to my head.  Fuckers, I knew it was them.  They could get around the house through the passageways they made in the walls and ceilings.  Evil little fuckers. 

One night we all went out for dinner and the Nasty’s went to work.  Somehow they managed to jam a face cloth into the upstairs bathroom sink and turned the water on.  I am convinced the Nasty’s thought we were still home and were looking to flush all of us down into the basement where they could drag us into their evil lair through that hole in the floor.

Well we came home and the plaster ceiling in the living room bulged down like Nicole Richie’s belly in month 8 of her pregnancy.  I vaguely remember coming into the house and watching as my father pierce the ceilling with a screwdriver to release the gallons upon gallons of water the Nasty’s had caused to accumulate above the ceiling.

We survived, much to the dismay of the Nasty’s.  My sister believed she had caused the accident.

I knew better, it was the Nasty’s.  The evil little unrelenting fuckers.  It was all their fault. 

The Nasty’s made their point a short time after when they jammed our cat into the engine of a friends new Ford Mach 1 Mustang.  Unknowingly he started the car and then next thing we knew our parents were telling us the cat had gone to live on a farm far away.

The damn Nasty’s……

I went by the old house a couple months ago and it looked quite normal.  No little glowing eyes staring out at me.  No evil shaped smoke coming outta the chimney.  There were a couple of young children playing in the small front yard, maybe, just maybe the Nasty’s were no longer there.

Shit, if the Nasty’s aren’t there, where are they?

Hmmmm I think I need to investigate…..

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The Nasty’s


Woke up this morning to a very foggy, dark new england morning.  With a piping hot cup of joe in my hand it gave me pause to think about spooky stuff.  Maybe it’s the fact I can see the enormous pile of wood in my driveway and it’s haunting me….

I grew up in a house that was so evil it made that Amityville house look like a McDonalds playroom.  Then again with the world today maybe those Playrooms ain’t so safe either.

The worst thing about the house was the basement.

The door to the basement was in the kitchen, an old ill fitting door that simply latched shut. 

No lock, no metal bars, nothing, simply a cheesy metal latch.  

The basement walls were not poured concrete, they were stone walls.  The kind of stone walls that were home to evil glowing eyes.  Eyes that I remember seeing a number of times. 

The basement floor was part dirt and part concrete. 

In the concrete section there was a small concrete lid type thing with a metal loop embedded in the top.  The lid covered some sort of hole.  A hole that had an opening that was no more than 10 inches x 12 inches – plenty of room for evil nasty’s to come out of…..  A hole so deep and black that you couldn’t see the bottom.  A hole that I knew was home to the Nasty’s.

The worst part of the basement was that there was no light switch at the top of the stairs.  Nope the light was at the bottom of the stairs.  Old, rickity wooden stairs that ran down along one of the stone walls of the basement, the other side of the stairs was open to the basement.  Open for the Nasty’s to grab you.

Going down was a non issue.  You opened the door, had enough light from the kitchen to see the bottom of the stairs and the string for the light.  Run down, pull the string and the basement lit up.  I knew that all evil monsters were afraid of light.  Light was my power.  As long as the light was on, I was safe.

Coming back up stairs is where the problem began.  Shit it makes my heart pound in my chest just thinking about it.

Picture me, a young, skinny – yes skinny – lad of 10. 

Standing in the basement next to the string for the light getting ready to extinguish the only thing that was preventing the Nasty’s in the basement from grabbing my skinny ass and dragging me into the hole of evil darkness. 

Really, this is what I thought. 

No, this is what I knew.

I knew that as soon as I pulled that string and turned off the light I had to make like Carl Lewis and sprint up the basement stairs, eluding the evil monsters that were trying to grab my legs from the open side of the stairway.  I knew I had to climb like Sir Edmund Hillary.  I knew I had to get up those stairs and then in one motion slam the basement door shut.  Like Goose Gossage shutting down the Red Sox.

The sprint had to be done blind because I knew that if I waited for my eyes to adjust to the blackness of the evil basement I would have already been grabbed by the Nasty’s.

So I turn off the light and begin to sprint up the stairs, a hysterical kind of sprint in which I knew the Nasty’s were right next to me.  Up the stairs I bound, quicker I thought, quicker. 

Reaching the top step I burst through the basement door into the kitchen and slammed the door behind me.  When I swear I heard it.

Leaning against the door, heart pounding in my chest, barely able to catch my breath, I heard it. 

I heard it over the sound of the rushing of blood and beating heart in my ears. 

I heard it in my soul.

I heard it in my sould and knew I would never forget the sound.

I heard what sounded like something hitting the door.

Something hitting the door hard, like it was stopped suddenly.

Like something that was chasing me up the stairs.

Chasing me up the stairs meant only one thing, I again had barely eluded the Nasty’s.

Next Chapter…..giant upright walking ants, the Nasty’s attic, water water everywhere, the strongest and most protective device ever known to mankind.


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why i suck at fishing part eight million

Not sure if it is karma, total lack of skill or maybe it’s the fact that I know that other people enjoy catching fish more than I would.  Either way, my inability to catch a fish, even when it comes up and bites the fly I am hand retrieving, was demonstrated over the past weekend.

The good news is that my ability (inability would be more accurate) to catch and land a fish has no negative impact on the true enjoyment I receive from fishing.

This weekend I was on the Vineyard with my bro, cousin s and special k.  Special K hosted us and we had a great time.

Special K is a smart, funny dude – so on top of the fishing, getting time to spend with Special K was great.

I had all the gear, at least that is what I thought.  Got waders, fly rod, reel, a few flies, and a very smart looking fishing vest.  I was soon to learn the difference between a fishing vest and a wading fishing vest (the fishing vest is about 6 inches longer, which means that the bottom 6 inches of the fishing vest gets soaked).

“Where’s you stripping basket,” Special K asked. 

Huh, a “stripping what.”

“Stripping basket.”  Special K clarified, to put the retrieved fly line into to keep it organized.

“Oh, yeah, ummm damn it, I forgot mine,” I replied.

“Not a problem, you can use this one,” said Special K as he handed me a tupperware dish bucket (like the one you’d put in the sink) with a couple holes cut in it that a mesh belt threaded through so one could afix it to their waist.

Hmmm, not bad, “I could use this in the restaurant to bus tables.” I thought.

So after a quick practice on the ball field – fly fishing on grass is a great way to practice and stay dry.  Soon we were ready to take on the fish! 

There is something about getting up before the sun even comes close to brightening the night sky, sliding into wet neopreme waders and standing in waste deep water with a nine weight fly rod that makes one appreciate life in all it’s glory.

So there we were, Sunday morning at 5:15am.  Looking east and casting an unseen fly out into a fairly mild atlantic sea.  The water matched the black sky highlighted with dark grey clouds.  It was about this time I remembered that my waders had a slight leak where the right leg of the wader met the attached boot.  Brrrrr.  Nothing worse than having a leak in your waders.  Not quite as bad as taking a leak in your waders but that’s for another story.  Good thing I brought three pairs of socks…..I now had 3 wet socks…ughhhh

OK so the serene setting was briefly interrupted by a wet right foot.  Like the day before it was a non issue once the water heated up in the boot.

So here I am casting into the early morning waters (no, make that really early morning waters) and it all came together.  I could feel the line and fly load onto the rod as I brought the rod back and forth in my casting motion.  In that instance I closed my eyes (not sure if it was fatigue or I was really “feeling” the moment) and proceeded to do one of my best casts of the weekend.

A cast so perfect that upon release the line shot through the guides on my fly rod as if the front of the line was attached to an arrow.  In a sharp, crisp line the fly and line shot out and landed a good 75 feet in front of me.  WOW, that was cool.

The movement became fluid – back and forth, back and forth, back and forth and then release and retrieve.  Wow.  The nearest thing I could equate to a perfect cast is hitting that perfect golf shot.  You know, the shot where you make the swing,  the club hits the ball and the ball explodes down the fairway in an arching line drive and you never remember feeling the club make contact with the ball.  As a matter of fact, you don’t even remember trying to swing too hard.


As I stood there casting I began to notice that the rising sun was slowly changing the night sky from black to grey.  The water also began to change.  A chill came over me.  The water took on the color seen in the opening scene of the movie Jaws.  It had that steel grey, “there’s a big fucking fish under here that’s gonna eat your ass,” look to it.  It was about this time when I noticed a small black object on the surface of the water a good couple hundred yards from me.  I stared at it like Chief Brody looking at the shark in Jaws.  What the fuck is that I thought to myself.  My instinct was to call out to my bro who was about 50 yards from me but I stopped myself.  Nah, couldn’t be a shark, wait.

I was now convinced it was moving, weird, what the fuck is it.  It couldn’t be a shark, could it?

Being the blonde that I am I got pre-occupied with untangling a “birds-nest” of fly line that had formed in the tupperware dish bucket I had strapped around my waist to hold the retrieved fly line and forgot about the shark.  I finally remembered the shark 15 minutes later and by that time it had gotten sufficiently light out so that I could clearly see that my killer great white shark had morphed into a black buoy.  Ughhh

About that time my zen moment was interrupted by the shout of “fish-on.”  Having never used that phrase I didn’t quite know what it meant.  Was it some kind of motivational saying like, right-on or maybe rock-on? You know, hey guys I know it’s early and we’ve been out here for a couple hours without a single bite, but “FISH-ON!”

As I soon found out via a fly fishing, beach shouting version of the telephone game that Special K had a fish on his line.  Cool, I thought, what was I supposed to do.  Heck he was the one with the clue, there was no help I could offer, unless of course they needed someone to go get coffee….you know like the husband going to boil water during a pregnancy…

Regardless, I continued to fish as Special K landed a beautifully delicious 32 inch Striped Bass.  WOW.  I said wow cuz that meant there are actually fish in the water.

Shit!  What if I catch one of those monsters.  I could see it now, me screeching “fish on” like I knew what I was doing.  Shit, I’d be more apt to scream “see-ya” throw my pole to someone near me and run outta the water.

Back to the fishing.  It was a very interesting morning weather wise.  When we began the wind was coming from the south/southeast at about 12 knots and it was at our back.  In the matter of a couple hours it had picked up to 15 to 18 knots and had swung 180 degrees and was blowing in our face.  The water had taken on a discernably different look.  The gentle rolling waves were now sharp, jagged and white capped.  The sea was looking angry. 

As a novice (I use that word generously) fly angler a strong wind in my face meant only one thing…..I was spending more time picking the fly off of my neopreme waders than I was getting it into the water.  Holy crap!  My beautiful 75 foot casts had been reduced to 10 foot tangles of line and fly.  Shit the only way I could possibly catch a fish now would be if it swam into the line and got entangled.  Hey, isn’t that the way the Japanese catch dolphin?    

So we finish up our morning session and leave the now very angry beach for a nice quite breakfast. 

It may have been the best breakfast I’ve ever had in my life.  Not sure if the food was that good or it was simply the fact that I had been up for 2 1/2 hours and it was barely 7 am or maybe I finally had the opportunity to take off my one wet sock or lastly that I knew that this is going to the first of many breakfasts we have with Special K after spending a couple hours on the beach fly fishing.  I was already looking forward to our next adventure with Special K.

I gotta tell you, I couldn’t pour the coffee down my throat fast enough.  It tasted so fucking good.

There is so much more to write about……Humphries, GB the dancing Bear and the secret behind bringing rhythm to the white people and who the fuck is Sam McGee.

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The Fall Classic

No I am not talking about the World Series.  Funny they call it the world series yet only teams from Canada and the U.S. can participate.  Nope, not baseball – we’re talking about the Fall Classic.  The only sport that encourages the use of performance enhancing drugs, is violently opposed to dog fighting and firmly believes that anyone that is paid more than $100,000 to play a game (baseball, football, hockey, basketball, etc) and doesn’t understand how lucky they are should be given a gun and uniform tomorrow and be sent to Iraq without hesitation.

Before we kick off the Fall Classic we need a few things.

 First is a big ole car from the 1970’s.  My choice is the 1970 Plymouth Sport Fury GT.  Why the Sport Fury – cuz it’s the embodiment of all things american.  Shit, it had enough metal in it to build 4 or 5 subaru’s.  It’s one of the largest two door coupes ever produced and was powered by a 440cubic in. engine capable of producing 390 horsepower.  This engine also generate 490 ft. lbs. of stump pulling torque.   Plus there were less than 700 of them built!  Less than 20 had the “6-pack” option (3 dual carburators)  vrooom, vrooom.

It was almost 18 feet long (think Chevy Suburban) and over 6 and a half feet wide.  In this instance, size does matter.   Shit the back seat is so big Caligula couldn’t fill it.  Plus, it’s great, great, great grandma was the 1958 Fury which was Stephen King’s Christine.   Talk about a bitchin car…..

OK.  We got our car.  Next we need some big ol’ fake glasses and gray or blue haired old lady wigs.  Finally a cornucopia of synaptic provocateurs for the ride and we’re ready to start the fall classic.

Here’s the game.  We load up the car with stuff for the weekend and put on our wigs and glasses to complete the elderly driver look and then head out to the back roads of New England to terrorize all those folks looking at the foliage….we’re gonna leaf peep the leaf peepers.    Here’s the skinny – you got this huge fucking car that balls out generates enough power to rip your head off your shoulders that you use to create a rolling road block.  Nothing better than toodling up route 103, 5, 100, 4…etc. in Vermont with a funeral parade of cars behind you and bob marley love flowing out the windows. 


The scoring is as follows:

1.   You get one point  for every car that you can get stuck behind you.  You get 2 points for every car stuck behind you if your speed is less than 25 mph.  If you get more than 10 cars stuck behind you there is a 2X multiplier for every next car that ends up stuck behind you.

2.  For every car that tries to pass you that you speed up and block from passing you get 10 points.

3.  If a car passes you successfully it’s minus 5 points.

4.  Every time someone beeps the horn at you, you get a point.

5.   Every time some one flips you the bird you get 2 points.

6.  If you get pulled over by the police and escape with nothing more than a smile and laugh you get 100 points.

7.  If you get pulled over by the police and get a ticket (not sure for what) you get minus 25 points.

8.  If you have to stop and pee and anyone passes you you lose 1 point per car.

9.  If you have to stop and pee and leave the car in the road blocking anyone from passing, you get a 20 point bonus.

10.  If by chance a car of elderly males pulls up and asks you to have a drink you win automatically.

You alternate driving every 2 hours.  The first driver to 500 wins.  The length of the game is 72 hours.

Game starts next weekend…gotta go car shopping today….heheheheheheh


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freedom at last, big whoop

i am free.  Late sunday i was able to scurry away in the dark of night from my captors at the big e.  i woke up this morning and took a long shower not sure what i was going to do today.  Next thing i now i am back at the fair grounds looking to see if i could find them and they were all gone.  Gone and to be honest, i am sad.  No matter how bad i perceived the way they were treating me.  Truth is, i miss the tasering fat bastards.  damn them to hell.

 a friend of mine told me i am suffering from something called the stockholm syndrome…

i think i am suffering from  lack of fried oreo syndrome….

where’s that Hearst chick when you need here….what was the name of her kidnappers?  SLAW…..yea i think they were all about the ethical treatment of cole slaw.

it is sad these days how little respect most people show cole slaw.  bastards isolate poor cole slaw to a simple scoop on a plate next to some bad potato or podado salad as some ignorant fools call it with a burnt weiner or burger tossed in for good measure.

i also hate when the bastards decide to upscale cole slaw and add raisins.  come on, what kind of crap is that.  I like raisins two ways – first as a component of my breakfast cereal or covered in chocolate and purchased as something to stuff in my face at a movie.  Raisins absolutely don’t belong in cole slaw….shit that’d be like making a woman an executive with the Madison Square Garden organization….oops

had to throw in a current event reference just cuz.

give me a break i coulda thrown in a oops brittany lost her kids comments but that would have been too easy…i bet she loves raisins in her cole slaw….call it what you will.

The best way to have cole slaw is as an addition to a pulled pork sandwich.  Yum, some slow roasted pulled pork dressed with a nice vinegar based sauce topped with cole slaw and a dill pickle slice.  Now that is a fucking sang-wich.

oops gotta go….got a plane to catch in the am….doing some employment dance out in minnesota….


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