Don’t Mess with Texas
My in-laws live in Texas, San Antonio. I love me some Texas…except there’s one thing you don’t do when in you’re in Texas. Just “Don’t mess with Texas.” I wasn’t planning on it. Not a goal of mine to enter Texas, drop my pants and take a steamy poo on the Welcome to Texas state sign. For that matter, Don’t mess with New Jersey either. If you’re going to mess with a state, pick Rhode Island or Delaware so when you do mess it’s a small mess, not a big messy mess. By the time you’ve messed with Rhode Island you could easily sneak across state lines to Connecticut or Massachusetts. By the time they’ve noticed you messed with Delaware, you’re chillin in Maryland sucking on some tasty blue crabs.
You could choose to mess with North Dakota, but no one would notice; you’re missing the thrill of the kill here, it would be over before it started. Now messing with California or Florida or New York is simply suicide. Too much of everything in those states—stick to the inner Mid-West or states that specialized in hydroponic high grade marijuana and rich creamy ice cream, like Vermont.
But why mess at all? States that need the most messing with, are already MESSED UP! Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, Arkansas, Arizona, West Virginia, Utah, and South Carolina. If it is your goal in life to mess with a U.S. state, start With the Midwest and escape down the Mississippi River Tom Sawyer style.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Awesome 8
Awesome ‘8’
Jewish summer camp is where the secret training starts. Zingers and jokes are fine tuned here. Fist fights over Mets vs. Yankees, Giants vs. Jets, Rangers vs. Islanders; there are clear lines, no cross-over fans. Summer camp is where JAPS learn the secret art of how to make their Daddies really miss them; that BMW convertible doesn’t come cheap. And yet, they also learn how to go to third base with Mark Feingold from Chappaqua and make him feel bad about it. Wide-eyed-smiling-Protestant-Ohio-Valley-morals and Christian folklore don’t factor in at Jewish sleep away camp. Jewish summer camp is the proving ground for the North Shore bagels: Jericho, Smithtown, Port Jeff, “Hi, I’m Roslyn from Roslyn. Where are you from?” This is Long Island New York: big nose, expensive car, overpriced haircut, too much gold, tennis lessons, bagels and lox, slice of red onion, and beefsteak tomato with capers, Jew York. These are the deep pocket Jews who summer their kids in Western Massachusetts and sip champagne with Hustler magazine air-brushed swingers in heart shaped pools in the Pocono’s. Camp is Jew proving grounds. You become the lawyer, doctor, banker, quasi-real-estate investor, or jeweler…you can’t spell jeweler without Jew. Jewish jokes are kosher here. What’s the difference between a Jew and a pizza? The pizza doesn’t scream in the oven. Jews stay on top Jews here. Jews are the chosen people, they know this, they just don’t know why. Real Jewish life starts with summer camp. Then, as adults, they send themselves to the bungalows in upstate New York in the Catskills and beyond to bet the ponies. It all ends in Florida, where it’s hot like summer camp, all the time.
Brian Kaplowitz continued to poke at the gypsy moth nest with his broken off stick. He penetrated the cotton caterpillar nest and the furry peacock skin critters spilled to the sidewalk. His buddy, Seth Goldman, took this opportunity to smash them up and have the chlorophyll green blood smear on the rocky sidewalk.
“Dude, these little bastards eat so much, we’re doing the forest industry a service, like, they should be thanking us right?” said Brian. Seth was on all fours, the backs of his knees were prone to sun burning and spending time killing caterpillars wasn’t helping. His face was inches from the dying insects, their bodies writhing and undulating under the small twig he was using to crush the underside and watching the green jelly ooze out of their furry skin.
“Why don’t they scream for help? Is that a design flaw? Maybe if they made enough noise, we’d feel a little worse about killing them, but they don’t scream, they don’t say shit,” said Seth.
What they did hear next, was the three chip whistle of the Lake Mehaw lifeguard, “TWEET! TWEET! TWEET! Buddy system, find your buddy!”
“Shit dude. We’re ‘spose to be in the Lake Mehaw, swimming. He’s gonna know we’re not there when he does a head count.” Both boys left their prospective killing posts. Clasping hands, they ran to the lakeside, sliding in the sandy muck, feeling the squishy bottom with white toes.
“Buddies number five?” “Buddies number FIVE?!” Brian and Seth slurped along the shoreline holding hands in an awkward twelve year old grasp.
“Here we are!” yelled Brian.
Both boys were clearly out of the yellow roped off ‘safe zone’ and playing outside of the designated swim area was definitely cause for some extra toilet scrub ‘duty’ time.
Lunch was an uneventful adventure of over fried fish sticks, tator tots and tartar sauce.
“Hey, pass the bug juice please.”
Bug juice was aptly named because of the sucrose fun that it held inside. It attracted zigzagging yellow jackets looking for a free sip of death; the perfect demise, death by sugar. It also fueled Bunk 8 and the nineteen pre-teen hormonal precocious vulgarians that Brian and Seth lived with during the summer of 1983.
After lunch, onto a sweaty game of ultimate frisbee and then back to bunk 8, or Awesome ‘8’ (Someone from the dangerous class of ‘81 had painted Awesome ‘8’ on the door after their successful left shoe raid; in the middle of the night, July 12th 1981, all 778 campers at Camp Shalom had a least one shoe stolen and hung from the flagpole, Awesome). Back at the bunk, the boys jumped into cold showers with no doors on them. The bathroom floor was comprised of slick, dark gray, wet cement floors. Each circumcised Jewish boy showered and subtly scanned the stalls to see who had hit puberty and who was still waiting; waiting for their very own personal Phoebe Cates Fast Times at Ridgemont High wet dream. There was a vast chasm between the wet worm and the trouser snake—twelve year old boys are evil, pure evil.
Friday nights were special, Shabbat dinner and dancing. Before dinner all the campers would greet Shabbat dressed in all white attire and gather to hold hands, light a candle, and be led in Reform-Jew-Joni-Mitchell-esque tunes. The songs were sung with the aid of an acoustic guitar strapped to a kinky haired twenty year old counselor who didn’t need the money for his fall return to NYJew, but was a repeat camper who couldn’t get enough of Camp Shalom. The songs were in Hebrew, no one knew the translations, but the message was, “Hug a puppy, it’s Friday.” Brian and Seth enjoyed the song circle and singing because of the miniscule shot of Manischewitz wine they got in the bottom of a clear plastic Dixie cup before saying the Kiddush prayer over the wine. They became masters at pilfering the thimble cups and pounding shots of acidic low grade kosher grape wine that gave a buzz in nomenclature alone. The Manischewitz buzz was nothing to brag about because it left the consumer burping grape tasting sweet stomach juice without the real giddiness of getting drunk. It only made their ears warm and glow red and steamed their gullets as they slammed shots behind bunk 8. The boys “thought” they were getting drunk, their purple mustaches only got them in trouble with the counselors who could easily find the culprits of wine stealers.
Everyone gathered after dinner at the tennis courts for Israeli dancing and flirting. Those under nine, boys and girls alike, chased each other wildly through the surrounding grassy confines of the tennis courts and showed off fresh grass stained pants for their efforts. You only knew about first base here, it was more likely that you had no knowledge that baseball had a much more horny allegory surrounding it.
The bleachers were for those willing to go to first and maybe steal second. One could find post bar and bat mitzvah types and over active hormone kids who grew up way too fast. The boys had fuzzy busboy mustaches and the girls had squishy apples for breasts and both had bad greasy skin.
The professionals mingled on the fringes of the tennis court night lights and held real close hands, noses in necks, feathered hair and sported newly chiseled sharp Adam’s Apples. This group had not only watched Blue Lagoon, but yearned to be stranded there as well. Instead, they opted for the Berkshire Mountains on a cool moist July evening, 1983. The professionals knew batting averages and knew who was pitching. They took hand signals from the third base coach and made sure they knew how many outs were left—full count, two outs, you run on anything, hard.
Brian and Seth were not sure where to play. They had known people in all groups, but had only spent time getting grass stained knees wrestling with each other.
Jenny Green was the dish for this summer. She had beautiful brown hair, shiny in either light or dark conditions. She had a masterful appreciation of the short-shorts. Some missed the effective usage of this fashion delight, but not Jenny. Her eyes were ice-blue and hard to look at. Brian liked Jenny. Seth liked Jenny. Everyone liked Jenny.
“Seth, do you know what I’d do with that?” asked Brian.
“Yeah. Ask her to marry me!” said Seth.
“No, seriously, do you know how hot she is?” said Brian.
“Not really, but I’m going to find out—I’m going to tell her you think so…”
With that, Seth jetted across the tennis courts leaving Brian in a mild state of shock. He jogged right up to Jenny and immediately broke her personal bubble space. He noticed the wonderful tan she had regardless of the previous week’s cloudy skies. He saw how her white coral necklace made her eyes look even bluer and he never realized how sweet she smelled, he’d never been this close to the “ballpark,” he’d only driven by.
“Hey, Jenny I got a question for you?”
Jenny craned her neck back and was a bit startled by the heavy Polo cologne soaked into his white Izod shirt.
“What’s your name again? Jeff?”
“S-s-seth.”
“That’s right. You hang out with Brian Kaplowitz don’t you?”
“Funny you should mention his name. I just came over to tell you that he’s in love with you. And he wanted to know if you’d like to meet him at the bleachers for a chat?”
Brian didn’t know how to kiss her. He moved his tongue to the right and she moved hers down. He could feel the battle of tongues, both mouths freshly brushed and minty clean. He opened his eyes for a quick second just to see if hers were closed and to make sure that this was really happening. He'd practiced his kiss face in the mirror
before, and he wondered if he looked good, it felt good. His tongue began to tire from all the tumbling around in her mouth. Was this right? Was he doing this right? Lip-
locked he could hear a moist tongue battle going on and the both of them breathing, heavy. What to do with his hands? One was holding hers and sweating, another was on
her back. He assumed that looked good, he was lost.
"Woowh," she said in all breath. Brian pulled back and looked at her through glassy eyes and she blinked back heavy at him and nuzzled in his neck. She twisted his hand together with hers and then she began to leave, breaking free from his sweaty grasp.
“See you tomorrow. At lunch maybe?”
Jenny disappeared into the bright tennis court lights with moths dog fighting in the fluorescent glow of her departure. Brian Kaplowitz had kissed thirteen year-old Jenny Green, an older woman.
“Spin the flashlight guys!” said Seth.
Brian doubled the efforts, “Totally awesome. I got mine right here.”
Brian cupped his hand over the sliver flashlight and his fingers glowed red and yellow under the light. He placed it on the gray wooden bunk floor and four boys and four girls gathered around boy-girl-boy-girl sitting Indian style, knees touching each others.
“Okay who goes first?” said Seth.
Nobody spoke. There was just a light on the bottom of a pair of sandy converse sneakers and the other end was pointing towards Sharon Zarinski.
“Okay, I’ll go first. Pussies.” said Seth.
He spun the flashlight with too much pubescent fervor and it wobbled like a satellite crashing to earth and ended lighting up his own two feet.
“Try again faggot. Not so hard,” said Brian.
“Thanks genius. Like I want to make out with myself,” said Seth.
The roulette wheel spun again and this time, the light landed on Brian and Seth. The boys made eye contact. Everyone laughed. “Do over’s, do over’s. No fags allowed.”
“You know. You can only have three do over’s and then you have to kiss the person no matter what,” said Sharon.
“Who told you that?” asked Brian
“My brother, and he’s in the 10th grade, so shut it,” said Sharon.
The light made it around and rolled to a metallic stop on Jenny and Seth. This was it. She leaned forward before he could begin to moisten his lips and she placed a sweet sister kiss on his cheek. Seth looked dejected and held his head down in shame.
“Boo. Hiss. Boo.” There were shouts of displeasure from the six remaining players. Jenny Green was experienced and certainly no prude, it was rumored she’d gone to third base. Jenny had a rep to keep up. She took the ‘boos’ as an affront to her womanhood and grabbed Seth Goldman by the face and aggressively began to French kiss him into Phoebe Cates heaven. Seth only stopped the smooch because he felt ‘the rise in his Levis’ as he’d like to say. Jenny broke the kiss off and folded her arms in a satisfactory pose of womanly power. Seth tugged his shirt lower to cover his growing affection.
"Dude you kissed my girlfriend at the panty raid," said Brian.
"She's not your girlfriend. You said you don't date, ‘member? Besides, you and I are just playing the field right?" replied Seth.
As the two boys slid down the pine needle hill back to bunk 8, they remained silent, wondering if the other was the better kisser.
"She's a good kisser, huh?" said Brian.
"Yeah, I guess."
"Who else have you kissed?" Brian demanded.
There was long uncomfortable pause. "Thisss…girl. From Ohio…she's my cousin's friend."
"Bullshit. Your cousin schmuzin! Jenny Green was your first kiss, just like mine."
Seth stopped walking for a second. A smile came over his face. He'd been let into the ball park, he had just sucked face with Jenny Green for two minutes, and he was ready for more.
"What? Do you see someone?" Brian asked.
"No, I was just thinking how cool that you and I have the same girl, and she doesn't care. Jewish chicks put out, excellent.”
Twelve year olds are okay to share a girlfriend. The rules are different. The rules are not established, ownership isn't a factor. No one cares what the score is, as long as you’re allowed to play at Camp Shalom.
Jewish summer camp is where the secret training starts. Zingers and jokes are fine tuned here. Fist fights over Mets vs. Yankees, Giants vs. Jets, Rangers vs. Islanders; there are clear lines, no cross-over fans. Summer camp is where JAPS learn the secret art of how to make their Daddies really miss them; that BMW convertible doesn’t come cheap. And yet, they also learn how to go to third base with Mark Feingold from Chappaqua and make him feel bad about it. Wide-eyed-smiling-Protestant-Ohio-Valley-morals and Christian folklore don’t factor in at Jewish sleep away camp. Jewish summer camp is the proving ground for the North Shore bagels: Jericho, Smithtown, Port Jeff, “Hi, I’m Roslyn from Roslyn. Where are you from?” This is Long Island New York: big nose, expensive car, overpriced haircut, too much gold, tennis lessons, bagels and lox, slice of red onion, and beefsteak tomato with capers, Jew York. These are the deep pocket Jews who summer their kids in Western Massachusetts and sip champagne with Hustler magazine air-brushed swingers in heart shaped pools in the Pocono’s. Camp is Jew proving grounds. You become the lawyer, doctor, banker, quasi-real-estate investor, or jeweler…you can’t spell jeweler without Jew. Jewish jokes are kosher here. What’s the difference between a Jew and a pizza? The pizza doesn’t scream in the oven. Jews stay on top Jews here. Jews are the chosen people, they know this, they just don’t know why. Real Jewish life starts with summer camp. Then, as adults, they send themselves to the bungalows in upstate New York in the Catskills and beyond to bet the ponies. It all ends in Florida, where it’s hot like summer camp, all the time.
Brian Kaplowitz continued to poke at the gypsy moth nest with his broken off stick. He penetrated the cotton caterpillar nest and the furry peacock skin critters spilled to the sidewalk. His buddy, Seth Goldman, took this opportunity to smash them up and have the chlorophyll green blood smear on the rocky sidewalk.
“Dude, these little bastards eat so much, we’re doing the forest industry a service, like, they should be thanking us right?” said Brian. Seth was on all fours, the backs of his knees were prone to sun burning and spending time killing caterpillars wasn’t helping. His face was inches from the dying insects, their bodies writhing and undulating under the small twig he was using to crush the underside and watching the green jelly ooze out of their furry skin.
“Why don’t they scream for help? Is that a design flaw? Maybe if they made enough noise, we’d feel a little worse about killing them, but they don’t scream, they don’t say shit,” said Seth.
What they did hear next, was the three chip whistle of the Lake Mehaw lifeguard, “TWEET! TWEET! TWEET! Buddy system, find your buddy!”
“Shit dude. We’re ‘spose to be in the Lake Mehaw, swimming. He’s gonna know we’re not there when he does a head count.” Both boys left their prospective killing posts. Clasping hands, they ran to the lakeside, sliding in the sandy muck, feeling the squishy bottom with white toes.
“Buddies number five?” “Buddies number FIVE?!” Brian and Seth slurped along the shoreline holding hands in an awkward twelve year old grasp.
“Here we are!” yelled Brian.
Both boys were clearly out of the yellow roped off ‘safe zone’ and playing outside of the designated swim area was definitely cause for some extra toilet scrub ‘duty’ time.
Lunch was an uneventful adventure of over fried fish sticks, tator tots and tartar sauce.
“Hey, pass the bug juice please.”
Bug juice was aptly named because of the sucrose fun that it held inside. It attracted zigzagging yellow jackets looking for a free sip of death; the perfect demise, death by sugar. It also fueled Bunk 8 and the nineteen pre-teen hormonal precocious vulgarians that Brian and Seth lived with during the summer of 1983.
After lunch, onto a sweaty game of ultimate frisbee and then back to bunk 8, or Awesome ‘8’ (Someone from the dangerous class of ‘81 had painted Awesome ‘8’ on the door after their successful left shoe raid; in the middle of the night, July 12th 1981, all 778 campers at Camp Shalom had a least one shoe stolen and hung from the flagpole, Awesome). Back at the bunk, the boys jumped into cold showers with no doors on them. The bathroom floor was comprised of slick, dark gray, wet cement floors. Each circumcised Jewish boy showered and subtly scanned the stalls to see who had hit puberty and who was still waiting; waiting for their very own personal Phoebe Cates Fast Times at Ridgemont High wet dream. There was a vast chasm between the wet worm and the trouser snake—twelve year old boys are evil, pure evil.
Friday nights were special, Shabbat dinner and dancing. Before dinner all the campers would greet Shabbat dressed in all white attire and gather to hold hands, light a candle, and be led in Reform-Jew-Joni-Mitchell-esque tunes. The songs were sung with the aid of an acoustic guitar strapped to a kinky haired twenty year old counselor who didn’t need the money for his fall return to NYJew, but was a repeat camper who couldn’t get enough of Camp Shalom. The songs were in Hebrew, no one knew the translations, but the message was, “Hug a puppy, it’s Friday.” Brian and Seth enjoyed the song circle and singing because of the miniscule shot of Manischewitz wine they got in the bottom of a clear plastic Dixie cup before saying the Kiddush prayer over the wine. They became masters at pilfering the thimble cups and pounding shots of acidic low grade kosher grape wine that gave a buzz in nomenclature alone. The Manischewitz buzz was nothing to brag about because it left the consumer burping grape tasting sweet stomach juice without the real giddiness of getting drunk. It only made their ears warm and glow red and steamed their gullets as they slammed shots behind bunk 8. The boys “thought” they were getting drunk, their purple mustaches only got them in trouble with the counselors who could easily find the culprits of wine stealers.
Everyone gathered after dinner at the tennis courts for Israeli dancing and flirting. Those under nine, boys and girls alike, chased each other wildly through the surrounding grassy confines of the tennis courts and showed off fresh grass stained pants for their efforts. You only knew about first base here, it was more likely that you had no knowledge that baseball had a much more horny allegory surrounding it.
The bleachers were for those willing to go to first and maybe steal second. One could find post bar and bat mitzvah types and over active hormone kids who grew up way too fast. The boys had fuzzy busboy mustaches and the girls had squishy apples for breasts and both had bad greasy skin.
The professionals mingled on the fringes of the tennis court night lights and held real close hands, noses in necks, feathered hair and sported newly chiseled sharp Adam’s Apples. This group had not only watched Blue Lagoon, but yearned to be stranded there as well. Instead, they opted for the Berkshire Mountains on a cool moist July evening, 1983. The professionals knew batting averages and knew who was pitching. They took hand signals from the third base coach and made sure they knew how many outs were left—full count, two outs, you run on anything, hard.
Brian and Seth were not sure where to play. They had known people in all groups, but had only spent time getting grass stained knees wrestling with each other.
Jenny Green was the dish for this summer. She had beautiful brown hair, shiny in either light or dark conditions. She had a masterful appreciation of the short-shorts. Some missed the effective usage of this fashion delight, but not Jenny. Her eyes were ice-blue and hard to look at. Brian liked Jenny. Seth liked Jenny. Everyone liked Jenny.
“Seth, do you know what I’d do with that?” asked Brian.
“Yeah. Ask her to marry me!” said Seth.
“No, seriously, do you know how hot she is?” said Brian.
“Not really, but I’m going to find out—I’m going to tell her you think so…”
With that, Seth jetted across the tennis courts leaving Brian in a mild state of shock. He jogged right up to Jenny and immediately broke her personal bubble space. He noticed the wonderful tan she had regardless of the previous week’s cloudy skies. He saw how her white coral necklace made her eyes look even bluer and he never realized how sweet she smelled, he’d never been this close to the “ballpark,” he’d only driven by.
“Hey, Jenny I got a question for you?”
Jenny craned her neck back and was a bit startled by the heavy Polo cologne soaked into his white Izod shirt.
“What’s your name again? Jeff?”
“S-s-seth.”
“That’s right. You hang out with Brian Kaplowitz don’t you?”
“Funny you should mention his name. I just came over to tell you that he’s in love with you. And he wanted to know if you’d like to meet him at the bleachers for a chat?”
Brian didn’t know how to kiss her. He moved his tongue to the right and she moved hers down. He could feel the battle of tongues, both mouths freshly brushed and minty clean. He opened his eyes for a quick second just to see if hers were closed and to make sure that this was really happening. He'd practiced his kiss face in the mirror
before, and he wondered if he looked good, it felt good. His tongue began to tire from all the tumbling around in her mouth. Was this right? Was he doing this right? Lip-
locked he could hear a moist tongue battle going on and the both of them breathing, heavy. What to do with his hands? One was holding hers and sweating, another was on
her back. He assumed that looked good, he was lost.
"Woowh," she said in all breath. Brian pulled back and looked at her through glassy eyes and she blinked back heavy at him and nuzzled in his neck. She twisted his hand together with hers and then she began to leave, breaking free from his sweaty grasp.
“See you tomorrow. At lunch maybe?”
Jenny disappeared into the bright tennis court lights with moths dog fighting in the fluorescent glow of her departure. Brian Kaplowitz had kissed thirteen year-old Jenny Green, an older woman.
“Spin the flashlight guys!” said Seth.
Brian doubled the efforts, “Totally awesome. I got mine right here.”
Brian cupped his hand over the sliver flashlight and his fingers glowed red and yellow under the light. He placed it on the gray wooden bunk floor and four boys and four girls gathered around boy-girl-boy-girl sitting Indian style, knees touching each others.
“Okay who goes first?” said Seth.
Nobody spoke. There was just a light on the bottom of a pair of sandy converse sneakers and the other end was pointing towards Sharon Zarinski.
“Okay, I’ll go first. Pussies.” said Seth.
He spun the flashlight with too much pubescent fervor and it wobbled like a satellite crashing to earth and ended lighting up his own two feet.
“Try again faggot. Not so hard,” said Brian.
“Thanks genius. Like I want to make out with myself,” said Seth.
The roulette wheel spun again and this time, the light landed on Brian and Seth. The boys made eye contact. Everyone laughed. “Do over’s, do over’s. No fags allowed.”
“You know. You can only have three do over’s and then you have to kiss the person no matter what,” said Sharon.
“Who told you that?” asked Brian
“My brother, and he’s in the 10th grade, so shut it,” said Sharon.
The light made it around and rolled to a metallic stop on Jenny and Seth. This was it. She leaned forward before he could begin to moisten his lips and she placed a sweet sister kiss on his cheek. Seth looked dejected and held his head down in shame.
“Boo. Hiss. Boo.” There were shouts of displeasure from the six remaining players. Jenny Green was experienced and certainly no prude, it was rumored she’d gone to third base. Jenny had a rep to keep up. She took the ‘boos’ as an affront to her womanhood and grabbed Seth Goldman by the face and aggressively began to French kiss him into Phoebe Cates heaven. Seth only stopped the smooch because he felt ‘the rise in his Levis’ as he’d like to say. Jenny broke the kiss off and folded her arms in a satisfactory pose of womanly power. Seth tugged his shirt lower to cover his growing affection.
"Dude you kissed my girlfriend at the panty raid," said Brian.
"She's not your girlfriend. You said you don't date, ‘member? Besides, you and I are just playing the field right?" replied Seth.
As the two boys slid down the pine needle hill back to bunk 8, they remained silent, wondering if the other was the better kisser.
"She's a good kisser, huh?" said Brian.
"Yeah, I guess."
"Who else have you kissed?" Brian demanded.
There was long uncomfortable pause. "Thisss…girl. From Ohio…she's my cousin's friend."
"Bullshit. Your cousin schmuzin! Jenny Green was your first kiss, just like mine."
Seth stopped walking for a second. A smile came over his face. He'd been let into the ball park, he had just sucked face with Jenny Green for two minutes, and he was ready for more.
"What? Do you see someone?" Brian asked.
"No, I was just thinking how cool that you and I have the same girl, and she doesn't care. Jewish chicks put out, excellent.”
Twelve year olds are okay to share a girlfriend. The rules are different. The rules are not established, ownership isn't a factor. No one cares what the score is, as long as you’re allowed to play at Camp Shalom.
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo Echo Delta
Let others help you out. You can't do everything. Sometimes it's the only thing you can do is to let someone help you out. Try it, you'll like it.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Chris Henry
Chris Henry died. He fell out of a truck. He was suspended 5 times playing football. Now he's really suspended.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Availability Factor
98% I'm free to give you the truth about 98% of the time. The other 2% not so much. 100%.
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