I once had this key.
It was a massive, big heavy bronze key. It was the size of my hand. It was of course, old fashioned and I found it in a old garbage dump, long since covered with deep pine trees suggesting being maybe 100 years old.
This key didn’t open anything. Well, anything that still existed, that I know of.
It just existed.
And I was in awe of it’s beauty, and massive weight. Honestly, there’s something about weight that adds value to things. I’ll tell you what.
I kept this key, and kept it locked up safe and sound while I was away at my university. I put it in my old treasure box: which was an old cigar box, locked inside a metal footlocker that was given to me by my father.
Or so I thought.
When I returned to go though my things, I found that it was missing.
I don’t really know what happened, but the smirk on my brother’s face, and the guilt of my sister pretty much told me the real story. Of course, this was long before eBay existed. Oh he probably traded it for a “nickel bag” or weed. Ah, it’s back in the day, don’t you know.
Today, well. It’s just a “thing”, a piece of the flotsam and jetsam of life. A relic of minor significance, that well… I just feel like relating to all you out there.
Have a good one, you all.
Today…
It’s not looking good..
What culture shock have you experienced while visiting or living in Japan?
Ah, Japan… yes it really is that weird.
Of all the ‘only in Japan’ experiences that I can recall, I think my favourite occurred in Okinawa. I was scuba diving (they have excellent diving in Okinawa), and I was out on the dive boat, and it was during the surface interval between dives. Myself and an American were the only non-Japanese speakers, so we chatted together whlist everyone else chatted in Japanese. So far, so normal.
Then suddenly, these two middle age ladies pull out two giant sets of underpants, and put them on over their wetsuits. On the backside was written something in kanji characters. I don’t speak Japanese, and I certainly can’t read it, so I have no idea what they said.
Anyhow the two ladies then proceeded to strike a pose, basically bending over away from the group presenting their derrieres, and then looking backward with a finger on the lips naughty schoolgirl style (picture for reference).
Then a couple of men (who may or may not have had some prior connection with the ladies) went up and pretended to spank them. And, of course, this being Japan everyone was taking photos of this the whole time whilst chattering excitedly.
Afterward the American and I just looked at each other and shrugged. Like: it’s Japan, what are you going to do?
774.3K views
He’s working it
If Canada will not allow American companies to operate and sell in Canada why should we buy so many Canadian goods?
Oh, poor you! You have been fed a total line of BS. There are tons of American companies operating in Canada.
Let me guess; the person who is spreading this muck is Fibberache, aka ‘Trumpinocchio’. He also tells another popular lie to his MAGAt fans; that the U.S. ‘subsidizes’ Canada. That one’s a real hoot.
Canada has MANY U.S. companies running plants here: Heinz Craft, GM, Ford, Walmart, Pillsbury, The Home Depot, ExxonMobil, Chevron, UPS, CitiBank, American Express, McDonald’s and Mattel, and many more. In fact, Microsoft recently announced that it is expanding here.
MS is building a 100,000 sq. ft. plant for its new AI business. The reason? Canada has abundant and cheap electricity- a resource that is in shorter supply in the U.S. Artificial Intelligence sucks an inordinate amount of electricity and U.S. tech companies are already struggling to find more power, even though AI is relatively in its infancy.
Stop listening to the dreck that El Presidente Demente spreads about Canada. For some reason, he hates us so much he is completely delusional.
Middle Eastern Grilled Chicken
Yield: 4 servings
Ingredients
- 4 chicken breast halves, skinned and browned
- 1/4 cup lemon juice
- 2 tablespoons oil
- 2 tablespoons hot mustard
- 1/2 teaspoon oregano
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 4 medium size onions, cut in half
- 1 green bell pepper, cut into 1 inch squares
Instructions
- Cut chicken into 1 inch pieces. Combine lemon juice, oil, mustard, oregano and salt.
- Add chicken, stirring until well coated.
- Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.
- Arrange on skewers, alternating with onions and bell pepper.
- Grill over hot coals or broil for 10 to 15 minutes, turning occasionally, and brushing with marinade.
Have you ever had a bizarre vehicle issue that left even the senior mechanics stumped, but you managed to fix it quickly? What was the secret?
I had an 89 Acura that kept running down the battery despite the battery being new. It went on for months and a year until I walked past the car in the morning to get the paper and the electric cooling fan by the radiator came on. The car was sitting all night. I checked with the Acura service manager and he never heard of it. He said to replace the fan relay. There were 2 fans and 2 fan relays so I marked both fan blades to find out which one was coming on. Then I swapped the 2 relays and the next morning the same fan had moved so it wasn’t the relay. I next took it to the Honda service manager who had transferred to Acura and we both reviewed the microfiche to trace the electrical schematic and we found nothing. I had to put a battery switch on it and pop the hood when I parked it at night to cut off the switch. 10 years later I found a blog where an owner had run into the same problem and tracked it to broken solder joints on the circuit board of the fan controller box which is under the ECU in the floor under the front passenger’s feet. I pulled it out and there were cracked solder joints. The poster said the soldering robots in Japan in the 80s were primitive and just used one heat for all pins and some were too hot and the big pins got soldered too cold and cracked later. I desoldered the board and it was fixed. A week later my 1989 Honda fan started coming on so I did the same repair and it worked again. The main power relay under the dash have the same problem so I pulled them out of both cars and they were cracked so I soldered the whole board. That issue could cut the engine on the freeway at 75 mph in heavy traffic. I didn’t get it fixed quickly but the senior mechanics were stumped. The secret was to never give up. Keep looking for the answer. Having to pop the hood twice a day or more helped me remember to find the answer. That was the secret.
Pleased as a Peach
Written in response to: “Write a story that includes someone swimming in water or diving into the unknown.“
Daniel Rogers
“Yes. Very bad. I’ll have to throw you out.”
Talk about a rock and a hard place. If I do, the Elite Guard will arrest me. If I don’t, the Elite Guard will arrest me. “So, tell me, Bob, what scenario ends with me not getting arrested?”
“I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”
He told me, and now my eyes widened like I had just seen a ghost.
The remaining forty-four hopefuls lined up for the celebrated March of Faith, a round so difficult that only two will go on to the final.
Near the end of the line, Alora and Bob gently tried to coax me into an oversized saddlebag. I didn’t really mind the bag so much, but the beast carrying it bothered me very much. I’ve met one before, and the encounter left me with a small traumatic experience.
The tiger-like body with a mane like a lion would make any sane human pause, and the claws and sharp teeth would make any sane race from any planet throughout the entire galaxy pause–except for this planet. They think it’s cute and cuddly.
“Lemmox wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Alora said. “Stop being a baby and hop in.”
“Just because you two are besties, doesn’t mean he won’t eat me when no one is looking.”
Alora rolled her eyes. “Dignits don’t eat meat. They’re kind and gentle, and the locals use them like horses.”
“This is no horse.”
“Either get in or face the Elite Guard.”
Alora has such an annoying way of being right. I obviously have no choice. The beast looked at me like I had lost my mind as I reached out with both hands in a gesture of peace. Alora helped me get inside the saddlebag and tie it shut.
The only thing I remember about the march is the smell of leather, the feel of leather, and the sight of leather. After what felt like an eternity, Alora untied my saddlebag and helped me out. Her saddlebag ride didn’t have the same effect on her as it did on me. My back ached. My arms and legs were stiff. And I was grumpy.
The march ended on top of a mountain. Not the peak, but definitely high up. Cold winds and thin air welcome us with annoying arms.
Bob stood there looking as pleased as a peach. “Good morning. You all have probably noticed by now that you have a companion with you.”
Now that I think about it, why is Alora with me?
“They are your sherpas. They will guide you through the challenges ahead. You must do what they say to succeed. The first two who complete the course will be our finalists. May the Ladder God give you favor.”
“You knew about this?” I asked Alora.
“Bob approached me yesterday. He thought you’d want your sister to be your sherpa.”
“My sister?” I said with indignation.
“Well, it was either that or your wife.”
“Sister is good.”
“I took advantage of my navigation pod to map out the quickest route.” Alora pulled it out and double checked.
“Wait. Let’s just hang back and let these idiots try to win. You know I don’t want to go through with this.”
“I do, but you want off this planet, don’t you? You need to make up your mind. If you want to stay, then fine. I won’t stop you. But if you want to go home, then stop whining and let’s get started.”
Why is she always right? “Fine! Lead the way.”
Alora whistled, and Lemmox raced to her. “We ride.”
“Oh, no! You’re not getting me on that thing.”
“It’s the only way.”
“You know I hate these things.” It was more of a plea than a statement of fact.
“Hop on.” Alora held out her hand for me to take.
I hopped on.
Lemmox walked slowly. Picking his steps carefully. I looked behind and saw several hopefuls waist-deep in the snow. Apparently, the field we started in contains snow pits. Now I understand why we had to ride. Lemmox sensed where the pits were and avoided them. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones on dignits. I noticed several others nearby.
We arrived at a massive cave entrance. I like caves about as much as I like dignits, so, knowing my luck, we have to go in there.
“We have to go in there,” Alora said.
Of course we do.
We dismounted Lemmox and went on foot since dignits hate caves as much as I do.
“We’re looking for a tunnel that looks like it goes straight down,” Alora said.
“So if it doesn’t go straight down, where does it go?”
“To the finish line. Well, after we swim for a bit, but my navigation pod shows it’s the fastest way.”
She must have seen the panic on my face.
“Don’t worry. I’m an excellent swimmer.”
It didn’t take long to find the dreaded hole. The other hopefuls had already taken one look and moved on, which, now that I think about it, is a brilliant idea.
“You know navigation pods can be wrong,” I said.
“We jump.” Alora walked to the edge. A blast of cold air came from the abyss.
“Let’s throw a stone in and see if we can hear it hit the bottom before casting ourselves into certain death.”
“On the count of three.” Alora ignored me.
“Now listen to me. I’m the captain, and the captain gets to decide when…”
Alora grabbed my hand and yanked me into the darkness. We didn’t fall long before hitting water. The icy cold took my breath away. It’s a good thing Alora can swim, because I was in shock, unable to move. She grabbed me and swam faster than humanly possible, which makes sense, since she’s an android. We made it outside the cave and saw Bob and several priests cheering and bowing at our arrival. We were the first to finish. Yay me.
We made it back to the temple the same way we left. The Elite Guard never knew we were gone.
Alora and I had a moment on that mountain. I might be the captain, but she’s the one in charge. I’m sure I only got the promotion because the company doesn’t allow androids to advance the corporate ladder. I’m not fit to lead. Alora has been trying to get me to see that we must win this tournament to get the dylanium, but I’m afraid of the unknown. I want certainty, not risk. In short, I’m no leader.
The truth hit me like a ton of bricks. And just like being hit with a ton of bricks, it hurt. I really thought I was in charge. But it was only an illusion. Well, I might know the truth, but there’s no way in the world I’m going to let Alora know that I know.
What habit did you pick up in the military that you still keep and civilians don’t understand?
Fortunately, I lost most of my typically military habits, but there are still a few that might look idiotic and strange to normal people:
- If I have to, I can get up in the morning, shave, shower, and get dressed, all in less than 5 minutes. Most people I know need that much time just to get out of bed.
- When I am with military veterans, I still describe directions with the ‘clock position’ method, for example “Your wife is at 6 o’clock!” instead of saying that she’s right behind him.
- I keep my phone always charged at 100%. When it’s at 99% and I just have to leave my home to throw out the trash, I charge my phone before I leave. I think that this habit (or obsessive-compulsive behavior) comes from my time in the war, when we always kept our radio batteries fully charged.
- I also keep my pockets closed all the time, rarely put my hands in my trouser’s pockets, and never leave the house without a short “check” in the mirror. These are habits we learned in basic training.
Sir Whiskerton and the Great Escape of Bartholomew the Piñata
A Tale of Identity, Candy, and a Pig’s Broken Heart
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of confectionery crisis, glittering clues, and a friendship tested by the terrifying promise of a stick. Today’s story is one of a piñata with a passion for self-preservation, a pig with a penchant for the dramatic, and the delicate art of redefining tradition. So, grab a handkerchief for the tears and a bag for the candy, as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Great Escape of Bartholomew the Piñata.
The Empty Perch
It was a glorious morning on the farm. The sun shone, the birds sang, and Mr. Wigglesworth, the portly and poetic pig, was waddling toward the fence post where his dearest friend resided. He carried a single, dew-kissed dandelion for what he called their “morning constitutional of shared souls.”
“Good morrow, Bartholomew!” Mr. Wigglesworth declared with a flourish. “I had the most magnificent dream last night! We were sailing on a sea of pudding, you and I, and—”
He stopped. The fence post was empty. The familiar, brightly colored donkey, with his cheerful smile and sturdy cardboard frame, was gone.
A silence fell, so profound that even Ditto paused mid-chase of a confused bumblebee.
“Bartholomew?” Mr. Wigglesworth whispered, his voice trembling. Then, a heart-wrenching squeal tore through the peace. “BART-HO-LO-MEEEEEW!”
The farm animals came running. There, on the ground, was the only evidence of the piñata’s passing: a trail of iridescent glitter leading into the woods, and a single, forlornly discarded orange jellybean.
“He’s been piñata-napped!” Doris the Hen clucked, fanning herself with a wing.
“Or he simply grew legs and walked away,” Sir Whiskerton mused, peering at the glitter trail through his monocle. He had long suspected there was more to this farm than met the eye, but a peripatetic piñata was a new one, even for him.
Mr. Wigglesworth collapsed into a sobbing heap. “My confidante! My companion! My future centerpiece for the ‘Grand Festival of Whacking and Sweet Releases’! Gone!”
“Whacking!” Ditto echoed, though he seemed more interested in the shiny glitter.
The Investigation
Sir Whiskerton, ever the pragmatist, knew a mystery when he saw one. “Come, Mr. Wigglesworth,” he said, nudging the despondent pig with a paw. “Grief is a heavy burden, but action is a lighter one. We shall follow the glitter.”
The trail was not difficult to follow. It was, in fact, the most flamboyant breadcrumb trail in the history of detective work. They passed beneath the “Squirrel Kingdom,” where King Nutters scoffed from a branch. “We don’t deal in glitter! It’s tacky and gets in the acorns!”
Deeper in the woods, they found a clearing where a troupe of traveling performers was packing up a makeshift stage. There was a juggling badger, a fire-breathing possum (who mostly produced smoke and coughing fits), and a tap-dancing mole who looked suspiciously like Groove.
And there, trying to blend in with a troupe of un-smashed props, was Bartholomew. He had tied a bandana around his neck and was attempting to juggle two apples, with limited success.
“Bartholomew!” Mr. Wigglesworth cried, his heart soaring.
The piñata let out a terrified “Eeep!” and dropped the apples. “Stay back! I won’t go back to a life lived under the shadow of the stick! I have dreams! I want to perform, not be performed upon!”
Mr. Wigglesworth looked as if he’d been struck. “The… the stick? But the Grand Whacking was to be your moment of glory! A beautiful, explosive finale to our friendship, showering the farm with sweetness!”
“That sounds HORRIFYING!” Bartholomew screeched, his cardboard frame quivering. “You called me your friend, and all the while you were plotting my dismemberment with a wooden club! You’re a monster in a waistcoat!”
“A monster!” Ditto echoed, though he was now trying to eat the glitter off the ground.
The Conflict
Sir Whiskerton stepped between the heartbroken pig and the terrified piñata. “It would seem,” he said calmly, “we have a catastrophic failure of communication.”
Mr. Wigglesworth was weeping into his dandelion. “I only wanted to give you a purpose! A grand, traditional purpose! The most magnificent whacking the farm has ever seen!”
“My purpose is not to be whacked!” Bartholomew retorted. “My purpose is to dance! And… and to occasionally lose an apple! It’s about the art!”
Sir Whiskerton looked from one to the other. Mr. Wigglesworth, whose love was expressed through grand, if misguided, gestures. Bartholomew, whose newfound sentience came with a very understandable fear of blunt-force trauma.
The moral of the story, dear reader, was becoming painfully clear: True friendship isn’t about imposing your own traditions on others; it’s about understanding their fears and redefining joy together.
The Diplomatic Solution
“Your intentions, Mr. Wigglesworth, were rooted in love,” Sir Whiskerton began. “But love must listen. And Bartholomew, your desire for a whack-free existence is entirely reasonable. However, a piñata without a release of candy is, some might say, a mere papier-mâché donkey.”
“See!” Mr. Wigglesworth sniffled.
“But must the release be violent?” Sir Whiskerton continued, his tail twitching with an idea. “Must it involve a stick and the terrifying finality of splintered cardboard?”
He paced before them. “What if we honored the tradition without the terror? What if, instead of a whacking, we had a… voluntary offering?”
Both the pig and the piñata stared at him.
“A Symbolic Whacking,” Sir Whiskerton announced. “Bartholomew, you have a small, pre-existing hole where your string is tied, do you not?”
Bartholomew nodded cautiously.
“Then, at the festival, you shall stand proudly. Mr. Wigglesworth shall approach, not with a stick, but with a gentle tap of a feather. Upon this signal, you shall give a mighty shake and release your candy bounty willingly, through your own pre-existing aperture. The sweets will rain down, the tradition will be observed, and you, Bartholomew, will remain intact to dance another day.”
There was a long silence. The fire-breathing possum coughed.
A slow smile spread across Bartholomew’s crêpe paper face. “A… a voluntary seismic event of sweetness?”
Mr. Wigglesworth’s tears stopped. His eyes widened with a new, profound awe. “Why… it’s better than smashing! It’s a partnership! A collaborative confectionery cascade! It’s… it’s art!”
A Happy (and Structurally Sound) Ending
The “Grand Festival of Whacking and Sweet Releases” went off without a single swing. Mr. Wigglesworth, dressed in his finest ribbon, approached Bartholomew with a magnificent peacock feather. With a dramatic flourish, he tapped the piñata’s side.
“Now, Bartholomew, my friend!” he whispered.
Bartholomew took a deep breath (a metaphorical one, of course) and wobbled with all his might. A glorious torrent of candy—jellybeans, chocolate coins, and a single, bewildered gumball—poured from the hole in his back, showering the cheering animals in a rainbow of sugar.
It was the most successful festival in farm history. Bartholomew, hailed as a hero, now splits his time between his fence post and performing a shaky-but-heartfelt juggling act with the traveling troupe. Mr. Wigglesworth writes sonnets about the beauty of non-violent candy distribution.
And Sir Whiskerton? He returned to his sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day, not with force, but with a clever compromise and a feather. The farm was at peace, the candy was plentiful, and a beautiful friendship was preserved, one un-smashed piñata at a time.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new acts, and hopefully, no more fugitive festival decorations. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
Would Canadians have a food shortage if the United States closed the U.S.-Canada border?
Ironically, the recent cultural shift to buy anything-but-American has actually prepared every Canadian to answer this question objectively.
If this question was intended to instill some form of fear or drama among Canadians, you are going to be disappointed.
Canadians would suffer a decrease in food selection or variety, and even that would be seasonal.
The one thing I see in the grocery stores that only seems to come from the U.S. is peaches. So, I would have to go without peaches, at least during the winter.
As for everything else ?
Just off the top of my head….
Oranges – South Africa and other places
grapefruit – Israel and other places
Avocados – Mexico
Meat – Canada produces its own beef, pork, farmed salmon, shellfish. I’m not sure about Canadian chicken production…..but we definitely have enough to produce our own egg supply, so I assume we are covered there.
Dairy – Canadian
potatoes – we have a whole province that makes so many they export a lot of it to the U.S.
Wine/Spirits/Beer – Canadian
Bread and grain products – Canada has a full timezone of wheat producers
Other fruits and vegetables – either produced in Canada or already sourced from other countries.
Anyone who thinks Canadians would starve is not aware of how much food we export, including donate to 3rd world countries.
So, we might lose some seasonal selection for anything that cannot be sourced elsewhere.
What food is produced in the U.S. that cannot be found in any other country ?
There was a recent interesting headline about trade negotiations with Italy as a new source of fruits and vegetables. It turns out there are lots of other countries with sub-tropical climates.
So, to answer the question about the impact of the U.S. closing the border between the U.S. and Canada:
It would hurt the U.S. ability to grow food more than it would negatively impact Canadian food supply.
……and Canada has a small population. It is 1/10th the population of the U.S.
This makes it that much easier to find sufficient quantities of food elsewhere to feed the entire country, which is about the same population as California…..a state that is running out of water, and now faces energy shortages with AI datacenters slated to be built, that will demand huge amounts of energy and water for cooling.
But Trump says you don’t need anything from Canada.
…now, what does the U.S. block themselves from importing from Canada after they close the border ? Remember: this is the Americans doing this to themselves.
(Note: if Canada is exporting it, then obviously we have enough of our own supply)
Oil – does the U.S. need oil ? It currently imports somewhere around 4 million barrels of crude oil per day….every day. Apparently that’s over half of U.S. oil imports
Electricity – does the U.S. need electricity ? Apparently the amount of electricity that the U.S. imports from Canada is only 1%…..but 44% of the electricity consumed by Maine is imported from Canada. Other border states are similar. But a surprising stat is that 70% of electricity needed by the U.S. comes from fossil fuels…..scroll up
Aluminum
Steel
Potash – does the U.S. need potash to grow food ? 85–90% of the potash imported by the U.S. comes from Canada
Nickel – does the U.S. need this for making weapons ? The largest supplier of nickel to the U.S. is Canada.
Uranium – does the U.S. ever use uranium ?
Lumber – particularly softwood lumber grown in northern forests which produces tighter growth rings producing stronger lumber…..does the U.S. need any lumber to build homes ?
Are Americans dumb enough to close the border between the U.S. and Canada ?
……how many Americans want the Affordable Care Act preserved, but demand that ‘Obamacare’ be repealed ?
That’s why your fucking 40 and single
1. If you are on the verge of rape, hit his testicles as hard as you can and see how he falls down and if they are in a group, don’t do this brave stunt but tell them that you have HIV.
2. The bystander effect. If you’re unaware of this consequence, learning about it could save your life. The bystander effect refers to the diffusion of blame among bystanders. When someone stands on the sidelines of a robbery or fight, they won’t intervene because they expect others to help.
When you’re in a fight, being robbed, or worse, don’t expect others to help you. They’ll want to avoid it. Instead, look them in the eye, ask for their help, and specifically direct it to them. This removes the feeling of not being able to help someone else because you specifically asked for it.
3. Removing objects from a stab wound can cause more blood loss, increasing the victim’s chances of death. The object should be left alone. Do not try to get rid of it.
4. Don’t inflate your life jacket before deplaning. In case of an emergency water landing, it’s not a good idea to be prepared with your life jacket inflated. According to many aviation safety experts, doing so will only make things worse for you.
This is because as the plane begins to sink, the water inside the cabin will push you up to the ceiling. You won’t be able to move from there without assistance. So wear your life jacket and inflate it only after exiting the plane.
5. Learn how to change your own tires and make sure you are equipped with a full-size spare and all the tools you need.
6. Tell someone where you will be – When you live alone or even when you go out for the night, tell a friend where you will be.
It barely takes any effort on your part, and if something goes wrong or you don’t return in the morning, someone will know where to start if they have to look for you.
7. Don’t walk down stairs with your hands in your pockets. You need your hands to protect your head or break your fall.
8. Most mistakes happen because we want to be fast. We want to get to other places, we’re in a hurry, and we rush off. That’s how many accidents happen. Someone is in a hurry and not paying enough attention.
9. If you are lost in the desert, or any uninhabited area, the most important thing you can take to increase your chances of being found is a small reflective mirror.
Whenever a plane flies overhead, you can reflect light back at it, greatly increasing your chances of being found. This is seriously more important than carrying more water with you.
10. When you feel like you’re in a hurry, remember this: A 5-minute delay could save your life. Is saving those 5 minutes really worth it? Sometimes it might be, but if it’s not, take a deep breath and slow down.
11. Get out of that sinking vehicle. It’s crucial that you open a door as quickly as possible, before the water pressure makes it impossible.
If you can’t do this, break a window. If none of these things fail, remain calm and wait for the water to drain into the car. Once enough water has flowed in, the pressure will equalize and the door should open.
12. If you fall into the water, don’t panic. You don’t need to be able to swim; you just need to float. Hold your breath and let yourself float to the surface.
13. Always. I mean always, listen to your gut instincts. They’re your first distress call signal. They’ve never failed me, I mean.
Pictures
Do wives enjoy being shared? Tell about your first time, whos idea was it to share you? What led up to you being shared? Are you still being shared?
I have enjoyed having sex with men besides my husband, and a few women too, but only with his permission.
Even before we got married during college, he encouraged me to dress sexy in micro-miniskirts and see-through blouses. I did it to please him but also enjoyed the looks I got.
Once we got married, I did some figure modeling for an art class mainly for the naughty feeling of being naked before a group of men. Then I did some glamour modeling that was really softcore porn.
When he was going to NYC for an interview for a job, I wanted to go along. The company was paying for his travel but not mine. We were poor students at the time. We agreed that I could to along by earning money for my ticket by posing nude for a business that rented rooms to individual men so that they could take photos alone with a naked model. When I arrived, I was told that the business had changed and was now an erotic massage parlor. It was explained that the girls made money by doing extras for tips. I felt trapped. I had to make money for my plane ticket. What choice did I have? To get the job, I had to audition by giving the manager a blow job. I did and then did the same for a few customers who paid me for my extra services. It was only for one day. When I told my husband about it afterward, he told me that I was now a whore. But he was excited rather than angry.
Then I saw an ad for a dancer at a bachelor party which seemed kinky. I had lunch with the best man and his buddies and agreed to do a strip tease and to give the groom a blow job. I told them that my “boyfriend” didn’t want me to fuck other guys, but he hadn’t said anything about BJ’s. Besides, I didn’t want to break my marriage vow by having real sex. When I told my husband what I’d agreed to do, he was surprised but agreed to come along to protect me. I think he mostly just wanted to watch. But I ended up doing the groom in a separate room, so my husband didn’t get to watch. My husband then suggested that I also blow the best man and a few others where he could see me. I agreed, but only if each guy paid me. That turned into an orgy with me being the only woman there. It was a long, hard night with over 20 men that ended with a bukkake, but I enjoyed it, and I made a lot of money.
After that, I worked one entire summer vacation in a whore house, or that is another massage parlor. I also continued private nude modeling in the evenings during the school year in response to ads in the personals section of an arts tabloid. I often had sex with the photographer who paid me a set hourly fee for modeling and a separate negotiated fee for extras. My husband didn’t make me do it, but he didn’t object either.
After we finished graduate school, we got legitimate jobs, and I stopped both modeling for strangers and accepting money for sex. But we continued to have sex with strangers to keep our marriage exciting. I did a train at a swinger party in a sex club which again ended with bukkake and my first BBC, if you don’t count BJ’s in the massage parlor.
But since we had the first child, we haven’t been involved in stranger sex. I sewed my wild oats and lost interest in experimenting. With kids to raise and my husband working 60 hours a week, we didn’t have time or energy to step out. We became pretty much monogamous.
Do you approve of my decisions? Am I fortunate to have such an understanding husband?
Depths of Empathy
Written in response to: “Write a story that includes someone swimming in water or diving into the unknown.“
Daniel Coniff
Science Fiction Speculative Suspense
Consequences?
“Do not be so coy!” demands the voice as if berating the child. “You know what is happening, you just have to stop fighting it!” A speck of light appears, growing larger and larger.
The faces fade away and are replaced by a singular face directly above me. This is the face of a young man with a mustache and a head of curly red hair. Terror consumes his darting blue eyes. Almost as soon as the face appears, it vanishes.
That was strange.
“Was it?” The voice asks. “Is this strange?”
As the light grows brighter still, the blueness of the depths around me becomes lighter and lighter shades. Swirls of reds, yellows, and greens, like a sheen, materialize where the young man’s face was. It morphs into the scene of—a window in the sky looking at the Earth below, perhaps—a man lying face up in a fast food restaurant lobby in a pool of blood. He has three bullet holes in his chest, just like I do. This is the same young man that I saw just moments before.
Is that me?
The voice scoffs.
As I rise, the blueness becomes so vivid and the light so intense that my suspicions are confirmed; I am underwater. But why and how? I’m still unsure of the meaning of any of this.
“All will be unveiled in due time.”
The scene fades away as soon as I break the ocean’s surface. I gasp for air as I shoot out of the water like a whale. I catch a brief glimpse of an infinite sea before splashing back into the ocean. Once I’m underwater, I sink at a slow, steady pace, like a dormant rollercoaster just before it blasts off.
Before I can think about what just happened, another sheen materializes directly above me; yellows, greens, and blues wax and wane before morphing into another window, this one looking into a toddler’s bedroom as he walks towards a man and a woman standing at a door. They’re clapping and cheering the baby on. The child reaches the feet of the woman. She scoops him up and brings him to her face. She says, “You did it! You’re such a big boy! Yay!” The man leans in and grins at the toddler, “Way to go, buddy!”
This is adorable!
“I’m glad you think so,” says the ethereal voice coming at me from every direction.
The toddler coos before the scene fades away.
I can feel my heart palpitating. What was that?
“You have to remember. This should help you. Something is stirring within you, I can see it.”
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
As my descent continues, a few moments go by before another sheen appears. Purples, reds, and greys morph into a scene of a boy and a girl sitting on a couch, holding video game controllers in their hands, in front of a tube TV. The boy, who appears to be five or six years old, leans to his left with a concentrated look on his face. The girl, the sister, maybe, who looks to be about nine or ten years old, encourages her brother to reach the finish line. On the TV is a split screen of a platformer game. An overlay that says, “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED” appears on the screen. The boy and girl high-five and congratulate each other. Again, the scene fades away. I notice that the light from the water’s surface has grown slightly dimmer.
I’m falling deeper and deeper.
Again, I try communicating with this entity. Who are you and what do you want with me? Why are you showing me these things? In this moment, I realize something even more terrifying: I have no idea who I am. Another eery thought occurs: I have just awoken, teleported, that much I know, but I have no idea where from.
“YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER!”
Remember what? I don’t understand what’s happening.
Suddenly, I am shooting deeper and deeper at a rapid pace, the light above shrinking as blackness consumes my surroundings. A sense of serenity washes over me. No matter how hard I try to shut my eyes, they remain slightly open. All I can do is squint. The voice laughs as another sheen appears.
Greys, blacks, and browns morph into a scene of five boys, some with faces full of acne, standing in a half-circle against a red brick wall. The boy from the previous scene—he appears to be in middle school now—stands in the middle of the semi-circle. He is crying and hugging himself for warmth as it is raining, and his jacket lies on the blacktop in front of him.
“I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” the boys surrounding him all chant in between bouts of laughter.
A tall boy steps forward from the semi-circle and punches the sobbing boy in the face. Upon making contact, the scene fades to black.
Yet another sheen forms. Red, blues, and oranges morph into a scene of the boy from before, the same age, sitting in the back of a car as firefighters outside attempt to cut open his door. He is screaming as he reaches over the seat in front of him and taps on the shoulder of the driver, the woman from the first scene, as she lies slumped over the steering wheel, blood trickling down her forehead. “Wake up, mom! Wake up!” She does not react. In the passenger seat is the boy’s sister. Her legs are crushed, and she is pushed at an odd angle into the center console. The firefighters manage to bend the door enough to get to the boy. One of the firefighters grabs him.
This is fucked!
“I’m glad you see that.”
The scene doesn’t fade to black this time. Instead, it merely shifts to a hospital room where the sister is lying in a bed. A ventilator is protruding from her mouth. The boy is sitting in a chair against the window with a somber expression; he is staring off into space. The man from the first scene is standing, leaning against the wall. He watches the girl sleep with a fist resting underneath his chin.
Suddenly, each of the characters looks at me. Even the girl sits up, rips the tube out of her throat, and stares at me judgmentally. That’s when their heads explode into a bloody mess, painting the walls crimson. Alarms blare. The screens beside the hospital bed blink. The nurse runs in and screams before her head, too, explodes. The doctor rushes in. He looks around at the corpses and yells, “Code—” His head explodes. Finally, the scene fades to black. The light above me is but a distant speck, like a single crumb of bread on an otherwise spotless dining table. I move my head on a swivel: everything else, save for the light glowing from behind me, is pitch black.
What the fuck? Why are you doing this? Stop. Please, stop. I can’t take this anymore.
“You have to know.”
Know what? What do you want me to know? Confusion washes over me. I try once more to scream, but, just as before, only garbled groans come out. I don’t understand! What do you want with me?
“All should be unveiled in time, but it depends on your willingness to understand. The problem of whether or not your soul is worth saving depends on how it responds to the truth. A receptive soul can be salvaged and rehabilitated, but a hardened soul is despicable and belongs in the abyss forevermore. Now, no more questions. You are interfering with the process.”
Swaths of whites, dull yellows and browns, and blacks morph into a window looking into a hotel room. The boy from the previous scenes, a year or two older than before, sits on a bed. He wears black basketball shorts and a yellow tank top. He stares at the ground and swings his feet back and forth. A door opens. The boy looks up to see an overweight man step out of the bathroom. The man approaches the boy.
“You ready, kid?” asks the man. The boy nods, but his face is blank.
“All right. You know what to do.”
The boy begins to lift his tank top over his head when his phone buzzes. He pauses and lets it fall back over his chest. He removes his phone from his pocket.
“Hey, what are you doing?” barks the man.
The boy holds up his finger and opens his phone. The screen shows a message that reads, “FROM SISTER: Hey where u at? Dad is asleep and I need help going to the bathroom. Wheelchair isnt working. I need you to come help me.”
The boy lowers his phone back into his pocket and looks at the man as he stands up, “Sorry. I gotta go.” He starts toward the door.
“You’re not going anywhere,” says the man as he grabs the boy’s arm, pulling on him.
“You’re hurting me. Please, let me go!”
With an evil grin, the man says, “Good.” He throws the boy back to the bed.
I move my head from left to right, hoping it will make the scene disappear. Instead, the scene follows me wherever I turn my head. Please! No more! I don’t want to watch this anymore. This isn’t right! That boy’s just a kid! His sister needs him!” Thankfully, the window fades away.
“Ah. This is good. Your soul is nearly ready.”
Nearly?
“Yes. You are progressing better than we hoped.”
Another sheen appears above me before I have a chance to question who “we” are. Swirls of whites, blues, and dark greens morph into the front yard of a small mobile home. There is a makeshift ramp leading to the porch next to the stairs. The door opens and reveals the boy, who now has a mustache, pushing his sister in her wheelchair. They are in a hurry out the door. The father from before follows them, holding a bottle in his hands. He staggers.
Slurring his words, the man says, “Don’t come back! Ya ain’t welcome! Y’all are a bunch of useless leaches, and I hate you!”
The boy looks back as his dad slams the door shut. The girl begins to sob, “What are we going to do now, Noah?”
Noah, fighting tears, moves to the side of her wheelchair, kneels, and gives her a hug, “We’ll be okay, Sarah, I promise. We’re going to take care of each other.”
The scene fades to black. The light from the ocean’s surface has been consumed by darkness, the light behind me now my only savior from also becoming lost to the void.
I think I understand.
I am immediately transported inside a sandwich shop. Strangely, I am looking downwards at an angle, as if I’m viewing from a security camera. However, this feels too real—everything is crystal clear yet feels so distant, like I’m actually there but not there at the same time—to be just a security camera.
A line forms in front of the register. The young man, the one who I’m assuming is me, Noah, walks up to the counter and smiles at the androgynous person standing behind the register. They smile back and say, “Hi there! How can I help you today?”
Noah says, “Hello. Can I get… uhh…” He pulls out his phone, “…two six-inch italian sandwiches on cheddar cheese sour dough?”
The worker, still grinning, starts, “Of course! Will—”
“Oh, for fuck sake!” says an angry man in the middle of the line. He’s wearing camo cargo shorts and a hoodie with the logo of a death metal band. “That’s going to take twice as long to make!”
Noah turns around, “You got a problem? Be patient, bro. No one’s dying today.”
The angry man steps forward, and the people in the line stare at him, “Yeah, I do have a problem. One, I’m not your ‘bro,’ you scrawny twink. Second, only a fatass orders two sandwiches.”
Anger washes over me, over Noah, as his face reddens, “One of them is for my sister, dickwad.”
The impatient man approaches Noah, stopping inches from his face, “The fuck did you call me,”—he pushes him to the floor—“bitch? You did not just call me that.”
Clambering as he stands up, Noah rises back to his feet and hits the man in the face. The people in line at the register begin to slowly walk away. The impatient man staggers backward before pulling a handgun out of his hoodie and aiming it at Noah. Everyone in line runs to the exit. The patrons and the workers stuck where they are duck.
Noah stands tall and looks from the man to the gun. He gulps, “Go ahead. Shoot me! My life can’t get any worse!”
“I should shoot you! The world has too many spoiled little cunts like you.” He clicks off the safety.
Noah laughs, “You don’t have the balls. Come on man, make—” the impatient man fires three times. He looks at Noah, who stares at the ceiling with his eyes open as blood pools around him. The other people inside the restaurant cry and scream. The man lowers his gun.
I find myself back in my body and realize that I’m lying on sand again, which means I’ve completed my descent and reached the bottom of the ocean.
Wait, so I’m dead? You showed me all of that just to show me I’m dead?
“You fool!” The world around me trembles again, “How can you be so stubborn? You must understand! Do you want to suffer eternally in the lake of fire?”
The scene materializes again. The man with the gun is kneeling at the side of Noah before he gets up and runs out the door. I follow the man as if controlling him in a video game. The sound of sirens fade in as a police car with flashing lights approaches him. The man grabs a woman on a bench and holds the gun to her head. She screams and squirms.
A police officer steps out with her gun drawn, “Let the lady go and drop your weapon! You don’t want this to get any worse!”
“Get back,” yells the man. “I will kill her if you come any closer!”
The officer speaks into her radio as she maintains her aim on the man, “Responding units, be advised: suspect has a hostage and is threatening to kill her if we approach him.” Suddenly, the woman breaks free from the man’s grasp.
The man points his gun at the officer, but not before the female officer fires three shots at him. He collapses.
I am transported back to my body and notice that I am again lying on the sand. I lift my neck and cry, surprised to feel tears streaming down my cheeks and wails coming up my throat.
“Do you see the error in your ways? Have you learned? Are you ready to try again?”
“Yes! Yes, I have!” I say in a weak voice, like I haven’t had a drink of water in years.
“What have you learned?”
I think about what I have learned. Suddenly, once again, I hurdle upwards. As I break the ocean’s surface, I notice people wearing masks, scrubs, and gloves grabbing at and pulling me out of a wet cavern.
What are the most unusual roads in the world?
I know of two:
One:
Here in Florida, we have what is called “Seven Mile Bridge”.
It’s actually a very beautiful and scenic route.
That connects the state of Florida to the Florida Keys (a series of islands just south of Florida).
The bridge was rebuilt/revamped a few years back to help it deal with hurricanes, as it is in one of the most hurricane heavy places in the world.
Two:
James Dalton Highway in Alaska.
The road is way off the beaten path, used by truckers. The entire road is frozen AF and extremely dangerous, one of the most dangerous in the world.
Temperatures reach unbelievable depths in the winter and the road points directly to the North Pole, ending at Deadhorse (an appropriate name) in the northernmost part of Alaska.
The main purpose of the highway is for the transportation of supplies in the mining of oil in that region.
Due to the high level of danger and exposure to elements, truckers that take this road make huge paydays (Hence the TV Show Ice Road Truckers).
Trucks slide off the road, flip, tumble into water, killing drivers.
But where there is money, people will take on the risk.
The road isn’t even paved in many parts, it is just dirt that is frozen tight.
But – in the summers, like many places in Alaska, a winter abyss morphs into one of the most beautiful drives on Earth:
326.7K views
Middle Eastern Marinades
These marinades are to be used with chicken.
Ingredients
Lebanese Marinade
- 4 to 6 cloves garlic, finely minced
- 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
- 2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme
- 1 teaspoon paprika
- 1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1/2 cup olive oil
Turkish Marinade
- 1 cup plain yogurt
- 1 tablespoon paprika
- 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon or 1 tablespoon ground cumin
- 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper, or to taste
- 4 cloves garlic, minced
- Juice of 1 lemon
- 6 tablespoons olive oil
- 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
- 1/2 cup grated onion
Moroccan Marinade
- 1 tablespoon paprika
- 2 teaspoons ground cumin
- 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
- 1 teaspoon ground ginger
- 1/2 cup melted unsalted butter or olive oil
- Juice of 1 large lemon
- Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Egyptian Marinade
- 1/2 cup olive oil
- 2 tablespoons ground cumin
- 1 tablespoon ground coriander
- 1 onion, grated
- 3 cloves garlic, finely minced
- 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
- Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Instructions
- Make sure you wash the chicken well after scrubbing hard with salt or flour. If using boneless chicken pieces, cut into 1 inch cubes and place in a shallow nonreactive container. If using whole birds, butterfly them; if using broiler halves, leave whole.
- Select one of the marinades, then combine it in a bowl and pour over the chicken. cover and marinate in the refrigerator for 6 hours or overnight.
- Marinate the meat overnight in the refrigerator and bring to room temperature before cooking. Bring the meat to room temperature.
- Meanwhile, prepare a fire in a charcoal grill or preheat a broiler (griller) Remove the meat from the marinade, reserving the marinade.
- If using chicken cubes, thread on to skewers. Place the skewers or butterflied or halved birds on the grill rack or a broiler pan and grill or broil until cooked through, basting with reserved marinade while cooking (you may use a special brush).
- Cooking time will depend upon the size of the poultry pieces; DO NOT LET THE MEAT BECOME DRY.
Attribution
Lior’s Kitchen Talk
Was it worth it to get divorced later in life?
My best friend was in a “decent” marriage for 15 years when he decided to divorce at 49. He said he was having an “emotional affair” with a woman he had known decades before. He and his wife had one child who was 12 at the time. Here’s what he told me:
Financially, both sides lose and are faced with living separate lives, which is far more expensive than one shared life. He says that what he lost will take a long time to make up and what older people sometimes fail to account for is that you don’t have so many productive years to recover. He thinks he would have probably retired by now if the marriage had endured. He’s 68 now and still working because of the divorce. Divorce is most often financially devastating.
His son is now 31 and is struggling in various ways. He thinks a substantial portion of his issues are related to the divorce. The “kids are better off with divorced, but happy parents” is often not true.
Socially, it didn’t work out with the woman he was enamored with. It turns out she wasn’t “all that.” He went on to date near a hundred women in his fifties and found the entire dynamic very unfulfilling. He remarried at sixty but admits “I traded one set of problems for another.”
Today, he lives what most would call a very good life but he thinks it would have been better if he and his ex had dug in and worked through their issues. He says there is “depth” in a relationship that cannot be built without time.
Finally, he says “Most people don’t know this but the biggest thing you can lose in divorce is your self-respect and you can never get that back.”
So, is it worth it? I don’t know. But the cost of later in life divorce is high and you have far less time to recover from the negatives than if the divorce is between much younger people.
FCC Bans Updates for Drones and Routers from China – USA Insane Policy Towards Chinese
Why don’t Chinese people get tired of writing all those complex characters, and what makes it enjoyable or advantageous for them?
As a native Chinese person, I find a unique pleasure in writing Chinese characters.
My skill level is quite basic, but I can appreciate the fundamental aesthetics—control, precision, and efficiency.
Well, let’s take the simplest example.
A brush in its normal state is conical.
When writing, the strokes are smooth and powerful.
But as you write, tangled strokes are inevitable.
The brush might end up like this (slightly exaggerated for clarity, but the essence remains the same).
It’s easy to imagine that such a brush would produce strokes full of rough edges, even mistakes.
For example, you might intend to write “一” (one), but due to splitting, it ends up looking like “二” (two), or even “三” (three) or “亖” (four).
So after writing a few characters, you often have to twist and scrape the brush against the inkstone to restore its original shape.
Naturally, this slows down the writing process.
Masters don’t need to do this. As they write, they utilize the sharpness of the strokes to create characters that are both powerful and beautiful, all while adjusting the brush in real time to maintain its optimal condition!
Imagine an F1 car pitting for a tire change.
Take a look at this work copied by the ancient calligraphy master Zhao Mengfu when he was 49 years old.
Magnified 16 times.
Magnified 100 times.
You can still see incredibly precise and steady control.
At least for me, appreciating this kind of control alone brings me immense joy.
The variations in ink density allow modern viewers to sense the subtle, instantaneous changes in pressure as the master wrote each character—a level of skill that seems almost effortless.
This extreme efficiency and perfect execution are inherently satisfying, much like watching an intense sports match, or seeing Jackie Chan defeat villains in a furniture store, or a cowboy in a Western film firing seemingly casual shots that always hit the mark…
This kind of pleasure might be ingrained in our species’ DNA. I believe early humans felt a similar joy when their spears hit their prey or when they narrowly dodged a predator’s attack.
Modern people seldom use brushes, but with pens and ballpoints, there’s often a similar kind of control. For instance, varying the pressure of a metal nib on paper creates aesthetic variations in stroke thickness—the principle is the same.
The above is just a small part of it and perhaps a bit too utilitarian. True artistic masters might simply smile without a word, but for me, it’s more than enough.
At least when I write Chinese characters, I feel no frustration—only immense joy!