Hello. I am fellow American like you. Suspect nothing. I come off boat with ten dollars, coat, pants, warm smile. I marry hot, amazing lady. I was born on pirate ship. Someone told me to say this.
2019-02-15 12:50:20 ET
I remember, years back, when Warren Ellis joined SK. I think he was at that period in life when you just want to join any goddamn social network in existence. Move in, establish your presence, and let your literary dick hang loose and floppy.
I'm pretty sure he deleted his account soon after. Is there a moral to this? Probably not. Only thing I know is SK still doesn't do https.
Is anyone still on here?
Are any of us real?
It makes you wonder.
|Valentine's Day Advice|
2019-02-15 12:34:52 ET
I needed to buy a gift for Valentine's Day. Picking a gift every year gets more and more difficult. The old chocolate and roses just won't cut it. It shows a distinct lack of imagination, forethought, and initiative. That's what my self-help book told me.
So I bought a raw chicken.
I'm not talking about one of those cute, tiny cornish hen things. I'm talking about a big, greasy, goosebump-skin chicken of a thing. No head or feathers. Just a thing, plastic-pressed tight against a styrofoam backing, drumsticks akimbo, wings crossed, gaping hole for a neck saying "This is how I am. Take me. Happy Valentine's Day."
Raw chicken is love.
Sure, some people may not see the romance of the thing, especially when it's illuminated by the cold white light of the frigid supermarket aisle. Shelves and shelves of meat. Putrid poultry packed past the date of expiration.
Do I look like I care?
True love forces us to look past the defects. The deformities. The legal statutes.
True love makes newborn babes of us all.
And that's what matters. Joyful, carefree laughter. That spark in the eyes. That tingle of the genitals. That five hundred yard restraining order.
Why play it safe? And yet, raw chicken is truly the safest Valentine's Day gift of all. Everyone loves chicken. Except for monsters. And you can always stuff it full of chocolates and roses if your one-true-love goes for that sort of thing. The traditional eclipsed by the gorgeous. The cocoa-sweetness embraced and emboldened by pale chicken flesh.
It's Valentine's Day, goddammit. Run through the fields. Yell at the top of your lungs. Go bowling wearing nothing but a jockstrap and suspenders.
That's what my self-help book told me.
2016-12-09 14:19:30 ET
Sometimes life goes out of its way to remind you that nothing is permanent.
That nothing lasts.
That life is but a brief flutter in the eyes of time.
And that warm, cozy, relaxing moments can quickly turn to shit.
This is why I'm using this opportunity to remind all of you:
Restock your toilet paper.
2014-12-26 05:06:05 ET
"Honey? Honey, wake up!"
"..what is it? It's.... Jesus it's three in the morning!"
"Honey, I heard it again."
"Scratching. At the window."
"Don't be ridiculous. We're on the fifth floor."
"I know, but I heard it. Like... I don't know. Like claws... tapping and scraping at the glass and whatever else our window is made out of."
"Oh, goddammit. Fine. I'll go, get out of bed right now, at three in the morning, and I'll go check it out. Will that make you happy?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that... there's scratching at the window and I don't know what it is."
"Ok, fine. I'll go."
"I'm back, sweetheart. Let's go back to sleep. It was nothing serious."
"But what was scratching our fifth floor window?"
"Nothing much. Just a clown floating by our fifth floor apartment window in the middle of the night."
"Oh. I'm sorry I made you get up for that, honey. Fucking clowns."
"I know. They can be such assholes sometimes. Good night, babe."
|Santa's Coke Connection|
2014-12-24 07:54:40 ET
He's sitting at the bar, nursing a shot of tequila. His phone rings. And rings. And rings.
"You gonna get that?", the bartender asks.
"I'm letting it go to voicemail."
"Because it's the fat fuck calling me again,"
"You're drunk, Rudolph. Don't go talking shit about Santa, again."
"And why can't I? The fat piece of shit doesn't give a rat's ass about me."
"Oh yeah? Well what about that song? That made it sound like you really saved the day."
"I hate that fucking song and everyone who sings it. Bloody idiots."
Rudolph downs the whole shot glass in one fell swoop, wipes his mouth with his hoof, and keeps right on talking.
"Don't those idiots understand what that song means?"
The bartender is wiping down glasses. He looks back up at Rudolph. "Well what does that song mean anyway?"
"It means you can get the shit beaten out of you by the other reindeer every night. Pissed on. Fed scraps of shoe leather until you're wasting away and dying. It means you've cried so much that your tear ducts are as dry as a whorehouse in the Sahara. And does the fat man say anything? Fuck no. But, suddenly, the headlights go out on his sled and it's 'Rudolph, we need you so much! Your red nose saved Christmas! You'll go down in history, Rudolph!'. Story of my fucking life,"
"You believed him?"
"Of course, I believed him! What's even more fucked up is I *wanted* to believe him! I was a goddamn stupid reindeer, lost and without hope. And he finally gave me a purpose. A reason. And, for a brief, shining moment I was happy. Happy to be wanted. Happy to be part of the gang. And then, when the sleigh ride was over, he threw me away just like whatever random piece of elf ass he fucks every night."
"You're goddamn right. And you know what the most fucked up thing about it was?"
"There were no presents. Not a single fucking gift in the whole bag."
"You mean it was all coal?"
"No, I mean the fuck doesn't deliver any presents on Christmas Eve. He doesn't visit any houses. It's the parents that buy all the gifts! He just takes the credit."
"So where does he go then?"
"He flies off to Colombia. He's got a guy there - 'Dirty Sanchez', they call him. He packs Santa's bag full of cocaine and the fat bastard pays him with all the money his endorsement deals with Pepsi and all those toy companies and whatnot made him. Why do you think he's so anxious to fly out? There's no fucking way he can visit, what, a billion households in one night? It's a fucking fairy tale."
The bartender arches his eyebrow.
"So, what you're telling me, is that Santa Claus is just a big, rich cokehead?"
"That's exactly what the fuck I'm telling you. Shit. Can I get another shot?"
The bartender pours him some more tequila.
"Thanks. Listen, all he does when he gets back home is strip down to his piss-stained tightie whities and his 'Real Men Come In The Chimney' t-shirt and snort a fuckload of cocaine."
"And what does Mrs. Claus think of all this?"
"Oh, that's the best part. No one knows where she is."
"What do you mean no one knows where she is?"
"I mean exactly that. No one knows where she is. One day she got sick and tired of cleaning up after Santa's shit so she let him have it right in front of all the reindeer and elves. Fucking went on for an hour. Throwing shit left and right. And the fat man just kept getting redder and redder. That night, I pretended to sleep but, and I swear on my grave that this is true..."
"I swear I heard both of them leave at something like two in the morning. And then an hour later the door opens again and I could hear Santa muttering under his breath 'Ho, ho, ho, bitch.'"
"You think Santa killed her?"
"All I'm saying is, it's real easy to hide bloodstains on a red suit." replies Rudolph as he downs his tequila.
The bartender is silent for a few moments. Then...
"Did you tell the police?"
"I tried. That's when I found out there's no police department in the world with jurisdiction over the North Pole. You'd think there'd be an elf police department or something. But even then, it'd be futile."
"Because Santa's fucked enough elves that half of them are related to him somehow. If they were police I doubt they'd listen to me. It'd be like going against one of their own."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I thought about killing myself, you know. Just throw myself in the ice and end it all. But I didn't have the nerve. Like that one ember in a dead campfire that refuses to go out. So a few days ago I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself. I don't care if I've been treated like shit. There are others... *were* others that had it worse. It's real easy to hide bodies when all around you is a barren, snowy wasteland. Anyway, I've made my decision."
"Yeah. I wrote down everything that happened. Every goddamn detailed bit. Anything I could remember I put down on paper. And then I sent copies to every television station around the globe. It was easy too. Turns out Santa gets free postage."
"Do you think he knows?"
"I think he suspects. That's why he's calling me all of a sudden. He knows something's up. He just doesn't know what that something is."
"Well what are you going to tell him?"
"Tell him? I'm not going to tell him shit. As soon as I'm done steeling myself with tequila, I'm hopping on the next flight over to South America. I've got a hankering that Dirty Sanchez has quite a few outstanding warrants over there. Maybe, this Christmas I can kill Santa's coke connection. That should throw a fucking monkey wrench into his Christmas plans. And good luck flying that sled, you fat fuck! Your lazy ass never even fixed the headlights!"
The bartender shook his head in disbelief. Then sighed and reached over for the tequila bottle.
"Here you go, Rudolph. This one's on me. And listen, if even half of what you told me is true, I hope they put that jolly fuck away for a long time."
"I don't know what to say... Thanks."
"Good luck, Rudolph. You'll go down in history."
2014-12-18 10:46:26 ET
You know what? That's it. I'm putting my foot down. I've been avoiding writing for far too long. Writing isn't a rock. It's not something that you can leave alone, untouched and trust that it will weather through years of neglect. Writing is a muscle and, if you don't use it, you lose it. It atrophies like the brain of a shriveled, sedentary rat. Slowly ferments and liquifies and then, when you go to sleep that one fateful night, and lay your head down flat on the pillow, the writing leaks out of your ear and drenches your bed with a horrid, pungent, filthy, useless brain juice. And you wake up suddenly, thinking it cold sweat but then see your body - skin wrinkled with moisture, half-assed words plastered all over it. You know you fucked up. And you know you're fucked.
Fight, I say. Fight against lassitude and apathy. Against the malignant stagnancy of perpetual procrastination. Pick up that damned keyboard or typewriter or pen. Write something! No matter with what! With ink or graphite or blood or filth or yogurt! Just write. Lock yourself down in a room with twelve loaves of bread, plenty of water, and just enough light so you can read back what you wrote. And set upon the loftiest goal you can set for yourself. Set out to write the Great American Novel!
And that's just what I intend to do.
Write the Great American Novel, I mean. I go about it differently than most. I usually think of the title and brief abstract first. It helps me keep my thoughts together. And, so, this is what I've come up with.
My Great American Novel will be called SHITSTORM. It's about a fecund mass of dastardly feces that comes to Earth in the guise of a meteor and crash lands somewhere along the Pacific Northwest (No offense to anyone that lives there, I just like the sound of "Pacific Northwest".) The fecal meteor crashes with a loud whoosh, and a smell, and a BANG! And people rise up from their beds (this happens around 5:12am on a Saturday) and they look at each other or, maybe, the window or someplace similar or, if they're blind, they sniff with their noses and they all say "What is this shit?"
And that's pretty much what it is. A big ball of shit from outer space. Space shit. Ghastly and gruesome with one side hot and melted into a weird, fungal-like goo (heated by compressed air during the shitball's descent), and the other side frozen (by the vastness of space, the effects of air rapidly moving across its surface, and by the cold, uncaring hearts of men who regard it simply as a " big ball of space shit.")
Anyway, that's all going to be in Part One of the book "Shitstorm". This part will be called "Descent". There are characters in this book too, and they will all be introduced in the first part as well. It will be very artistic and human. Like, two of the main characters will be Jim and Janet Hensom. Now, I know what you're all thinking - Jim Hensom... isn't that a lot like Jim Henson? Well, no, it isn't. This guy's last name ends with an "m" and he doesn't make a living fisting puppets on television. Granted, that was his occupation of choice in the first draft of this abstract but then I decided I did not want to get sued. So I made him a dentist.
His wife Janet, on the other hand, plays bass in a deaf orchestra. She's not deaf herself, by the way, but pretends to be because, let's face it, it's a pretty awesome job and the benefits are great. And you don't have to hit all the notes. Just the low ones.
So Jim and Janet Hansom - on the surface they seem like a happy and successful couple. But, much like in most unsafe and condemned beaches, trouble lurks underneath! For you see, what Janet doesn't know is that Jim Hensom is having an affair... with their toaster ("it's tight *and* warm" is what he tells his therapist). Janet is no angel herself, however, since she kills people for what, at first, appears to be no reason whatsoever (it is later revealed that she is part of a Canadian organ smuggling ring and kills people for their organs (and sometimes body parts too!)).
Of course, their life is upended by this shit meteor coming to town and landing smack dab in the middle of a crowded city block, killing 15 people, 3 poodles, and seriously injuring 2 gerbils. So, right off the bat this becomes a national tragedy. All the major news networks are suddenly all over it ("Breaking News! Giant Ball of Space Shit Kills Fifteen In Pacific Northwest!"). TV anchors and newspaper reporters swarm into town drinking all the coffee and eating all the doughnuts and bagels they can find. In fact they end up causing a shortage and end up knocking on people's doors looking for a caffeine fix.
This seriously affects Jim and Janet's life. All the media attention has put a damper on Janet's murdering and bass-playing so she starts spending more time at home. Then, when she catches Jim furiously fucking the toaster in their kitchen (when he initially told her that he was just going there "to get cereal"), she threatens to leave him. Jim tries to calm her down by being all emotional, crying, waving his hands around, and making bad puns ("I'm a dentist! Filling things is what I do!" - to which Janet replies with "That doesn't mean filling them with your PENIS!").
Anyway, lots of drama. People love to read that stuff. There's a lot more including another character who is a perky, out-of-town cub reporter for the New York International World Journal. Perky because of cocaine. It's a side story at first. I wasn't sure if I should make the reporter a he or a she so I just named them Pat. Androgynous Pat - perky, coke-addicted cub reporter for the New York International World Journal investigating the national tragedy of a giant shitball of space shit crashing and killing fifteen innocent civilians, three poodles, and two guilty gerbils.
Interestingly enough, Androgynous Pat doesn't meet up with Jim and Janet Hensom until Part Two which is called... "Zygote"!
That's right. Zygote. As in fertilized egg. Because, it turns out, that's what the giant ball of space shit is - space sperm! We find this out when the Earth SUDDENLY SWALLOWS UP THE BALL OF SHIT (suspense!). It absorbs the shit DNA and suddenly begins to turn very shitty itself.
That's right. In case you haven't caught on yet - the Earth is an ovum. An egg. And the stench-infused shitball from outer space was some kind of colossal cosmic sperm. Which the Earth (which we now know to be an egg) has swallowed up and absorbed into itself.
And that's when everything turns to shit.
So you've got people running and panicking. Scrambling to get away from the encroaching poop. That's right - the ground is literally turning to shit as well. It's like one of those disaster movies we've all seen except it's *actually happening*! The President declares a National Emergency. The National Guard is called up, the military is coming to town, all the great scientific minds of the world are called upon to meet in a giant think-tank (located at the former Shamu Killer Whale tank at the nearest SeaWorld so, literally, a tank). Everyone is trying to prevent the most disasteriest of disasters: the entire world turning to shit.
By the way, before I go on, I should mention something about the President of the United States of America.
In my novel, the President of the United States of America is a twelve-year old boy. His name is Todd (as in "toddler" which was his nickname at the orphanage he grew up in) and he committed the gravest act of identity theft of all - he stole the identity of a 35 year-old man and ran for Presidential office. He won. Everyone thinks his name is Philip Axon. But it's not. It's Todd. And he's twelve not thirty-five. But I digress.
Anyway, Todd (aka US President Philip Axon) declares a National Emergency while the entire Pacific Northwest is being turned into a giant poophole. A mass evacuation has begun.
So anyway, Jim and Janet Hensom are being evacuated by a giant helicopter and that's where they meed Androgynous Pat. They all talk and find out the following series of interconnected and convoluted facts:
* Androgynous Pat's local coke dealer, Cokey Feltman was a junkie and was murdered by Janet for his "amazingly well-preserved internal organs".
* Because Pat'scoke dealer went missing, Pat turned to coffee for stimulation. Due to the great coffee shortage caused by the swarm of reporters in the town Pat, like many others, went door-to-door begging for a caffeine fix.
* During Pat's numerous, desperate knock-knock escapades Pat came across the door of one Hieronymus Funk (aka Jerome Funk) - local acid jazz extraordinaire and quantum astrobiologist.
* Hieronymus Funk's band mate and scientific colleague was killed during the shitball's impact. His name was Doctor Doctor Unk. That's right. His parents named him Doctor because they wanted him to be a world-class surgeon. He didn't. To spite them, he chose quantum astrobiology as his career instead. Of course, once he obtained his PhD he now gained the title of "Doctor" - hence Doctor Doctor Unk.
* Dr. Unk hypothesized that astronomical bodies may reproduce through sexual means and that cosmic fertilization was responsible for the creation of solar systems and galaxies. What's more, while drunk, he invented a "Cosmic Pheromone Transmitter" (originally called "Cosmic Biological Transmitter" but that had the same acronym as "Cock and Ball Torture" so he scrapped that version of the name) which utilized certain as-of-yet-undiscovered aspects of quantum interference and non-locality to generate a "pathway of reproduction" (using "quantum pick-up lines") leading to Earth.
* This Cosmic Pheromone Transmitter is what caused the shitball from outer space to crash-land and fertilize Earth.
Unfortunately, Hieronymus Funk was, in his own words, "seized by the funk" and was in no mood to board the evacuation helicopters. He did, however give Androgynous Pat Dr. Unk's work notes to bring over to the Shamu Think Tank in order to help to save the Earth. Unfortunately, the notes aren't on paper. Instead, they're stored on a Sony Minidisc and the only player able to read it was destroyed by the impact of the shitball.
Part 3 is called "The End of The World As We Know It"
Todd/President Philip Axon leaves the White House and gets on Air Force One to fly to the Shamu Think Tank to help save the Earth. His Vice President Pete Jackson (they ran on an Axon/Jackson platform), however, has other plans. With the help of rogue General Burt Nekked, Vice President Pete Jackson launches a coup d'etat against Todd/President Philip Jenkins and shoots down Air Force One which crash-lands on the Strip in Las Vegas, Nevada. Todd/President Philip Axon is slightly hurt but survives the crash. He stumbles into the nearest casino looking for help.
General Burt Nekked reports to VP Pete Jackson that President Philip Axon (aka Todd) has been killed. Pete Jackson (now the new President of the United States of America) uses this opportunity to declare himself World Ruler of the New Shit Planet on global television. The world, previously thrown into chaos by the Earth slowly beginning to turn into a giant ball of shit, is now thrown further into chaos. The UN turns into one giant disgusting orgy as world leaders realize they have no bloody clue what to do.
Meanwhile, Todd/former President Philip Axon (who I will simply call Philip Axon from now on) is found bleeding and nearly unconscious by former stage-magician-turned-gay-stripper Richard the Magnificent. Richard gives Philip Axon first aid and tells him about Pete Jackson becoming World Ruler. Philip Axon insists that he has to get to the Shamu Think Tank to save the world. Richard and Philip hijack a helicopter and use it to fly out to San Diego - the location of the Shamu Think Tank.
In the meantime, General Burt Nekked realized that Philip Axon survived the assassination attempt. Overhearing a report of a stolen helicopter flying to San Diego he realizes that the helicopter contains Philip Axon and orders a black-ops team operating out of LA to shoot the helicopter down (claiming it's being piloted by terrorists).
The black-ops team is suspicious, however, since General Burt Nekked is working for Pete Jackson. Instead of shooting Philip Axon's helicopter down they, instead, force it to land. Seeing that Philip Axon is on board they declare their allegiance to him. However, since the helicopter can't hold all of them they decide to get on a nearby evacuation helicopter which is coming in from the Pacific Northwest. This is the same evacuation helicopter that is ferrying Janet and Jim Hensom as well as Androgynous Pat.
Part 4 is called "Assholes In Space"
Seeing Philip Axon board the evacuation helicopter along with his new bodyguards (the black-ops team that rogue General Burt Nekked sent), everyone there declares their allegiance to him. Jim, Janet, and Pat all quickly explain Hieronymus Funk's story about Dr. Unk and the big ball of space shit that perma-fucked the Earth and how they can't access the scientist's notes because no one has a Sony Minidisc player.
And that is when Philip Axon pulls one out of his pocket. Everyone is shocked and ask why he has one. This is when Philip Axon decides to come clean and admit to everyone that he's really Todd - a 12 year old boy who ran away from an orphanage and adopted the identity of a 35 year-old man. The Sony MiniDisc player was his only connection to his birth mother who died while giving birth to Todd.
"Twelve years old? Well THAT explains your boyish good looks, Mister President!"
Everyone agrees to keep Todd's secret secret. Since he's still President, Todd decides to appoint Richard the Magnificent as his new Vice President. The evacuation helicopter lands in SeaWorld and everyone rushes off to the Shamu Think Tank where they receive news that the ongoing shitstorm has spread. The current "shit radius" is 500 miles which means that a circle 1000 miles across has now been turned to shit.
Realizing that they only have, at most, a few hours to save the world, they quickly put Dr. Unk's notes into the Minidisc and hit PLAY.
Dr. Unk then expounds upon his theories of interstellar reproduction but then veers off into talking about cosmic evolution. It seems that he's conducted a few private experiments ("Of which Hieronymus would not approve") that revealed that organic matter, when exposed to interstellar reproduction material, is bumped up to a higher state of evolution (through heterosis a.k.a. "hybrid vigor"). He brought down the shitball to initiate the next step in human evolution - we are destined to become assholes. Interstellar assholes. Meant to travel the stars, explore new galaxies, and colonize new worlds.
In other words, the Shit Storm (as it is now officially known) is not destruction. It's evolution.
Everyone thus decides to stop trying to prevent the inevitable. Instead, Androgynous Pat suggests that they all go to get drunk at the SeaWorld bar. Everyone agrees.
That's when General Burt Nekked's forces storm the Think Tank.
Part 5, the final part, is called "End Game or Asshole In One"
The entirety of the Shamu Think Tank team is holed up in the bar with the President's bodyguards/black-ops team doing their best to hold the fort. Unfortunately, the progress of shitty evolution is still hours away. Janet assists the black-ops team but is wounded in the process. Jim attends to her wounds and finally realizes that no toaster can do for him what Janet does. They reconcile.
Unfortunately the black-ops team is slowly but surely beaten down by General Burt Nekked's forces. They decide to blow up the entrance to the bar as a last resort - in order to prevent General Burt Nekked's forces from coming in and massacring everyone. Before they get a chance to do so, however, there is a sound of what sounds like thunder and...
Hieronymus Funk emerges from the sky, leading his LEGION OF COSMIC ASSHOLES. That's right - everyone who didn't get a chance to evacuate was transformed into a cosmic asshole - the next step in human evolution. It's sort of like Superman, if Superman was a massive asshole (but not in a bad way).
Hieronymus Funk and his legion of cosmic assholes easily defeat General Burt Nekked's forces. Then Androgynous Pat fills Hieronymus in on everything that occurred since they met. Attempting to restore balance to the Earth, Hieronymus and his legion of cosmic assholes then proceed to carry the Shamu Think Tank, President Philip Axon (aka Todd) and his bodyguards, newly-appointed Vice President Richard the Magnificent, and Janet and Jim Hansom to Washington DC to confront the World Ruler Pete Jackson and his right hand man General Burt Nekked.
They burst into the Oval Office only to find Pete Jackson and General Burt Nekked sitting next to an armed nuclear warhead with both men holding dead man's switches. If any of them are harmed or disabled, the nuclear warhead will detonate killing everyone within a 50 mile radius. Furthermore, there is a timer on the bomb set to thirty minutes and counting.
The team attempts to negotiate with them but Pete Jackson and Burt Nekked have gone completely insane. Muttering to themselves with interspersed bouts of sudden and random screaming. The black-ops team decides that they may be able to take down both Pete Jackson and Burt Nekked in one go without activating the dead man's switches but it will require precise timing and is as difficult as "getting a hole in one". They manage to subdue Pete Jackson successfully but one of the pair grabbing General Burt Nekked is shot by the General (with his ivory-handled M1911A1). When the General attempts to fire again - this time a killing shot, Todd jumps in front of the gun but is shot himself. At this point Richard the Magnificent, Janet, and Jim all rush over and begin to beat down the General while the black-ops team manages to disarm his dead man's switch.
It turns out that Todd isn't dead. His Sony Minidisc player caught the bullet. However, with minutes left on the nuke there isn't much time to spare. Hieronymus grabs the nuke and flies up with it. Once in Lower Earth Orbit he throws it at the sun. The nuclear warhead detonates harmlessly in space.
A few months later. The transformation of the world is now complete and all life on it has evolved. President Todd has admitted his secret to the world but it doesn't matter now. Everything is different. We have reached new galaxies and settled on distant worlds. Reality is no more and nobody fucks toasters. Jim, Janet, Androgynous Pat, Todd, Richard the Magnificent, the Bodyguards, and Richard the Magnificent now sit at the head of a galactic council. And everyone on Earth is an asshole.
|My attempt at The World's Worst Opening Sentence|
2014-08-19 14:15:05 ET
My attempt at The World's Worst Opening Sentence:
He opened the ugly door that led to the ugly room with the too high floor, the too low ceiling, and shit - literally *shit* - strewn about everywhere like thoughts of last Tuesday's brunch at the laundromat with the cat piss coffee and the stale (but surprisingly good) bagels and heirloom World War 2 ration marmalade that was gifted to him in a will by his grandmother's favorite one-eyed mistress.
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