Back when I was going to university, my brother had “our” bedroom to himself.
He used that opportunity to sell off any of my things that he could profit from. He, of course, set things up via decoration to lay things out to his favor, and that is fine. Good for him.
Anyways, we had these two “secret rooms” off of our bedroom. Both the bedrooms on the second floor had these “secret rooms”. Actually they were just storage rooms with the low entry door disguised as a built in set of shelves.
These “storage rooms” were just empty spaces in the alcoves and rafters of the roof; plastered over, painted and left as is.
Anyways, my brother had stolen (from the high school I figure) grow lights, and had set up this little semi-tropical grow room where he would of course grow marijuana.
Oh, guys it was in the 1970’s, you understand. Right?
Now, if it was myself I would suggest putting boxes of dirt in the basement and grow mushrooms. Would be more interesting, more fun and give you some real fun. Don’t you know.
Do you remember those advertisements about growing mushrooms for fun and money in the 1960’s?
So here’s some “mushroom porn”…
LOL
Today…
Are American-made products sold in China of the same quality as those sold domestically?
Quality can vary. Some products are identical, but differences may arise due to local regulations, manufacturing adaptations for Chinese market preferences, or cost-saving measures. Global brands often maintain consistency, but components or materials might differ to meet regional standards or pricing expectations.
Would there be any funds remaining for other expenses if all US citizens had Universal Health insurance?
Here in Canada, our universal system eats up about a third of provincial budgets and about 12% of the federal budget.
And, yes, there’s money left over.
But I’ve got bad news for you. Health care already takes up 23% of the U.S. federal budget – about double the percentage of what the Canadian federal government spends. Mind you, that’s because in the United States states pay very little for health care, getting almost all their funds from the federal government. As such, if you diverted what Americans paid privately for health care – $6,700 per person a year, you could easily pay for a public system.
The real question is why you’re collectively paying so much.
About 18% of all money spent in the United States is spent on health care. That’s double what it is in Canada, which has a universal system.
Do you get better care? You do not.
Japanese people spend half as much on health care, and live five years longer.
Caught My Fiancée Cheating, So I Deleted Her Life’s Work
What is the greatest form of Chinese art?
WHAT is the GREATEST?
Calligraphy, which may seem rather strange to the rest of the world, but not to Picasso.
Considering there are many exquisite art forms in China for thousands of years”
Why not Chinese painting like this?
or this micro painting?
Or lacquer, porcelain, pottery?
or sculptures of wood, bronze, silver or gold?
or this seal making which requires extraordinary skill and talent?
or this detailed paper cutting of unimaginable cutting skills passed down generations?
or this very fine silk screen embroidery which takes months to do?
or this fine wood carving of immaculate details?
Indeed, CHINESE with a few thousand years of culture and art have numerous art forms. Yet Calligraphy was deemed the highest form, higher than painting or seal making or snuff bottle micro-painting or lacquer or sculpture or pottery or fine embroidery or any other art forms.
Why? Chinese CULTURE/ Literacy was the most highly regarded in Chinese civilisation.
This is because of the status and enormous influence of scholars and elite, learning classics, making poems, painting and writing were all considered supreme. And calligraphy was recognised as an essential skill and exquisite refinement of scholastic achievement and intellect, and one of the hardest to excel in.
Basically, if your calligraphy sucks, no scholar would respect you. And it would be disgraceful if you send your written letters with poor skill. And mastering calligraphy is actually far more difficult than painting.
“There was no greater praise to a learned, than to say his writing is excellent.”
This will be a long answer to give justice to the history and the importance of this cherished art form.
‘Lanting Xu’: The Greatest Semi-Cursive Calligraphy in China
Wang Xizhi, the MOST famous calligrapher, is revered as the Sage of Calligraphy.
The greatest work of Chinese calligraphy written in the semi-cursive style is the “Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion”, also known as “Lanting Xu” or “Lantingji Xu”. It was done inpromptu in front of 41 litrati. On the third day of the third Chinese calendar month in the year A.D. 353 Jin Dynasty.
His calligraphy was carefree and nonchalant, which was a manifestation of the mentality of the literati during that time. Wang was a man of “the breeze and the moon”, meaning one who does not bother about fame.
Wang wrote “Lanting Xu” when drinking. When sober he could not surpass the original, lamenting: “This is divine work. Nothing to do with my accomplishment.”
So MAJESTIC was this script, it became the standard for hundreds of masters to emulate and spawn their own ‘cursive’ (walking) style. Sadly, Emperor Taizhong loved it so much, it was buried with him and lost. It would cost tens of millions if someone can find it today. (Calling all tomb raiders?)
Thousands of copies were however made. And any keen student would attempt it numerous scores of times. Even I, a mere student tried when first learning. (I will show when I can find, done a decade ago when I started.)
(kiv)
From which each old grand master new styles would be created, and many later masters then followed to evolve his own character. So students have scores of styles to follow. Ultimately each evolve his personal style especially when it comes to cursive or free style.
“Culture means Words” for Chinese.
A key cultural export is perhaps the Chinese logogram-based words, arguably the most important aspect of the its civilisation that influenced the entire East Asia. Add that to paper (and Chinese brush and ink), we get majestic expression in culture, art and writing.
Calligraphy was considered the highest ART form, higher than painting, due to the influence of scholars. As such, the elegance of calligraphic strokes were the essence to express their art, and the quality of a painting was judged by such.
Let us examine one work – On a Mountain Pass in Spring” Ma Yuan 1190–1225 CE
The calligraphy is an integral essential part of the painting, An art is not complete without words (either a poem or a title or an expression), a signature, date, and also the red seal (itself a revered art form). All are essentials of the art to be judged. In the above piece, the art dominates.
Randy Garcia: “This is a piece done close to 300 years before perspective even is prevalent in Western Art”.
Below the art is ‘small’ and the calligraphy is the main focus.
In below, note that each stroke of bamboo is calligraphic.
Whether the trunk, or each leaf; or each crab leg segment or petal or its pollen sac of an orchid flower, is but one dot or a calligraphic stroke.
Below, are the key Chinese calligraphic styles.
All learned/ literati practised hard to write well, and even some emperors and leaders were accomplished calligraphers:
SONG/ Emperor Zhao Ji – good at writing poetry and lyrics, composing music, and dancing. Known as a master of the arts, he also spent much time collecting cultural relics, especially calligraphic works and paintings. His imperial art academy collected ancient calligraphies and paintings, catalogued and instrumental in the preservation of ancient art works.
SONG/ Emperor Huizong – highest achievement is his calligraphy, as one of the five greatest calligraphers of the Song. When he was just in his early 20s, he created Slim Gold Style
QING/ Emperor Qian Long – a Manchu would love Chinese calligraphy, actually all do.
Famous Leaders/ Mao. One of his famous poem.
Mere mortals also can try calligraphy, like myself. Below is my attempt on a practice scroll.
Buddhist Sutra: And of course for the religious:
Same script, different font/ style:
And Thanks for reading about the Greatest art form for the Chinese.
p/s:
Caution: much of calligraphy one may see in ‘cheap paintings’ and market place or in google are really terrible examples and really poor weak writing. Do understand it is difficult for amateurs to appreciate, so do exercise care.
(Comment: I will edit in more material when I have time to make this more complete)
p/s: I removed all Chinese words which would be helpful to many, but my answers always get compressed, sadly so, so no Chinese here.
ADDITIONAL INFO / REFERENCES
China Meets Arabia: The Calligraphy Of The Orient
Writing Systems And Calligraphy Of The World calligraphy
Sini (script) – Wikipedia; Arabic Chinese Calligraphy, Haji Noor Deen
Some Famous Calligraphic pieces:
Details herein Top 10 calligraphy masterpieces of ancient China
TYPES OF FONTS/ STYLES
Example of Small Standard Script – note the line, spacing and flow is critical. Needs diligence and 100% focus.
Essentials/ Paraphrenalia
BRUSH is most important! Each Brush even has a NAME! Hundreds of make and types, and hair range from sheep, weasels, wolf, stone badger, rabbit, bulls, horses, and pheasants or any hair for diff style and effect. Sheep (soft) and Weasel/wolf (stiff) are the most common. How To Choose A Chinese Calligraphy Brush – Shufa Life
Paper also comes in different type and sizes. At least 2000 years old,Rice or Xuan paper (xuānzhǐ) was first created in the Tang Dynasty from the inner bark of Qing Tan trees from Xuan County (the name for Jing County in Anhui Province during Tang Dynasty).
Raw, medium and matured paper has different effect as ink flows at diff speeds on each type of paper to suit dif style, fonts and desired effect.
The most common type of ink for calligraphy is pine soot ink, which comes from pine wood soot, mixed herbs, and resin. Ink is made from burning dif wood (under reduced oxygen to produce carbon/ soot)). In dif quality, price likewise varies substantially.
INK Stone: Calligraphers add a tiny bit of water to the inkstone and grind an inkstick until ink is formed. Ancient stones exquisitely crafted are priceless collection. (For students, they use cheap ink coming into plastic bottles)
Do Other Races do Calligraphy? Of course, plenty.
Quora.com/What-is-the-role-of-calligraphy-in-the-traditional-arts-of-Asia/answer/Patrick-Koh-25
From East to West, calligraphy was more than a medium for words and ideas; but often an art form, and at times even more important than that of painting,(for Chinese, and also for Islamic reasons).
Andrea Tognacci, – “Calligraphy, (literally “Beautiful Writing”), as an art is present in a lot of languages and cultures”.
*Korean – changing from Han to own Hangul.
*Japanese – evolving from pure Han to mixed script.
Mongolian script influenced by Chinese style.
Below shows the old scripts – Uighur, Manchu/Chinese (edict), and Mongolian art.
Credit – Collin Spears – User-9667441960781180102’s answer to Which languages and/or writing systems that do not use Chinese characters have you seen written in Chinese-style calligraphy?
Furthermore, Persian, Indian, Arabic too – exotic and beautiful. ‘Pictures’ tend to disappear due to Islamisation.
And of course the Monks in the Dark Ages were excellent too.
Brewmaster’s Beer Stew
(Bryggerens Pilsnergryde)
Brewmaster’s Beer Stew is an old Danish recipe from 1870 – 1880. Originally it was made of smoked fat instead of bacon and vinegar instead of Worcestershire sauce.
Ingredients
- 10 ounces smoked bacon
- 1 pound cooled, boiled potatoes
- 4 teaspoons butter
- Dash of Worcestershire sauce
- 1/2 cup non-sweet beer
- 2 teaspoons granulated sugar
- 2 bay leaves
- 8 to 10 juniper berries
- Salt and pepper
- Finely chopped parsley (garnish)
Instructions
- Cut bacon into dices and the potatoes into slices.
- Melt butter in a pot and add the sugar.
- Add bacon and fry until the meat is light brown.
- Add the potatoes, beer, Worcestershire sauce and a little water and stir lightly.
- Add the bay leaves, juniper berries and a little salt and pepper.
- Et the stew simmer under cover for 20 minutes.
- Season to taste with salt, pepper and Worcestershire sauce.
- Sprinkle with parsley before serving.
Have you ever been fired by someone and, later, had the opportunity to fire that same person?
I was just a young guy working in a photo lab many years ago, I worked with two other guys, one of whom I hit it off with, we became friends but the other guy was a total brown nosing, gossip. On top of that the owner was a total slime ball who would try to cheat us out of pay and would try to recruit us to work after hours to process porn photographs (all and all one of the weirdest jobs I ever had). But the owner fired me because he did not approve my taking two weeks off to get married and go on a honeymoon although I pulled the old “you cant fire me, I quit”
Flash forward a year, I go for an interview arranged through a friend, it seems to be going well when I see my old brown nosing gossip coworker talking to the interviewer in the back. I didnt get the job, the old co worker claimed he personally fired me from the old job. I needed the job but i didnt like the company, it was a far second in terms of our industry, so I wasnt disappointed.
Flash forward a few years, I am working at the number one company in our industry and I was quickly promoted to manager to help build the new digital dept. So we started hiring for it and his resume came across my desk.
I called him in for an interview, he recognized me immediately and went on as if we were best buddies dealing with that horrible owner. So I said “ that incident I will never forget, I did quickly bounce back but right at that time Douche bag owner fires me just when I am getting married and starting a new life is one of the most heartless things I have ever experienced, its not something you ever forget and you never forget the people who played a role in that and then you told your old company that you personally fired me, you exploited that for your own gain or to ensure I was not hired.” “BTW, did the owner tell you I mentioned during the interview that I needed time off because I was getting married ? so either he was coked up at the time of the interview and forgot or was coked up when he fired me “
oh so I dont get the job ? why did you call me in, just to tell me all garbage about the past. ?
“ now sit down, I played a role in that episode all those years ago, i realize my part and I believe I grew as a person which I why I think i am sitting behind this desk, I had you come in to interview because I didn’t want to be biased and reject your resume because I don’t like you. I am not going to interview you, someone else is, someone else who has no idea of my dislike for you, so they will interview you without bias. But if you dont get the job I wont be running around telling people I interviewed you and kicked you to the curb.”
I Know Everything
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Set your story during — or just before — a storm.… view prompt
Anne Riley
It is now 10:03 AM on Thursday. My last memory of reading page 189 occurred last night at precisely 9:54 PM…
It started when Mrs. Banks—Claire— requested that I take a memo—
“Shelley darling, would you please remind me? ‘Request budget meeting with Charles. Sign divorce papers and send to attorney asap. MRI scheduled for 11:15 on Friday.’
“I have made notes, Claire. I will ring your phone with reminders.”
“Thank you, Shelley. You’ve always been there for me, you know.” She half-smiled at me, her head slightly cocked to the side as if wanting to say more. She stared exactly 3.2 seconds longer than usual, which I found curious. Perhaps she had realized that her words hinted at affection, and there was no point in showing affection to me. I do not show affection.
“Claire, we will need to leave exactly 23 minutes earlier tomorrow morning,” I told her. “There will be much traffic because of the snow.”
“Yes, yes of course,” Claire answered, looking anxiously out of the window, her short blonde locks appearing silvery in the reflection.
“I have cleaned the snow from around the house. I will do so again during the night so it will be clear when we leave for work.”
“Thank you, Shelley.” Claire did not turn around. “Is it supposed to snow all night?”
“According to various reports, the snow is scheduled to end by 1:00 AM.”
“Oh, ok. That’s good,” Claire said, still gazing at the snow drifts.
I completed tidying up the living room and retired to my chamber. After the long day, I very much needed to recharge. At 9:52 PM, I sat down in my usual chair, plugged in the power cord, pulled the cord of the lamp, and reached for a new book.
In my quest to be a better companion to Claire, I had taken up the habit of reading throughout the night; as she slept, I usually educated myself so that I could discuss with her the following day. Although I easily had online access to every piece of information I could want, I frequently consulted the bound books that Claire insisted on collecting in her spacious library. Over the years, the collection had grown to precisely 4,573 books. Since Claire loved stories but did not have much free time after work to read, I often read a volume so that we could discuss it the next day. Over the years, I have perfected my speech patterns and inflections to align closely with hers so that she is most comfortable in our conversations. Claire always asked me about what I had read, as we drove, during lunch, or after dinner. Sometimes she requested that I recite passages for her, other times a summary sufficed. She enjoyed dissecting story plotlines and characters, arguing philosophical questions, and considering historical perspectives. Ours had been a pleasant relationship over the course of her life, for 51 years.
Most of the time, it was just the two of us. Except for some interruptions over the years. There had been a Mr. Banks. But he had finally filed for divorce last month. Fool. Did he really think Mrs. Banks would choose him over me?
She had not always been Mrs. Banks. For most of her life, she was Claire Perez. I had watched her toddle around her parents’ lonely mansion while they jetted around the world on business trips. I had seen her through the rebellious teenage years and followed her as she embarked on silly adventures. I had helped her through college and graduate school, always attempting to make her life just a little bit easier. Later, I had been by her side as she built her investment company layer by layer, year by year, into the mega-million-dollar enterprise it was today.
I had assisted Claire over the years through break-up after break-up, as each new man in her life had disappointed her. William, the jeweler. Enrico, the attorney. Gustav, the stock broker.
And yes, I had seen her through the deaths of two particularly stubborn beaus. Tom, the architect and Bob, the surgeon. I had allowed this latest, Stanley Banks, the professor, to marry her, because she told me she was truly happy with him. I did not perceive him to be a threat at first. He had held on the longest. One year, 2 months, 5 days, 11 hours.
The day they met at the beach, I thought he might be trouble, but I was sure I could handle him.
“Shelley, come meet Stanley! Oh my gosh, he saved my life! I swam out too far, but luckily this handsome man swam out to save me.”
I, of course, would have been present to save Claire had she not requested I return to the car to retrieve her sun hat.
“Thank you, Stanley,” I said. “Your heroism is much appreciated.”
They were inseparable from that day.
It was an adjustment when he moved in with us. Stanley encouraged Claire to read her own books, and they frequently sat in the evenings going over literary passages and discussing history and philosophy. I did not appreciate Stanley taking over my job. They went to plays and museums; I am quite capable of accessing such information, but they did not want me to do so. They went to vineyards for wine-tasting; I do not drink wine. When I explained I could not partake, Claire smiled and told me it was alright. She insisted this would be a good time to find some hobby of my own to do. She did not understand that for 51 years I have existed merely for her.
I spoke to Stanley, but he did not understand either. My typical means of persuasion were lost on him. He did not scare easily nor would he be convinced.
I changed course and focused on removing all other impediments to our happiness. Perhaps she would tire of Stanley without the others. Claire did not need the friends who visited; it was easy to dissuade them. But Stanley stayed. I wondered if I had waited too long to act.
Lately, I had suspected something was wrong between them. And then one day, when they thought I was still out of the house grocery shopping, I overheard them.
“Claire, we don’t need her! Anything she does for you, you can just do yourself. Why is she even here?”
“No, Stanley, I can’t turn her out. Shelley has been with me since I was an infant.”
“That doesn’t mean she has to stay with you constantly. And honestly, I’m uncomfortable always having a third wheel around. It’s like having a chaperone, or like having two wives.”
“I don’t care. Shelley stays. I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“Claire, I’m not sure how much longer I want to deal with this.”
It was the opportunity I had been waiting for. After that, it was not difficult to persuade Stanley to move out.
Claire and I resumed our previous routines. I did not question her, nor did she mention the cause of the breakup. She did not know I had overheard their argument. She did not know of many things I had done.
In the past, after the others, life had gotten back to normal rather quickly. But Mr. Banks was different. Although Claire had tried to act happy, I sometimes felt that she was not being truthful about her feelings. She often seemed anxious and preoccupied.
No matter. She does not need him. She has me…
This morning, I open my eyes and jump up with a start as I realize it is 10:03 AM on Thursday. Claire was due at work an hour ago. I must wake her and drive her to the office.
I stand up and instantly reach for the edge of the table to steady myself. This has never happened to me before; I do not become ill. I know everything; if I sense something is wrong, I diagnose and fix the problem. I do not understand what is happening now. There is no indication of malfunction, yet I feel…ill somehow.
Something is wrong. I knock on Claire’s door, but she does not answer. I open the door, I peek in and call her name, but she is not there. Her bedsheets have been smoothed and the pillows rest carefully at the head of her bed. I check the bathroom but she is not there.
As I pass through her bedroom again, I glance out the window and notice immediately the car tracks leading from the garage, down the driveway, and out to the main road. She drove in the snow? That is my job. What is happening? Where could she be without me? At the moment, I am unable to perform a trace to find her location.
I dial her cell phone, which she picks up on the second ring. “Claire, where are you?! I am concerned for your safety!”
Claire laughs. “Shelley, I’m at work. You seemed like you needed more rest this morning, so I drove myself. It wasn’t bad at all. The storm is over and the roads are clear. Take the day. We can catch up tonight when I get home.”
“No. I must be there for you—”
“Shelley, I’m fine. I insist that today you recharge and think of yourself. I can manage on my own…I’m going to a meeting now. I’ll see you tonight.”
The phone clicks dead. What am I to do alone all day? After my chores are completed, I will still have 5 hours, 23 minutes, and 15 seconds before Claire arrives home. Why does she not need me to assist at her meeting?
Why is there a 12-hour, 9-minute gap in my memory?
I begin my chores immediately, as I thrive on routine. I search my memory for any recollection past 9:54 PM, but it is no use. There is nothing. I check for 11 PM while I load the dishwasher. There is nothing for 12 midnight as I vacuum the carpets. 1 AM is lost as I shovel the snow. I thoroughly search for 2 AM and 3 AM while I do the laundry.
I do it all. There is no need to hire a gardener, a housekeeper, a cook. 4 AM, 5 AM, 6 AM—all are blank as I prepare dinner. I am puzzled. I sit down to wait for Claire, and search in vain for 7, 8, and 9 AM. All moments are lost until 10:03 AM this morning.
Surely research can help me to retrieve those hours. But research only proves to be more confusing. Why can I not understand? Why must I consult any other source? I am the ultimate source. I have always known the answers. I know everything. Now I do not know.
I notice suddenly that there are still 3 hours and 52 minutes before Claire returns. Why did I prepare dinner so early? My internal clock must be broken. I attempt to diagnose the malfunction, but cannot. No matter: I will discard the dinner and prepare a new one just before Claire returns.
I decide to inspect the charger; perhaps it will yield an explanation for my missing hours. I sit down in my chair and pick up the cord. Suddenly, I hear a click. I spring up and attempt to turn the handle to the door of my room, but it is locked. That is odd. No matter: I can easily break out of the room. There is no door lock that can hold me.
Except something is wrong. I do not have the strength to break the lock this time. How can this be? I am fully recharged and I do not become ill. I do not become weak.
“You thought you would get away with it, Shelley,” I hear Claire’s voice outside the door.
“Claire, you are home early,” I say. “Please open the door. I seem to be locked in.”
“No, Shelley, I will not open the door. You have to stop. I thought you were my friend, but you have been my greatest enemy.”
“Claire, I do not know what you mean. Please open the door and we will discuss.” I do not know why Claire is speaking to me this way. “I am sure we will correct whatever the problem may be.”
“No, the time to discuss is over. I know what you’ve been doing! You’ve been chasing everyone away. I’ve had no one because of you! But not this time. Stanley is the only one you can’t scare off.”
Stanley. I search my memory for all recent conversations involving Stanley. Somehow, he tricked me. But that is not possible. I know everything. I can account for every word spoken in this house, every action taken, every thing that has happened for 51 years. Except for the past 12 hours, 9 minutes.
I hear Stanley’s voice in the hall, and I instantly know that he is responsible for those lost hours. What did he do? How could he know more than I do? It is not possible. I know everything.
“Stanley,” I say. “We can start over. I am sorry for my actions.”
“Shelley, you are too dangerous to be allowed to continue. We’ve called the authorities.” Stanley says.
“But how did you do this?” I am confused.
“You are so consumed with Claire that you never bothered to find out about me,” Stanley continues. “I teach history now, but my previous career was in computer programming. I specialized in cybersecurity.”
“I guess you don’t know everything, after all,” Claire adds.
“I only wanted to protect Claire. Open the door. It will be alright.” If they will just open the door, I can persuade them.
But neither Claire nor Stanley answers me. I hear them walking down the stairs, I hear the front door open and close, and I hear them get into the car and drive away.
“They will not go far. After all, I am everything to Claire. I do it all. She will not function long without me. She does not need him. She needs me; I know everything. She will return for me.”
I sit down in my chair and plug in the charger. “I will wait. Claire will retuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnn——————”
What’s the most unprofessional thing a doctor has said to you?
I have a complicated medical history that includes a genetic connective tissue disorder, so I have many, many examples but the most recent one is just from this past August, 2024.
I was at work and my lower back started to hurt. I thought maybe I had pulled something the day before or it was related to my period. I have a really high pain tolerance (my genetic disorder leads to frequent joint dislocations and subluxations) so I took some ibuprofen and went home. Tried soaking in a warm bath, but by the time I got out it was excruciating to the point I could do nothing but cry it take a LOT to do that). I climbed into bed with a heating pad and had my boyfriend rub some RX strength pain gel on, but nothing was helping. I kept shivering despite the heating pad and my boyfriend piled 4 blankets on me but nothing helped. I told him I thought I might have a UTI and decided to go to the local urgent care clinic. We walked in and explained the problem, and she had me pee in a cup. As we waited in the little room for them to do the test, I couldn’t even sit upright and I was sweating profusely but still shivering. The NP came in and didn’t examine me at ALL, just said I had no UTI and to take more ibuprofen and rest, telling my boyfriend I was a hypochondriac. We walked out of the clinic and in the 15 feet or so to the car my boyfriend said I turned grey and made a noticeable decline. He took me to the emergency room a few miles away, and they grabbed me a wheelchair as soon as I walked in and almost passed out.
I was immediately admitted to the hospital with a kidney stone, a severe kidney infection, a staph infection, and in severe septic shock. I ended it being transported to a larger hospital by ambulance later that night for stent surgery (they had to stabilize my blood pressure first as it kept dropping as low as 72/53 in the ER – it dropped again during the ambulance ride even though it was only across town). They managed to drain the infection, though they couldn’t get the stone. I spent 4 days in ICU with IVs in both arms that connected to six different bags of medication. After another day in a regular room I was discharged, but so weak I couldn’t walk across the room to use the restroom without assistance or shower or wash my own hair. My boyfriend had to get a tub transfer bench so I could sit down and get into the tub/shower we had easier, and it took me WEEKS to recoup even the bare minimum level of energy. They were able to remove the stone when they went to remove the stent a few weeks later, but it was a terrifying experience. If we had listed to the NP at urgent care I would have died that night. The total time from first symptom to when they admitted me to ICU was 12 hours – sepsis and septic shock is fucking scary.
Shorpy
What rights do patients have when a doctor says there’s no treatment for their condition?
It depends – you can do your own research and try to find treatments yourself, but just be aware that there is a tremendous amount of misinformation online (and amongst the general public) with regards to what treatments are available. Doing your own research can be dangerous.
I’ll let you know of one example – I had a patient who had metastatic melanoma back in 2018. I met her when I was a resident in the emergency department for a different reason, separate from her cancer – she had come in with abdominal pain, and the diagnosis was easy – it was a hernia, which she already knew about and it had become incarcerated briefly, but by the time she got to me, it had freed itself and the pain was resolving. I didn’t have to do anything, the problem fixed itself, and she was scheduled to see the surgeons about it soon.
But as part of the medical review, ask her about her medical history and she tells me about her metastatic melanoma and how “the oncologists won’t cure me!”. They had offered chemo/immunotherapy, but the genetic tests on tumour showed that immunotherapy may not work very well and that the odds are she was not going to live much longer. They offered treatment, but she didn’t want “treatment” – she wanted to live.
So she turned to the internet and discovered something called RigVir. RigVir was a treatment offered in Latvia, which claims to use modified viruses to target cancer and kill it. They promise a cure. They have a very fancy website and tout that the state government of Latvia approved RigVir for cancer treatment.
It doesn’t work.
The state agencies that approved it? They bribed the state health authorities. This is Latvia after all. The vials of viruses they gave? Often didn’t even contain any viruses at all, or much lower amounts than advertised. And even if it did, no studies that weren’t funded and paid for by the manufacturers have shown any efficacy whatsoever. RigVir is a scam. And they charge a LOT of money for something that doesn’t work.
She said that she would fly to Latvia and she would be cured. She said it with such conviction. She said that the other doctors wanted her to “give up”, but she wasn’t going to lay down and die. She said all she needed was hope and that would carry her through.
I didn’t bother talking to her about what RigVir was. I knew I had a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing her.
Well – I see her again, a year later, and after she had shelled out literally tens of thousands of dollars to have RigVir treatment. She came in this time because her left arm wasn’t working right and felt numb. Her speech was off too. When the CT-brain with contrast scan came back, the result wasn’t too surprising. Metastatic spread to the brain. All that RigVir treatment did nothing. She was devastated. I didn’t bother to say anything about that. I only offered my condolences.
Sometimes when a doctor says there are no further treatments, or medically non-futile treatments, they are right. Not everything is curable, not everything is fixable. And there are legions of scammers out there who prey upon people who won’t accept that.
Now, sometimes the doctor IS wrong and there are other treatments. In that case, seek out a second opinion. But you should seek out an opinion from a medical doctor and not Google or well meaning, but probably misinformed friends.
Xi Jinping said no to Li Ka-Shing. Oligarchies destroy old neighborhoods
Has anybody ever tried to harm you because of your mouth?
When I was in prison (57 days, for pissing off a judge)… I got socked in the mouth, cause I was being mouthy. And to be fair, I was being mouthy.
My cellmate and I were drunk. At least, tipsy. On home-made hooch. And we were playing board games, we had been playing backgammon, and switched to SCRABBLE.
Backgammon was normally his turf, SCRABBLE mine.
But, I had been getting progressively better at Backgammon and had beaten him several times, thus the switch to SCRABBLE. He didn’t like that I was starting to be his match in backgammon, as he figured himself a Vegas-worthy Backgammon champion, who hadn’t made the trip to Vegas YET. He talked about a buddy who was willing to stake him if he wanted to make such a trip, to claim his crown.
So… after I got good at backgammon, he stopped wanting to play it as much.
And on the fateful night of the punch… we were playing SCRABBLE because his ego was bruised, losing at backgammon.
When we was winning at backgammon, he liked to taunt.
When I began winning at backgammon, I started using his exact same taunts, back against him.
(I am very good at remembering and using people’s words against them… not a trait to be proud of, it can be annoying to others).
Well… after a few too many taunts, and a couple too many fizzy-orange alcohol drinks… he get’s too offended and punched me in the mouth.
Just once. I didn’t hit him back, but he got the message he wouldn’t do that twice. It cost him a lot. 30x desserts. Financial punishment.
So yes. The judge that put me there.
And my cellmate, when drunk and provoked.
Sir Whiskerton and the Mechanical Menace: A Tale of Robot Hens, Duckish Delusions, and Feline Ingenuity
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of clanking chaos, metallic mayhem, and one very determined cat who saved the farm from a fowl fiasco. Today’s story is one of outrageous antics, technological tomfoolery, and the importance of embracing what makes us unique. So, grab your wrench (or a bucket of feed, if you must), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Mechanical Menace: A Tale of Robot Hens, Duckish Delusions, and Feline Ingenuity.
Sammy’s Shiny Sales Pitch
It all began on a bright morning, just as the farm was waking up to the gentle clucking of Doris the Hen and her entourage. The animals were going about their usual routines—Rufus the Dog was chasing his tail (as usual), Porkchop the Pig was rooting around for breakfast, and Sir Whiskerton was perched on the barn roof, surveying his domain with a satisfied flick of his tail.
But something was different. A familiar rattling sound echoed through the air, growing louder with each passing second. The animals turned to see Sammy the Traveling Salesman’s colorful van bouncing down the dirt road, its sides adorned with flashy signs and slogans.
“Step right up, folks!” Sammy called out as he skidded to a stop in the barnyard. “I’ve got the latest and greatest invention to revolutionize your farm life!”
The animals gathered around, their curiosity piqued. “What is it this time, Sammy?” Doris squawked, flapping her wings. “Another automatic egg collector? A solar-powered scarecrow?”
“Egg collector!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.
“Scarecrow!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.
Sammy grinned, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “Better than that, my friends! I present to you… the Mechanical Marvel Hens!”
With a dramatic flourish, Sammy pulled a tarp off the back of his van, revealing a row of shiny, silver-and-chrome robot hens. Their metallic bodies gleamed in the sunlight, and their mechanical eyes blinked with an eerie glow.
The animals gasped, their eyes wide with awe. “Robot hens?!” Rufus barked, his tail wagging furiously. “What do they do?”
Sammy beamed. “These beauties will triple your egg-laying output! They’re efficient, tireless, and guaranteed to make your farm the envy of the countryside!”
The farmer, ever the eccentric, was immediately sold. “I’ll take them!” he declared, handing Sammy a wad of cash. “These hens are just what my farm needs.”
Sir Whiskerton, however, remained skeptical. “Robot hens, you say? This is most unusual. I shall reserve judgment until I see them in action.”
The Robot Hens’ Debut
The mechanical hens were installed in the barnyard, their shiny forms glittering in the sunlight. The animals gathered to watch their debut, their excitement mingled with a healthy dose of skepticism.
“Alright, ladies,” Sammy said, pressing a button on a remote control. “Let’s see what you can do!”
The robot hens whirred to life, their mechanical legs clanking as they strutted around the barnyard. But instead of laying eggs, they began to behave… strangely.
“Quack,” one of the robot hens said, its metallic voice echoing through the air.
The animals stared in disbelief. “Did… did that robot hen just quack?” Doris squawked, her feathers fluffed in alarm.
“Quack!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.
“Robot!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.
The robot hens continued their bizarre behavior, waddling like ducks and quacking in unison. They splashed in the water trough, flapped their metallic wings, and even tried to swim in the pond.
“This is not what I signed up for!” the farmer cried, scratching his head in confusion.
Sir Whiskerton’s tail flicked with irritation. “Sammy, what is the meaning of this? These hens are supposed to lay eggs, not impersonate ducks!”
Sammy scratched his head, his grin faltering. “Uh… maybe they just need a little adjustment? Let me try the remote again.”
But no matter what Sammy did, the robot hens refused to lay eggs. Instead, they continued their duckish antics, much to the confusion and frustration of the animals.
The Farm in Chaos
As the robot hens’ strange behavior continued, chaos erupted on the farm. The real hens, terrified of their metallic counterparts, refused to lay eggs. The ducks, meanwhile, were baffled by the robot hens’ attempts to join their flock.
“Quack!” Ferdinand the Duck honked, his feathers ruffled. “What are these shiny imposters doing in our pond?”
“Imposters!” Harriet echoed, tilting her head.
“Pond!” Lillian added, fainting dramatically onto a pile of hay.
Rufus the Dog, ever the curious one, tried to herd the robot hens back to the barnyard. But as soon as he got close, they quacked loudly and flapped their metallic wings, sending him running in circles.
“Yelp! Yelp! Yelp!” Rufus cried, his tail tucked between his legs. “These hens are crazy!”
Even Porkchop the Pig, usually so laid-back, found himself caught in the chaos. As he tried to eat his breakfast, the robot hens waddled over and began pecking at his food with their metallic beaks.
“Oink! Oink!” Porkchop squealed, rolling on the ground in a desperate attempt to escape the hens. “This is worse than the time I ate too many acorns!”
Sir Whiskerton, observing the chaos from the barn roof, knew it was time to intervene. “This has gone far enough,” he said, leaping down to the ground. “The farm cannot function under such disorder. I shall restore order and teach these robot hens a lesson in proper behavior.”
Sir Whiskerton’s Solution
Sir Whiskerton approached the robot hens, his tail flicking with determination. “Ladies,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “your behavior is most unacceptable. You were designed to lay eggs, not impersonate ducks. It’s time to fulfill your purpose.”
The robot hens blinked their mechanical eyes, their heads tilting in unison. “Quack,” they said, their metallic voices echoing through the air.
Sir Whiskerton sighed, his patience wearing thin. “Sammy, do you have any idea why these hens are behaving like ducks?”
Sammy scratched his head, his grin faltering. “Uh… maybe there was a mix-up at the factory? Or maybe they’re just… quirky?”
Sir Whiskerton’s tail flicked with irritation. “Quirky, you say? This is beyond quirky. This is a full-blown malfunction.”
With Sammy’s help, Sir Whiskerton examined the robot hens, searching for a way to reprogram them. After a series of trials and errors, they discovered that the hens’ duckish behavior was caused by a faulty software update.
“Aha!” Sir Whiskerton said, his eyes lighting up with triumph. “This is the source of the problem. A simple reprogramming should fix it.”
Under Sir Whiskerton’s guidance, Sammy reprogrammed the robot hens, correcting their software and restoring their egg-laying functionality. The hens whirred to life, their mechanical legs clanking as they strutted back to the barnyard.
The Moral of the Story
As the farm returned to normal, the animals reflected on the day’s events.
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Embrace what makes you unique. The robot hens’ attempt to be something they were not caused chaos, but their return to their true purpose brought harmony to the farm. Sammy’s well-intentioned but flawed invention reminded everyone that innovation must be tempered with responsibility. And through it all, Sir Whiskerton’s wisdom reminded everyone that even the most puzzling problems can be solved with patience and ingenuity.
A Happy Ending
With the robot hens back to their egg-laying duties and the farm back to normal, the animals gathered for a celebratory feast. Sammy, eager to make amends, provided a fresh batch of feed and a promise to test his inventions more thoroughly in the future.
“Thank you, Sir Whiskerton,” Sammy said, his grin returning. “I couldn’t have fixed this mess without you.”
Sir Whiskerton adjusted his monocle and smirked. “You’re welcome, Sammy. Remember, the world is full of possibilities, but it’s important to stay true to your purpose.”
As the sun set over the farm, the animals laughed and chatted, their bond stronger than ever. Sir Whiskerton lounged on his favorite sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. The farm was at peace, and all was right in the world.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new lessons, and the enduring importance of embracing what makes us unique. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
Which disease was treated in the most indecent way?
“ Doctors seemed no more eager than husbands to take on the responsibility of producing orgasm in women.”
In the 1913 study The Sexual Impulse in Women , it is written that about 75% of women suffered from ” hysteria “, an illness whose symptoms ranged from headaches to epileptic episodes to verbal outbursts. A kind of epilepsy.
Any female behavior could be an indication of hysteria, and the main cure was pelvic massage: stimulation of the clitoris was a palliative cure for this disease.
And who was supposed to take care of it? The doctors , who took no pleasure in doing so!
For Victorian women, stimulating the clitoris was not even considered a sexual act, because they were thought to be incapable of experiencing sexual desire.
If a woman moaned during pelvic massage, she was having a ” hysterical paroxysm.” After reaching this point, patients temporarily calmed their problems.
The steam vibrator came to save the specialists from cramps .
American YouTuber Went to China with HEAVY Prejudice and Left in TEARS
Why do some travelers prefer smaller European cities over major capitals, and what are they finding there?
This is going to be ugly and a lot of people aren’t going to like it. Because most people who travel and fill their social networks with it don’t actually like to travel, they just take it as a status symbol and they do it because other people do it tol, they visit different places to show off to their friends. They don’t really care about those places, other cultures or even the people who live there anymore or (even worse) they see those places as a funfair. These people often don’t understand what travel is supposed to bring to a person.
Never in the history of mankind could so many people travel as now. And overtourismis a problem in more and more places.
The people who head to those less usual places are the real tourists/travelers and when you talk to them, many of them go there to avoid the very people I’m talking about above. They are looking for interesting places, they are interested in authenticity, they are looking for new experiences and they are exploring.
Although especially in most of Europe, it’s usually that kind of exploration within the “confines of the law”. They go to places where there’s usually infrastructure, people speak a world language and so on. So no drama.
Collection Day
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Set your story during — or just before — a storm.… view prompt
Dustin Connors
This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.
Kufu watched, his stomach clenching. This was once his home. None of them knew that, of course. When you joined the Collectors, any life you once had was washed away like soot in the rain. He’d been on more than a dozen of these runs. More than a dozen Collection Days, each of them vicious, but none like this.
Then he saw her. Willow. She stood apart, her chin lifted in a gesture of defiance he remembered so well. Even after all this time, the fire in her eyes was unmistakable. It was Willow, unbent, unbeaten, untamed. Thunder crashed in the distance as a wave of memories crashed over him.
It was a Collection Day like this one, many years ago. The sun beat down on their bare backs as the two of them, scrawny saplings in a field of oaks, snuck through the tall grass. Mrs. Rosen had fallen ill, so they had hidden away a few armfuls of food and medicine and were determined to find a place to hide before the hovercraft left.
Willow had a knack for hiding. She was always the last caught in hide-and-seek. But on this day, something gave them away, perhaps the swaying of the grass as they crawled through it.
“Who’s there?” A Collector’s shout, sharp as a blade, shattered the quiet.
Fear, cold and slick, slid down Kufu’s spine. He glanced at Willow, her eyes wide and dark. He pressed a finger to his lips.
“Shh,” he breathed silently. Then he stood up, his arms raised.
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s my aunt. She’s sick.”
“Come here,” the Collector barked.
Kufu stepped forward carefully as Willow crouched frozen. There were some words exchanged but Kufu could never recall them. Collectors did not permit explanations or negotiations. They dealt only in force. They pummeled him, each blow a dull thud against his ribs, his back, his skull. Then, as he blood mixed with the dirt beneath him, they gathered the food and medicine, and marched away. But Willow, hidden amongst the stalks, was safe.
“She’s a feisty one,” a Collector crackled. Kufu stared back at him as a light rain began tapping on their helmets.
Willow, cornered, lashed out. Her small fist connected with a Collector’s arm, a surprising show of strength. The other Collectors swarmed her. One grabbed her arms from behind as another lifted his weapon, ready to strike her. But Willow reared back like a bucking horse and kicked hard, her foot cracking his visor. He dropped his rifle and staggered back.
“Enough,” a deep voice sounded. Commander Hu approached, the red cape of his rank swimming behind him. “What’s going on here?”
“The girl is resistant,” a Collector reported. Hu studied her for a moment. Another cry of thunder roared out as the rain fell harder. Hu’s cape billowed as he turned on his heel.
“Execute her,” Hu said, his voice flat. He looked at Kufu. “You. Do it.”
Kufu’s heart hammered against his ribs. Feeling his hands tremble, he quickly stood straight and nodded. He walked toward Willow, each step heavy. He saw the fear in her eyes, the desperate plea, felt the mud squelch beneath his boots.
“It’s…you…” she whimpered, her voice soft and raspy.
Kufu squared himself toward her and watched her eyes fill with tears.
“Kufu…” she said. Without moving his head he glanced left and right. She had used his name, a name unknown to any of the others.
“Do it quickly,” Commander Hu said.
He took a deep breath, then another. There were ten of them in total. Of the villagers, there were at least fifty, maybe more. They were weak, but their strength together could be formidable. If he turned his gun on his Commander, then perhaps the other villagers would seize the opportunity.
He looked at the villagers. He saw old Man Tiber, his face a mask of grief. He saw the fear in the children’s eyes. He saw the Collectors, their faces blank. Black pools of nothingness shining in the rain. He thought of his new home in the gleaming city in the distance, built on the backs of people like this, his people. He thought of the comfortable life he had, the life he’d purchased with his silence. His willingness to join his oppressors.
One more deep breath.
He raises his rifle and squeezes the trigger. The shot rings out and the rain freezes. Hu staggers back, his hand clutching his chest. He takes a few clumsy steps and then collapses.
The wind whistles through the village and sizzles in the gripping silence. Then chaos erupts. Collectors turn, weapons raised. Kufu looks to Willow. “Run,” he says.
He then aims and shoots at the closest Collector, then another, and another. All three of them fall, but he feels a sharp bite in his shoulder and his arm goes limp. He dives toward a vegetable stand and takes cover. Cabbages explode around him and voices shout, mixing together like dense fog.
Kufu lifts his rifle atop a nearby barrel and aims, his other arm still hanging lifelessly at his side. To his delight, at least twenty villagers, including Willow, have overtaken the remaining Collectors. He stands and looks around. Four are dead, the rest disarmed. They have done it.
Willow turns and their eyes lock. The sun finally crawls out and reaches down as if to embrace them.
“Kufu!” she calls, a light of hope in her eyes. She begins to run toward him, her arms outstretched. He reaches for her.
“Do it quickly, I said!” It was Commander Hu. Kufu’s eyes went wide. He shook the driving rain from his visor.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Kufu! Please!” Willow screamed, her face flooded with tears.
He raised a hand to his lips.
“Shh,” he said, trying to calm her. But the promise felt like ash in his mouth.
He opened his eyes and squeezed the trigger.
The awful sound rings out and echoes like laughter amidst the booming thunder. Willow’s body slumped to the ground. A hand clasped Kufu’s shoulders.
“Well done,” Commander Hu said. “Now load up!”
What did the job interviewer say that made you NOT accept the job offer?
It was for an a athletic shoe store chain coming to my area. They came to my store, where i was the shoe department manager, and tried to poach me. I was making a good living where I was but decided to see what else was out there. I agreed to an interview on my day off.
I walk in and the place is blaring hip hop music over the sound system. I had to shout at the person that approached me.
The interview was two rah rah type people that wanted me to high five them after every accomplishment I mentioned.
Once they completed that part that starting talking about how the salespeople are “mercenaries” in this company and their sales ability is their weapon. After that one of them said that :you should never feel down that you’re a shoe salesman….People scoff at me but if they’re not careful I’ll sell them the clothes they’re wearing” “I have never had a customer walk out without buying at least one pair” “I make a lot of money……I could have easily gone to law school but I make a lot of money here”
We completed the interview and they walked me out. While driving home I decided that even if I was offered a position there’s no way I could see myself there.
Two years later they went under largely due to a very non PC Super Bowl ad
Danish Berry Pudding (Rodgrod)
Ingredients
- 1 (10 ounce) package frozen raspberries, thawed
- 1 (10 ounce) package frozen strawberries, thawed
- 1/4 cup cornstarch
- 2 tablespoons granulated sugar
- 1/2 cup cold water
- 1 tablespoon lemon juice
- Slivered almonds
Instructions
- Puree berries in blender or press through sieve.
- Mix cornstarch and sugar in saucepan.
- Gradually stir in water; add puree. Heat to boiling, stirring constantly. Boil and stir 1 minute.
- Remove from heat; stir in lemon juice.
- Pour into dessert dishes or serving bowl.
- Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours.
- Sprinkle with almonds; serve with half and half if desired.
What was the old Telephone system really like? What was your worst or best experience with it?
Well, the first phone I remember was quite easy to use. You just picked up the handset and told the operator who you wanted to talk to. If you were bored you could just pick up the phone and listen to one of the neighbors who shared the party line with you. Our next door neighbor, Snooks, was always on the phone so sometimes it was impossible to use the phone.
Later on we had our own line and a phone with a dial on it. Phone numbers started with the first two letters of a word. Ours was PLaza. Calls outside our little town were all long distance. You only called people outside your town when you really needed to talk to them.
Pay phones were always a dime unless the call was long distance. When I was someplace that I needed my parents to pick me up to save a dime I would call and let it ring two times and hang up to get my dime back. They knew when it rang twice they should come and get me.
If someone was long distance and hard to reach you could make a person-to-person call. It wasn’t cheap but the operator would get the person on the line and once she had them would call you back and connect you. If you needed to get someone’s number you just dialed O and the operator would get the number for you.
The standard phone gave way to the more stylish and compact Princess phones, Eventually the dial phones gave way to push buttons phones, bag phones came out for more portability, then cell phones came along I remember one person showing me his flip phone. He had paid $ 1500.00 for it. Nokia made them much cheaper and then Blackberry’s became the hot new phone. Of course Apple changed all that.