Monthly Archives: May 2011

let THAT summer begin!

Summer officially begins this weekend.

I will be inside working several hours a day for the Memorial Day weekend sales, I (at times) will be thinking wistfully of childhood summers past. I had no Face Book, Twitter, texting or blogging inundating my young world. The only things my thumbs were doing back then were catching baseballs, butterflies and bubbles while pulling wads of pink gum in and out of my mouth.

I was about nine years old when my family lived in a tiny twin home several miles outside of West Chester in the small village of Marshallton, PA. My mother didn’t drive and my father worked several shifts for many hours with the Philadelphia Electric Company. My brother, John, and I were fairly isolated out in the country. Not that we minded. We always found something to keep us occupied and would spend many a full day playing outside and not watching television.

In contrast, my cousins, the Rulon family, lived in West Chester and happened to be members of the Bernard F. Schlegel Swim Club American Legion Post 134 on the outskirts of town on North New Street. In past summers, I went with them on occasion as a “guest” with the many passes they’d get for the season. One warm summer day, my Mom’s sister, Mary, surprised us by showing up at our house unannounced, driving my Uncle’s forest green Chevy pickup truck, bearing a sign in two lines of script paint: “Rulon’s Amusements – Jukeboxes, Pool Tables and Pinball Machines – sold and serviced.” She was honking the horn as she pulled in our driveway while my cousins including Steve, Randy, Billy, Jean and Danny were shouting and waving from the truck bed in the back proclaiming that we were going swimming! My brother and I quickly grabbed our bathing suits and towels as our mom, pregnant with our brother Rich, hurriedly packed a small blue and mint green plaid beach bag with snacks and extra towels. Holding onto matching flip flops from Woolworth’s, my brother and I climbed over the metal tailgate and into the back of the truck bed to a carpet of cousins.

My summer had officially begun!

We didn’t use seatbelts, hell we didn’t even have seat belts. It probably wasn’t safe in the back of the truck and it certainly wasn’t law, but we were FREE! As we began our adventure over country roads, we were seven young kids thrown into the back of a truck drinking cans of cooler-chilled grape and orange sodas while chewing and popping Bazooka Bubble gum. Mom and Aunt Mary and the smaller tots Nina and Timmy were sandwiched snuggly in the cab as we older kids hooted loudly while we were tossed about in the back of the truck like drunken sailors on a stormy sea. The warm summer sun would scuffle with the cool shade of the dark green trees to touch our skin, blinking over us as we wound our way around deeply curved bends and over stone-laden bridges. Our thin light hair was blown about our scrubbed freckled faces in the wind and into our sparkling eyes.

We found ourselves “surfing” in the truck’s bed by holding on to two tension straps and a few thick ropes that my Uncle had in the truck which he used in his business to secure pinball machines and pool tables while delivering them to customers. We tied them to a brace at the cab of the truck and as we rounded curves or hit bumps in the road we’d roll and giggle hysterically as we’d fall to the floor of the bed while the other kids would try to break the fall.

I absorbed the scent of the cool dark forests we traveled through as our journey to the pool continued. The dank smell of decomposing leaves from summers before and the fragrance of new pollen and honeysuckle mixing to create a world of shaded serenity. Occasionally, a small bug would hit me in the face but never bothered me as our trek continued through the back roads of the country. We made up songs to pass the time as we played Punch Buggy and counted out of state license plates (with limited success on country roads).

As we finally entered the winding driveway onto the thickly wooded acreage of the VFW, the combination of charcoal briquettes, hot dogs and the chlorine from the crystal blue pool wafted from the base of the hill. The “boing” sound of divers pushing from the diving boards, kids squealing and radios playing indicated our ride was almost over. We leapt out of the truck before it barely stopped and skipped in bare feet over grass and stone to the locker rooms to change.

The cement floor of the locker room was cold on the bottoms of my feet as I stripped into my bathing suit on a bench in the dampness. The echo of voices chatting in the showers and slamming metal lockers barely kept my interest as I rushed outside to the blinding sunshine and burning concrete. Realizing I forgot my flip flops in the locker room, I went back into the dimness and found them on the floor. I returned poolside to where my aunt and mother were already setting up camp under the shade of the many tall oak trees. I watched briefly as some of my cousins ran (then walked quickly as the lifeguard’s whistle chastised them) to jump into the pool. I could smell the barbeque beginning at the VFW at top of the hill and I watched as small wisps of white smoke from the grills drifted lazily like the echoes of ghosts through the trees above.

My stomach grumbled softly indicating that I was slightly hungry since I had only a small bowl of Captain Crunch cereal for breakfast while watching Gene London earlier in the morning, but I could wait for our lunch by the mansion on the hill in the afternoon. Apparently, the VFW was having what they called a “clam bake” later in the day and we were all invited! I glanced once more at the light bustling of activity on the hill before I spun around and leapt into the clear cold water creating hardly a splash with my slight boyish frame. I felt my heart race and my eyes sting from the chlorine as the noise outside became muffled in this underwater world of human legs. The pool hadn’t quite warmed up to the bath-like temperatures of late July and August as I immediately pushed to the surface and turned around to see my mother setting up her aluminum woven lawn chair and placing it securely in the grass.

My cousins, brother and I spent hours splashing, playing Marco Polo and dunking each other throughout the early afternoons blazing sun. Halfway through the day our moms provided tee shirts (our version of sunscreen) to put on so we wouldn’t get too much sunburn. The pool became very crowded during the day as the older teens began a game of volleyball in the deeper end. I watched while seated on a damp towel next to my mother as the ball was hit out of the pool in my direction. I squinted in the sun as I stood up and ran to get the ball and threw it into the “pool of popularity” with a splash. No one said thank you as I sat back down on the towel and tuned out the screaming teens.

I stretched my skinny arms to the sky and lay down on the towel while listening to the birds in the tree branches above me. The clattering noise around me turned into a dull drone as I sighed then drifted off to sleep while watching another wisp of smoke from the hill above drift lightly toward the sky.

My brother ended my brief slumber as he came out of the pool to dry off and shook his head over me like a dog shakes his body to dry off. “Creep!” I yelled as I sat up and tried to smack him in the knee and missed. He laughed as he dug deep into the beach bag for a box of pretzels as someone’s radio played the “Last Train to Clarksville” by the Monkees in the distance. Two of my cousins were playing the card game “Go Fish” on a towel by the chairs as Aunt Mary suggested we pack up and head up to the hill for something to eat.

We needed no further instruction as we grabbed what we could and headed quickly across the sidewalk of the pool passed the baby pool and exited through the locker room leaving Mom and Aunt Mary tagging behind. Dumping the folding chairs and towels in the back of the truck, we continued through the gravel parking lot on our march to the hill.

I love the big house on the hill known as the VFW. As a nine year old, I have no idea what VFW even means, nor do I care. The large windowed mansion of massive stone sits like a fortress with a deep set slate covered porch around the entire place and it has a portico. I didn’t know what a portico was either until I asked my Grandmother last year when we were here and she explained it to me. The mansion is surrounded by stoic oak trees that tower over it like multi-armed soldiers, guarding the palace from the summer’s heat and humidity. Three stories of stately stone and mortar supported with thick white pillars and garnished with matching painted multi-pained windows that surely must have been a grand home to a family at one time long ago. I sometimes imagine it haunted with the specter of a long lost widowed bride standing breathless on the heavy stone steps, holding onto a pillar during a violent thunderstorm while staring into the lightning filled valleys in search of her lost captain of war as her gown blows frantically in the wind.

I snapped back into reality as I watched the older boys racing to the top of the hill, quickly getting lost in the small crowds of men and women seated around smoking grills eating corn cobs and clams while sucking down cool mugs of beer. Loud guffaws of laughter boomed from the broad porch as someone must have shared a joke.

This was THE clambake.

The food smelled incredible and my stomach began to give away my plight. As I crested the hill and came upon the grounds of the house, I was all at once enveloped into a party like atmosphere of sights and sounds that truly overloaded the mind of this nine year old. Torches of fire were stuck in the ground as decoration as the smell of burgers and fish drifted from the iron slated brick enclosed grills. My mouth began to salivate as I watched my cousin Steve grab a couple of plates and hand them to the group of us as we waited in a short line to get food. I watched as flames lapped from the depths of the grill, licking the smoking food that was about to be devoured.

Music was playing from the jukebox which had been wheeled out on to the porch from inside the home where the VFW “bar” was located. As I munched a sweet ear of corn, I watched as men smoking cigars wondered in and out of the bar area. I observed as they joked with each other or compared the scores of the latest ball game.

Mom and Aunt Mary, both with slightly sunburned Irish faces, clutching plates sat down with the rest of us as we finished off the better part of our early dinner. I could see the sun drifting further toward the horizon as I yawned. Aunt Mary tossed her red hair in the breeze as she sipped a beer and laughed at something my Mom was explaining to her.

Jean, Dan, John and I got up and headed to the larger area of the porch to watch the adults dance to the records playing from the jukebox. We watched as “Wild Thing” by the Troggs enraptured the hips, feet and waists of the older folks. I would snicker as Jean and I attempted to emulate the steps they were doing. Our Moms came up and danced with us in circles as we laughed and stomped our way into dusk.

Finally, Aunt Mary said it was time to “hit the road” as the coals in the grills began to fall apart and the men on the porch began to fall down. We were full and tired as a woman that knew Mom had given her a box of popsicles from the freezer in the VFW and we headed toward the truck.

Our faces were freckled and sunburned as we sucked melting Twin Pops from rounded wooden sticks and our fingers. We shared the color of our tongues to each other as we rode home in the sultry summer air on this first day of summer. I slept well that night.

Happy Memorial Day to all of you! Enjoy your time spent with family and friends. Peace.

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sex and other slump(s).

I was going to do a top ten list of the different types of slumps to post, but I’m currently in a “writer’s slump” and I couldn’t come up with ten. I came up with one. Make out that two. I apologize in advance. Bite me.

For some reason I can’t seem to get a grip on writing on the fly this week. Maybe it’s because of the lubrication interruption of sleep I get because Daryl is up all night sneezing because of his allergies. Poor guy, I REALLY do feel sorry for him. He will sneeze orgasmically a minimum of 6 times per episode. I remember 6 because it rhymes with SEX.

Speaking of slumps, our sex life could use a poke in the butt arm. Our schedules have been pretty wacked off out lately so the frequency of our romantic interludes have gone down recently. It’s difficult to get together because I am in retail and he is not. He gets has off on Holidays while I jerk work them. I just said to him last evening after dinner, “Horny Honey, I think we need to ejaculate evaluate our frequency,” to which Daryl looked up from his Soap Opera Digest and innocently sneezed that I should try my hand bran.

Yawn. After working a 12-hour day yesterday with the promise of a drippy busy weekend ahead, I’m not sure this sex slump will ever cum come to an end because the people at work are just sucking the life from me.

Oh well, I guess after all is said and done, most humps slumps eventually turn around and grow erect into positive examples of humility, so I’ll wait patiently as I continue to fornicate participate in this fun loving, ass grabbing fulfilling relationship together.

Whew! I need a cigarette, and I don’t even smoke.

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we’re leaving Candyland.

Daryl and I love testing the bounds of our relationship, so we have decided we’re going to attempt to give up sugar. Or at a minimum, reduce the intake of sweetness into our diet. We’re waving goodbye to “Gumdrop Mountains,” “Lollypop Woods” and “Peppermint Stick Forest.”

It sort of started as we finished up a 24 ounce bag of multi-colored marshmallow circus peanuts the other night while watching a rerun of the GLEE episode entitled “Funeral.” I turned to Daryl and loudly declared, “No more sugar will be allowed in this home!” in a voice that sounded like Columbus shouting “Land HO!” upon seeing the shoreline of America for the first time. Daryl looked up from a bag of Twizzlers like a dog that just got caught eating a stuffed chair, nodded and proceeded to quietly seal the bag. I’m still not sure if it was out of respect to my latest declaration, or just out of plain fear.

Having near perfect communication techniques, we paused the DVR and briefly discussed this newest lifestyle change as we jointly decided that our goal will to become more AWARE of the processed sugar in our daily diet in an attempt to alter our snacking habits as well as the actual snacks that we consume in the smorgasbord of our condo that we call the coffee table.

I gazed wistfully at the pretty blue bag of “Family Size” Herr’s potato chips, a 2 pound zip lock bag of Twizzlers, the empty Circus Peanuts bag and a half eaten container of Pumpkin Seeds strewn all over our round coffee table. I decided that I needed to take dramatic and drastic action immediately so I tossed all of the snacks into the trash (well… immediately after Daryl left the room). I truly value the honesty in our relationship, so I also covered the discarded snacks with a few AARP mailings I received earlier in the week just in case Daryl decided to throw something out later in the evening. I was not in the mood for him chastising me for throwing away perfectly good food. I did realize later that some of the snacks tossed were already sugar free, but when I get overly dramatic I don’t think properly.

I must admit, however, that I always feel a little proud when we make a joint decision to choose a lifestyle change for the better. We did it with quitting smoking a year or so ago, so a sugar free diet should be a piece of cake!

The challenge continues.

While out with some of our health-conscious friends at a recent Sunday evening happy hour while enjoying my second “punch-a-tini,” I solicited suggestions for low or no sugar snack-like alternatives. Some of the standard (albeit caring) responses included yogurt, fruit, granola and rice cakes. Perhaps Daryl and I should move to southern California, break out the Rit dye and some rubber bands and tie-dye our wardrobe as well? I feel like we’d be impersonating that health food guy who used to be on TV in the 70’s wearing flannel shirts while munching on a piece of wheat who touted eating whole grain cereals by plucking the product directly from a sun strewn meadow with birds flying around his head. I read that he actually died of heart failure a few years after that, which brings up a point of doubt and contention.

What if we actually eat healthier to live longer, but we die early anyway?

What if our last meal before we get hit by a bus should consist of a dry turkey burger (without the bun), spinach salad and a few legumes thrown in for digestive purposes, when it COULD have been a trip to Five Guys Burgers with a stop at Dairy Queen for a shake? I guess like everything else in life, we’ll have to learn balance and moderation.

Sigh.

The stress of all this eating healthy may kill me first. The stress of shopping for healthier items might kill me as well. Who truly has the time to spend reading every label for sugar, fat, sodium and caloric content at the grocery store? I’m suggesting a personal shopper. Have the Super Market chains take all those extra text-manic teen “baggers” and turn them into something truly productive, right?  I’d imagine that you’d enter the store and you’d have a choice to pick a trained personal shopper who would accompany you and assist in selecting food items for you depending on your particular diet or requirement. Need low sodium items? You chose Sally Saltfree. Perhaps you’re on a low cholesterol diet? Ask for Bernie Bypass. Need to shop strictly to lose weight? Miss Anita Waist is your gal!

I digress.

Daryl and I will give this latest health conscious decision a go. We really enjoy testing the bounds of our relationship with healthier choices, however, I shall miss it when Daryl uses Twizzlers to spell out “I love you!” on the counter as a romantic snack. I hope I can truly get over the fact that a pack or two of “Smarties” really DON’T make me smarter, and I plan to avoid Ben and Jerry like the plague that they are. I’m still stumped by trying to figure out which soda mixers to use for our cocktails, but perhaps we’ll just go directly to doing straight shots.

Hopefully, our relationship will survive this denial of the sweet tooth. Last evening, while watching TV, we made snacks (that honestly looked like something the cat threw up) in our matching “HIS” and “HIS” ice cream bowls of Chobani Greek yogurt with fresh strawberries, blueberries and granola. I looked at Daryl and sighed, “See? This is pretty good isn’t it?” to which Daryl grinned and replied, “Especially with the sugar I sprinkled over the strawberries first!”

Stay tuned.

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bathroom mystery solved

I found this in the bathroom the other day and wondered what the hell it was.

At first glance, it looked like some sort of shoe gadget. You know, one of those things the manufacturers put in a shoe to help keep its shape? Daryl DID just recently purchase a pair of sneakers online (which I told him was probably not the best way to purchase shoes) and I thought perhaps it was from one of those.

The sneakers he purchased really couldn’t sneak up on much of anything though. He put them on like a giddy 9 year old who thought he would be able to run faster and jump higher! That is until he got out on the sidewalk in front of our condo. He was behind me as I heard the dreaded “squeak… squeak… squeak” of his walk in what we now refer to as his “squeakers.” At least he kept the receipt, if we can locate it.

As I got down on the floor to more closely examine this “molded plastic,” I noticed a couple of used Q-tips and a huge lint slash hair ball behind the toilet. I was beginning to realize that I needed to clean the bathroom a little better next time as I finally came to the conclusion that this unknown white thing was not for a shoe.

As I lay on the bathroom floor in my robe I wondered if maybe it was some sort of “spork?” It had a handle and it appeared as though one could hold it like a utensil to eat with right? However, I deducted that an eating utensil would most likely never be found in one’s bathroom. Although, recently, I did find myself finishing a half bag of popcorn one night after some extended wine drinking while sitting on the hopper. Sorry for the image.

Still unsure as to what this mystery plastic was on the floor of the bathroom, I had an “a-ha” moment and realized it MUST be a sex toy! After all it has a handle, and odd shaped holes all over no matter which way I turned it, so it must be something from ToyBox.com right? With all of our “frequent-buyer” points, perhaps this was a “bonus gift with case” purchase that Daryl ordered as a surprise for me?

To my dismay, as I examined this white synthetic mystery much closer, I noticed the word “Hydra” embossed within its wide mouth and realized that it was simply a holder for a razor. I immediately wondered why Daryl would keep it around after ripping the razor from its package and realized with a grin that the man keeps everything. He’s one of those hoarders you see on TV that lives under piles of stuff. I’d snap a few photos to illustrate this to you, but I’ve already signed an agreement at the onset of our relationship that I have to run photos involving personal space, ass shots, shower pics and sleeping drool portraits past my partner first. Sheesh. As if I’d expose anything about our private lives online.

Now, I have to get up off the bathroom floor. ugh.

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Happy Rapture Eve!

With only one more day left before we all succumb to the wickedness of the world, I believe this would be a great time to throw a party! My schedule is such that I happen to be off today, so I can take FULL advantage of my preparations for the big event tomorrow! I know this is last minute and most of you have plans I’m sure, but take a look at my devilish agenda below and RSVP (quickly) by midnight tonight at the phone number listed at the end of this post.

I’m thinking out loud that my guest list will pretty much include YOU, if you’re reading this. No offense, but most of my friends are probably not on the list of “good” Christians headed upstairs, so consider yourself doomed, but invited.

The first thing on my preparation agenda today will be to visit my local Target store for Rapture Eve party decorations. I’m thinking that a theme of reds, oranges and blacks (sort of a fire and brimstone affair) will be just perfect. I’m assuming Target will have a full aisle dedicated to this type of event and I would hope that clearance pricing is in order.

Food will include deviled eggs, devil’s food cupcakes and a few other devil related food stuffs like tofu and Brussels sprouts. While I’m at the supermarket I must make a mental note not to purchase green bananas.

I think I’ll forgo traditional alcoholic fare in favor of a punch. After all, what IS the end of the world as we know it other than a punch? I couldn’t actually come up with a recipe for a “Devil’s Punch,” so I decided to Google it. This is what came up:

Devil Punch

Attire for the party will be semi-formal and consist of a lot of red, black and maybe some metallic accessories to have a sort of pitchfork tie-in. If you’re unsure of what to wear, here is an example:

Party favors will consist of the usual anti-Christian fare such as “Planned Parenthood” membership cards, inverted crucifixes and Muslim kneeling pads. I will also have a large barrel centrally located at the party that can be used to burn all bills, alimony payment documents and liens. The fire itself could be a warm reminder of what’s truly in store for all of us.

The music playlist will include but not be limited to:

“Sympathy for the Devil” – Rolling Stones, “Highway to Hell” – AC/DC, “Number of the Beast” – Iron Maiden, “Running with the Devil”- Van Halen, “Devil’s Haircut’ – Beck, “Devil Went Down To Georgia” – Charlie Daniels Band, “Devil With the Blue Dress” – Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels, “Hellhound On My Trail” – Robert Johnson, “Friend of the Devil” – Grateful Dead, and  “Devil’s Right Hand” – Johnny Cash and of course “Rapture” – Blondie.

We could also have some sort of New Year’s Eve-like countdown to midnight for the Rapture Event, but maybe we could do it in Latin so it could double as some sort of final blessing like they did in the movie The Exorcist… “decem, novem, octo, …”

I hope you are all as excited as I am to prepare to celebrate together one final time before the world is destroyed.

Please RSVP by midnight tonight to 1-900-666-6666.

Special note:
Children, teens and of course in-laws are certainly invited, since most of them are already full of the devil anyway.

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Health be damned… and the rest of us too!

I was reading the Face Book posts of some of my “health-conscious” friends this morning before work.

I’d say approximately 25% of my list of Face Book friends are what most would consider “healthy.” Maybe I should rephrase that, because in my opinion anyone who has a heartbeat and can breathe is pretty much healthy, however, I DO have several “friends” who are truly health-conscious.

Ugh.

I have to live every day with their bombardment of statuses regarding their HOURLY workout routines and diets such as: “Going for another run! Feels GREAT!”; “Did an hour and a half on the stair-stepper today!”; “Made a fantastic dinner of veggies, tofu and a protein shake – kids LOVED it too!”; “Met a wonderful team in my spinning class!”

Even I have fallen prey to updating an occasional status or two about taking a walk every now and then just to “fit in!” But now I’m sick and tired of all the positive, motivational, healthy lifestyles! And just when I thought I was gonna blow my top…

I was saved by Jesus.

Apparently, this Saturday May 21st, we will have the second coming of Christ. From the snippets and sound-bytes I’ve been hearing we will have some sort of earthquake this weekend (God… don’t let me die at work under a cheap sofa) and only GOOD Christians will be “selected” to join Jesus in life everlasting. Then from what I understand, the FINAL earth-destroying quake will happen on October 21st causing the world to be consumed by fire and those originally chosen Christians will float like the angels they are into Heaven.

Obviously, I’ve paraphrased, but you get the point (as in pitchfork, I’m guessin’).

All that being said, I’m going to sit here and open another bag of marshmallow Circus Peanuts and raise my glass of non diet Pepsi to my health-conscious Face Book Friends! You all know who you are. After this Saturday it will not matter who is healthy and who is not!

Cheers!

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men are pigs.

Men are pigs. No ifs, ands or butts.

Well, there ARE butts involved if you look at the latest headlines with Frenchman Dominique Strauss-Kahn, managing director of the International Monetary Fund, who for some ODD reason (read: penis) allegedly had the audacity to accost a maid after he came out of the bathroom in a towel. Apparently, she was just trying to clean his $3000 a night room. He is accused of sodomizing her and then leaving in a hurry. He reportedly forgot his cell phone and a few other crucial items including DNA (read: squirt).

The New York City crime team caught him just in the nick of time in the First Class (imagine that) section of an Air France flight at Kennedy (irony here?) Airport just before it took off to his native homeland. Strauss-Kahn denies his guilt, even though he was chosen in a standard police lineup and a statement was given by the victim.

If I were in charge of this investigation, I’d solve the case quite simply.

I’d have another politician smell Strauss-Kahn’s dick. Smells like the inside of an anus? Guilty. End of story. Hello Bubba in Cell #9.

Speaking of anuses, I also heard just today that THE Terminator (herein known as the “Sperminator”), former California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, has announced that he had an affair several years back and actually “fathered” (I use the term very loosely) a child with a member of the family’s household staff (maid again?). Apparently, he felt it necessary to finally disclose this to the press AFTER he was out of office. I’m assuming the guilt was overwhelming and he wanted to clear the air with Maria. Oink, Arnold, just friggin’ oink.

What IS it about these so called MEN that warrant this type of behavior? Is it the power? Is it the amount of time traveling around the globe and being political? Is it living in close proximity to Motel Sixes? Maybe it’s the maid costume?

I think it is a mix up of the minds.

There is one mind in the brain and then there is one mind in the pants. I don’t believe men have the capacity to distinguish the difference.

The irony of the entire situation is that the actual penis of a pig looks like this:

I've used balloons to illustrate what the actual pig penis looks like.

I think I’m finished my rant on the “pigosity” of men but I’d like to sum it up with several past honorable mentions who have also thought with their dicks:

Bill Clinton, Hugh Grant, ALL the Kennedy men, Kobe Bryant, Donald Trump, Prince Charles, Tiger Woods, Jesse James and the list goes on… and on… and on…

oink.

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