My sister had a few pet turtles.
They lasted for two weeks.
She also had a rabbit, and that rabbit lasted for a solid nine months until my Siberian Huskies broke into the cage and ate them.
She had a gerbil. She had it for maybe a month and a half before it made it’s great escape”. Years later, I found its mummified carcass in the basement under the work bench.
She had a dog that I always took care of. She never lifted a finger for poor ol’ Frisky. Because he was such a hyper doggie, I kept him isolated in his own cage that sat inside our fenced in back yard. I did my best, but eventually he had to be put down… a decision made by my parents after getting the “ok” from my sister who really didn’t care a wink about him. But they never told me about it.
Anyways…
She also had some birds. Colorful critters. Died after a month or so.
And a cat, named Fluffy, that my asshole neighbor shot in the face. Who then had to be humanely put down.
Meanwhile I just had one dog and one cat, and both lived to grand old ages. I cared for them Viewed them as beings instead of things. And so, you know they lived and thrived.
Do unto others.
Today…
What is the most horrifying experiment ever performed in human history?
Imagine your arm being cut off while you are alive.
Imagine being left out in the freezing cold for days so that you develop frostbite.
Imagine being left with your mutilated arms exposed, periodically doused with water until they solidify.
All this happened in Japanese human experiments during World War II.
1.People’s arms would have been amputated.
flesh would then be torn from the bones – the prisoner still alive.
3.After both arms were gone, doctors moved on to the legs until only a head and torso remained.
The victim was then used for plague and pathogen experiments.
Above is an image of a human “subject,” a young Chinese boy, undergoing an unknown form of a bacteriological test to learn the limits of the human body.
And not only that.
1.Women were raped and injected with diseases to study the transfer to the fetus.
Woman Says To Divorce Men If You Can’t Have Other Male Friends
Why would someone want to live in a hotel permanently?
I’ve known people who lived in hotels. Mostly they were older folks, who no longer had children to take care of and they wanted comfort without chores. I knew a man who ran a slide duplication business out of a hotel in NYC. He also lived in that hotel. If you like urban living it might be just the thing.
It is relatively expensive compared to apartment living.
Why is it true that pasta was invented in China?
China doesn’t claim that pasta, which is seen as an Italian food, and which, according to Merriam-Webster, means “a food made from a mixture of flour, water, and sometimes eggs that is formed into different shapes (such as thin strips, tubes, or shells) and usually boiled”, was invented in China. There are differences between Chinese noodles and Italian pasta.
I write this answer mainly to refute claims regarding noodles found in a Neolithic site in China mentioned in Volker Eichener’s answer to this question. First, he wrote that in 2005, a Chinese scientist “claimed that “the Chinese had “invented” pasta.” And according to him, it’s the same scientist who “claimed that he had excavated 4,000-year-old noodles.”
Now, let’s see what happened. In 2002, an archaeologist Cai Linhai, or 蔡林海 in Chinese, first found millet noodles in an overturned sealed bowl excavated in Lajia Ruins, or 喇家遗址 in Chinese, an archaeological site which belongs to Qijia Culture, or 齐家文化 (2200 BC-1600 BC) in Chinese, which spanned from late Neolithic to the Early and Middle Bronze Age.
Here is a picture showing millet noodles found in an overturned sealed bowl excavated in Lajia Ruins.
Here is a picture showing a closer look at these millet noodles.
Later, he and other researchers Lu Houyuan, Yang Xiaoyan, Ye Maolin, Liu Kam-Biu, Xia Zhengkai, Ren Xiaoyan, Wu Naiqin and Liu Tung-sheng, co-wrote an article Millet Noodles in Late Neolithic China. And this article was published in Nature in 2005. By the way, on Nature, the sequence of surnames and given names of the aforementioned researchers is reversed.
In that article, these authors mentioned that “The Neolithic cultural settlement containing the prehistoric bowl of noodles was found beneath a floodplain sediment layer that was about 3 metres thick. Radiocarbon measurements date its occupation to around 4000 yr BP.”
And never in anyplace in that article did these persons claim that Chinese invented pasta. And from what I searched in the English-speaking internet and Chinese-speaking internet, I didn’t find any of these authors claimed that Chinese invented pasta.
Here is a picture that I found online showing this article on Nature. People could choose to zoom in and read the full article.
And here is the link of this article:
Millet noodles in Late Neolithic China – Nature
Second, he wrote in his answer that “However, further research proved that these worm-like structures were made from millet, but that you cannot make noodles from pure millet.” And he provided a link of an online article Can Noodles Be Made From Millet? An Experimental Investigation of Noodles Manufactured Together with Starch Grain Analyses. And here is the online link of that article:
https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1475-4754.2010.00539.x
What Volker Eicherner probably didn’t realize was that after that article, which was published in 2010 and which wrote that “Our research demonstrates that it is impossible to stretch pure millet dough into noodles. We conclude that the husk phytoliths and starch-like granules said to be from the Lajia noodle remains may actually not have been part of the noodles themselves.”, a new article, Component and Simulation of the 4,000-year-old Noodles Excavated from the Archaeological Site of Lajia in Qinghai, China, came out in 2014.
And in that new article, authors “show how we used traditional hele tools to make hele millet noodles, with especial reference to the gelatinized hydrogel-forming method, to simulate morphology consistent with the composition and form of the unearthed millet noodles.” Perhaps there are people wondering what hele noodles, or 饸饹面 in Chinese, mean and how they are made. When people make hele noodles, they put a dough in a Hele noodle press and squeeze the dough into round strips.
And that article mentioned the method of simulating the noodles excavated from Lajia Ruins:
“(1) 500 g of shell-bearing millet was taken, pounded in a mortar and shelled, about 20 %–30 % of husk residues; (2) after being soaked at room temperature for 12 h, it was pounded in a mortar to produce dough and left at room temperature for one hour for the ferment; (3) the dough was pounded for 2–3 h, then placed in a steamer and heated for approximately 15 min, and then, the dough was pounded again; and (4) the heat was used to extrude some noodles using a hele noodle press, and these were then placed in boiling water. Noodle length reached up to 120 cm. Different millet types used yielded the same results.”
And here is a picture showing procedures of making hele millet noodles in that article.
And here is the link of that article:
If people want to read the full cotent of that article, they could turn to the following link:
http://www.cge.ac.cn/kyxx/fblw/201507/W020150724602944540168.pdf
And according to an online article, 四千年前的喇家面条如今怎样了, which means How are Lajia Noodles, Which Were Made Four Thousand Years Ago, “喇家遗址发现了很多有孔的石质、骨质和陶质的器物”, which means that pottery wares with many holes, stone wares with many holes and bone wares with many holes were found in Lajia Ruins. And here is the link of this article:
Texas Cheese Toast
Cheesy goodness on a thick slice of comfort food.
Prep: 10 min | Yield: 6 to 8 servings
Ingredients
- 1 loaf Rhodes™ Bread, baked
- Butter or margarine
- Garlic salt
- Dried parsley
- Freshly grated Parmesan or Asiago cheese
Instructions
- Heat an electric skillet to 350 degrees F or heat a frying pan on the stove to medium.
- Cut loaf into 6 to 8 thick slices.
- Spread one side of each bread slice with butter.
- Sprinkle lightly with garlic salt and parsley.
- Sprinkle with cheese.
- Pat cheese onto slice with your hand and place cheese side down in frying pan.
- Spread remaining side with butter.
- Sprinkle with garlic salt, parsley and cheese.
- Cook until golden brown and turn to cook remaining side.
Attribution
Recipe and photo used with permission from: Rhodes Bake-N-Serv
What is the most disturbing thing that you walked in on and can’t “unsee”?
I worked for a Chiropractor for a year. Worst job ever. He had treatment rooms with tables that vibrated to relax and massage the patients before he went in to treat them. I walked into one room to get the patient ready and she and her significant other were going to town on the table with the vibration set all the way up so they couldn’t hear me. Boy did I get an eye full! I just backed right out and told the doctor to give them a few minutes. He just went right in and interrupted and read them the riot act! They never came back. 🙂
What is the most ridiculous utility bill you’ve ever received and how did you respond, etc.?
Few years ago, my Gianna and I got a bill from LADWP for over $600. Our bill was usually anywhere between $200 and $275. Never almost $700! We didn’t know anything since my husband had that bill on autopay at the time, and wasn’t looking at the bills. Oops! LADWP finally realized their mistake at the next meter reading, and we paid absolutely nothing for I think 3 bill cycles abs paid maybe $100 on the next one. We did take that one off of autopay, we didn’t want to be surprised by another large bill like that.
Is it accurate to report that “Malaysia is turning Kuala Lumpur into a city of the future by spending billions to reshape it”?
When is the last time you were in KL? I was just there two days ago.
There is a lot of high rise construction going on in the downtown area. Most of it chic new office and residential buildings, they are privately built.
But here’s the problem with the “city of the future” narrative:
- The road network is absolutely atrocious. Poorly made and maintained, potholes and ruts everywhere in the capital. Too much corruption reduces the budget and leaves low quality surfaces that erode quickly and constantly in rain — and its been raining heavily this month. This impacts movement and transportation mobility. KL is known for its awful traffic. Not as bad as Bangkok, or even worse Jarkarta, but bad enough.
- There’s really limited parking. The urban planning is haphazard and also influenced by corruption. The parking situation is so bad many people don’t drive into the CBD area, have to have drivers circling with cars, or just avoid going into town altogether. Or, they just park everywhere and deal with “summons” by bribing police. My friend parked his car on the main road right outside where we ate. The Agong’s motorcade was coming by, and 20 minutes before he passed, the police were shooing all the parked cars away so he could pass without hinderence.
- Malaysians are horrendous when it comes to maintenance. Again, it’s that budget and corruption thing. If funds for a maintenance budget are collected, more than likely most of it gets pocketed. Buildings decay quickly in the tropics without proper maintenance. Roofs leak, paint gets moldy and black, concrete crumbles…etc. Nothing really gets fixed and it starts to look shabby after just a couple of years.
- There is public transport now in the form of rail lines. Monorail, Rapid Rail, MRT, etc. Several operators running different lines. Why? Kickbacks and corruption. I’ve read lots of complaints about the different lines but TBH i don’t ride them myself so have no first hand knowledge. I can say, however, that having a non-integrated public transit system is always a bad idea. It loses economies of scale and is more difficult to regulate. The line I’ve used frequently is the KLIA Express. It was great 10 years ago. It’s frequently inoperable today, and that damn KLIA airport is 70 km from town, a good hour away in decent traffic, more like two hours in jams. Another Mahatir graft project.
- Malaysia is broke. It was finally pushed over the edge by Najib but has been slowly drained over the past 60 years, since Mahatir. The SWF’s, Pension Funds and even Haj Funds of Malaysia are stuffed with bad assets. Appointees to head these organizations are political appointments placed there for favors or to do the bidding of corrupt politicians. I met someone a few months ago — friend of friends. We were drinking at a golf club, and he’s known to party hard. He has a little knowledge of investments but quite cursory by my book. I was shocked to learn he’s just been appointed CEO of a major Malaysian fund. His brother is a politician. There are no billions to invest into KL. Malaysia is desperately trying to raise money for ordinary purposes.
So, NO, Malaysia is not allocating billions to making KL a city of the future. If you want to see and experience that, you need to head 300 kilometers south to Singapore. Even Bangkok is better positioned for a title like that than Kuala Lumpur.
A Perfect Day in Zog
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Set your story in a place where the weather never changes.… view prompt
Audrey Elizabeth
The cheerful voices of the Zog News Network boomed through every spotless street, playing from polished, sun-powered speakers mounted on every lamppost. Not that anyone really needed a forecast. In Zog, the weather never changed.
Never ever.
The citizens of Zog went about their day, as they always did. Shopping for groceries at ZapGrocer, where customers can shop at lightning speed. Identical items. Optimized for perfection. No surprises.
“Good morning, Marvin.”
“And a perfect Zog morning to you, Darla.”
Everything was clean. Everything was precise.
At Zog Bakery, the pastries were meticulously constructed. The Hexa Muffin was engineered to be eaten in exactly six bites—no more, no less. That way, Zoggonians never suffered from a tired mouth.
And the Loop Cakes? Each one measured exactly three inches by three inches. They came in only one officially approved flavor: Pleasant.
These perfect desserts were meant to be washed down with a nice cup of ZogBrew, which contained exactly the right amount of caffeine for optimal awakeness.
For youngsters, there was ZogMilk— the caffeine-free beverage of choice. It had the exact texture of milk, yet never spoiled.
Never ever.
Zoggonians enjoyed their perfectly calibrated beverages in their Sip 500— a sleek, monochrome mug that self-warmed and self-regulated to ensure the ideal sipping temperature.
The air was always perfect. The temperature was always exactly seventy degrees. Warm and sunny, perfect for a pair of Zoggles.
But today, something was off. A coolness lingered in the air.
Little Zogling, Otis Zwiff sat in the ZogCart, kicking his feet as his mother steered them toward ZapGrocer. He squinted up at the sky. His eyes became round marbles, glossy and wide.
“What’s that, Mama?”
His mother, Elra Zwiff, didn’t look.
Didn’t want to.
Too much to do today— the floor needed its daily ZogGloss polishing and the auto feeder needed replacing so it could dispense exactly fourteen pellets for Tweepa, who chirped at pre-approved intervals.
She zipped her Z-Pack, the only certified bag in Zog, available in one shape, size, and color: Mellow Yellow.
“Shh. It’s nothing. Nothing at all, my little Zogbun.”
She pushed forward, cart and grocery list in hand.
“No, really. What is that, mama?”
Elra sighed. She glanced upwards, over her shoulder. Her brow furrowed for a moment. Then, she snapped her head down and gripped the cart tighter and kept her eyes glued to the ground. My eyes are playing tricks on me, she thought to herself.
She forced a smile.“Wouldn’t you like to have a Hexa Muffin today?” she cooed to her son.
But Otis continued to point a grubby little finger towards the sky, squealing. Elra tried to shush him, but his tiny voice echoed in the parking lot, growing louder with every step.
People halted.
They stared at the duo, then slowly tilted their heads upward, eyes narrowing for a better look. A ripple of exchanged glances. Some shook their heads. Others turned away. And then they all went about their business.
Because nothing was wrong. It couldn’t be.
Zog was perfect.
“What’s all the fuss about,” one couple said, arms crossed.
A woman gasped, wagging a finger, “Your child needs his Zoggles.”
“And manners!” a man barked.
Elra Zwiff’s face flushed red, as red as a Zog-certified beet. She clutched her Z-Pack. Gripped the ZogCart and did a complete one eighty. Rushed to her ZogPod with her son, who continued laughing hysterically.
Other shoppers kept looking upwards, muttering to themselves.
The Zog Bakery baker stepped out onto the sidewalk, flour on his apron. The ZapGrocer cashier leaned against the door frame, blinking upward in disbelief.
The Loop Cakes sat uneaten and the ZogBrew cooled.
Something in the sky didn’t belong.
–
Across town at the Zog News Network, a monitor flashed.
“What is it?”
The staff huddled around the screen. A sea of necks craned for a glimpse. People in the back balanced on their tiptoes.
“Zoom in!”
“I can’t see!”
“Enhance it!”
Faces grew paler. Murmurs. The air thickened.
The emergency phone on the desk blinked for the first time ever.
A producer stammered. “I’ve heard of this before… but it cannot be! Not in Zog!”
“Someone—bring in the authorities!”
“Get Fadebottom down here ASAP!”
Dintly Fabebottom led the investigation as a swarm of analyzers and officials crowded around his desk, mouths tight, waiting for answers. His hands were sweaty, trembling, but he sat up straighter. Forcing his fingers to stay firm and moving on the keyboard.
As if his posture and proper finger positioning might bring order to the disaster unfolding on the screen.
His leg bounced furiously, an unfortunate side effect of years spent in the labs, consuming far too much ZogBrew and far too little sleep.
He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and blinked at the screen. Then, slowly, he rolled his ZogErgo chair back and rose.
He knew what it is.
Fadebottom huddled with his team. They whispered. It’s confirmed.
The newsroom inhaled as one.
Dintly gulped. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
“Well, what is it, Fadebottom?”
“Tell us!”
“Spit it out, for Zog’s sake!”
A long beat.
Then—
Voice trembling. “It’s confirmed. At approximately 11:32 AM, in the city of Zog…a cumulus cloud has appeared in our stratosphere.”
A gasp.
Myra Lune from accounting clutched her chest.
Zade Flimm, the camera guy, staggered back.
“A cloud! But how?”
“How could it get in?”
“We have the perfect atmospheric temperature.”
“Someone get the mayor on the line!”
“It cannot happen here. It makes no sense! There are no clouds in Zog!”
The monitor flickered. The image remained.
The cloud was real.
And there was nothing they could do to stop it.
–
The streets of Zog were not supposed to feel like this.
Normally, the city stepped to a precise tempo. A uniformed rhythm. Zoggonians walked at the same pace and smiled at the same intervals.
But today—the flow was off.
Above, the cloud loomed. Below, people huddled together under awnings. Nervous chatter built to a crescendo, teetering on the edge of hysteria.
“This isn’t right.”
“No one move!”
“Has the Department of Perfection been informed?”
ZogPods began to pile up in the road, causing a traffic jam. Eventually the gridlock came to a full stop as drivers and passengers abandoned their vehicles, pointing at the sky.
The citizens of Zog looked at one another, lost. Searching for reassurance on each other’s faces.
Then—
The loudspeaker sprang to life.
“Citizens of Zog, do not be alarmed!”
Complete silence fell over the city.
“Nothing is wrong.”
Shallow breaths. Stiff spines. Everyone frozen.
“Zog is perfect.”
A pause.
“Go about your day.”
For a moment, it almost worked.
A man re-tucked his perfectly pressed collared shirt. A women forced a smile. A cashier began scanning items, hands shaking.
Everyone is attempted to return to the usual morning routine.
Then outside—
The first drop fell.
Another drop.
And then another.
And another.
A woman screamed. “It burns!”
A man shielded his head. “My eyes!”
The drops were foreign daggers.
The city of Zog erupted. People ran for cover. ZogCarts scattered in the streets as people deserted their routines and their Loop Cakes. Parents covered their children using elbows, arms, and Z-Packs.
Someone shouted, “It’s happening! It’s real!”
The screens in storefront windows flickered. News anchors in the Zog News Network stared, pale-faced, their hair slightly frizzed from this unfamiliar humidity.
The voice from the loudspeaker returned, feeble.
“Do not be alarmed.”
The words glitched.
“Nothing is wrong.”
But it was.
Because for the first time in Zog’s history—
Rain had appeared.
–
The Zog Unified Police (ZUP) Precinct was in mayhem. Alarms blared—a sound never before heard in Zog: the sound of panic.
Inside City Hall, government officials congregated around a holographic weather projection, their faces stiff with forced composure.
Mayor Wexley Optner was a Zoggonian built for authority, but not for movement—round in the middle, his suit tailored to restrain rather than enhance.
His ZogBrew-colored mustache, waxed and precise, sat above a mouth that was always poised to snap. His voice, bold and brazen, carried an unshakable fortitude of a man who always got what he wanted.
When he entered a room, the shiniest Zappers—the finest, most regulation-approved footwear in all of Zog—clicked in perfect unison against the floor.
He did not adjust to the space. He expected the space to adjust to him.
His pudgy, stick-like fingers drummed against the flawlessly polished conference table, each tap a metronome of impatience and authority.
To him, Zog was not just a city—it was an echo of himself. And Mayor Wexley Optner did not tolerate blemishes.
“We have one job: maintain perfection. This defect must be annihilated—immediately!”
Chief Frawzle of ZUP straightened his shoulders. His voice cut sharper than a Zog approved knife.
“We are prepared to deploy the Atmospheric Correction Protocol.”
“Excellent.” The Mayor exhaled, relieved. “How soon will it be destroyed?”
The Chief nodded to a technician, who pulled up a government-issued control panel labeled: Cloud Destruction Interface
The room watched as silver, aerodynamic drones rose above the city, silently gliding toward the rogue cloud.
“Prepare for obliteration!” shouted the Chief.
A hush.
Then—
A voice broke the silence.
“You cannot do this.”
Heads whipped toward the entrance.
Trembling, disheveled, and marked by a stubborn ZogBrew stain on his half-tucked shirt—Dintly Fadebottom appeared in the doorway.
The same Dintly Fadebottom who had never spoken out of turn his entire life.
“You cannot remove the cloud.”
The room is hummed uncomfortably.
The Chief stared and began walking towards Dintly.
“Excuse me?”
“This is not a glitch. This is not a malfunction.” Fadebottom’s voice grew stronger. “This is real. You cannot erase it, you cannot reprogram it, and you cannot pretend it isn’t happening.”
The Mayor shook his head, which began to turn an unregulated shade of red. His veins bulged to an unnatural blue.
“Fadebottom, you are out of line. This city has flourished because we do not tolerate unpredictability. Ever.”
Dintly took a giant step forward.
“And yet—” he gestured toward the sky, “there it is.”
The cloud remained, slowly inching closer. Darkening.
“Your drones won’t work. According to our calculations, it will just come back tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that!”
Drops began to fall near City Hall.
The drones hovered in limbo, awaiting final confirmation.
The Chief lifted a finger, about to issue the command—
Then—
A lightening bolt struck.
Screams exploded in the hallway and on the streets.
The Mayor stared as a single splatter spread across the polished, pristine conference table. He looked up and noticed a tiny hole in the ceiling.
For the first time ever—
The Mayor was not in control of Zog.
–
Sporting a perfectly pressed, regulation-grade raincoat, Mayor Wexley stood atop the podium outside City Hall. Beside him, his assistant gripped a government issued umbrella, angling it precisely to shield him and his mustache from the downpour.
His voice overpowered the city speakers, spilling into every street, every market, every meticulously ordered home.
“Citizens of Zog, remain calm! The rain you see before you is not a mistake. It is, in fact, a carefully planned innovation! We call it… Hydration Enhancement! A supreme new feature of Zog’s perfect climate!”
Uneasy whispers spread through the drenched crowd. Some skeptical citizens muttered, but others nodded. If the leadership said it was planned… maybe it was?
The Mayor continued:
“For years, Zog has led the way in predictability and flawlessness. But perfection must evolve! Thanks to our tireless efforts, we have introduced Rain 1.0—a premium weather experience designed for maximum hydration and atmospheric variety!”
A banner unfurled over City Hall, displaying the words: “Rain: A Progressive Vision for Zog”.
The officials stepped forward in matching raincoats, handing out official government-certified umbrellas.
A soggy reporter shifted uncomfortably, clutching a dripping notepad.
“So… this was intentional? But what about the cloud?”
The Mayor wiped his forehead and let out a thunderous belly laugh. “Ah, yes! We call it Cloud Plus! A bonus feature. Here in Zog, we’re always pushing the boundaries of excellence.”
He smiled, his mustache curling upwards.
“Perfection continues to smile upon us!”
–
The next morning, Zoggonians woke to misty streets and a brand new weather report.
Brenda, the cheerful news anchor appeared on-screen, her smile extra white and extra bright, as if it had been optimized overnight for peek reassurance.
“Good morning, Zog! Another absolutely perfect day ahead—mild temperatures, no wind, and of course…”
She paused, unshaken.
“Our usual rain cloud!”
The cameras cut to Brentley, her co-host, who sat beside her in a glossy, Zog-certified raincoat, glistening under the studio lights.
Brenda tilted her head, admiring. “You’re looking extra dapper this morning, Brentley. What do you have on there?”
“I’m glad you noticed. This is the latest model- designed for full moisture protection and unparalleled comfort. Citizens, be sure to visit your official certified provider of pre-approved rain gear—ZogFits, the only name in optimized rain protection!”
“Stay dry, out there folks!”
A banner rolled across the bottom of the screen:
“Rain: A progressive weather experience. All citizens encouraged to adjust and enjoy.”
Outside, the cloud lingered overhead. The rain continued.
And in perfect unison, the citizens of Zog opened their government-issued umbrellas, zipped their yellow Z-Packs, and began their day.
–
Otis and Elra Zwiff stepped out onto the damp streets of Zog.
The rain trickled in a quiet disobedience, pattering against the spotless streets.
Otis stomped through puddles.
“Mama, look!” he said, pointing towards the ground.
Elra stiffened and slowly turned her head.
He gestured at something—something new—rooted between the puddles. Something different.
A flower.
Not part of the Zog Standardized Botanical Program.
Not Pleasant Yellow. Not Perfect Pink.
Something else.
Red.
A color Zog has never seen blooming before.
Alive. Unregulated. Wild.
Elra drew a slow breath, the air around her thick with rain and something else—something unfamiliar. Then, a wide smile broke across her face. She and Otis laughed as they splashed through the puddles, hand in hand. Water splattering around them like a quiet rebellion.
Somewhere, Mayor Wexley’s voice hissed over a speaker, demanding the gardening department to be dispatched immediately.
No new species of any kind allowed.
But in the meantime, the rain kept falling.
And the flower kept growing.
What is the best customer service you’ve ever received?
Most people have horror stories about their treatment at the hands of the healthcare industry. My story of exceptional service is recent, and came from a hospital scheduler.
My husband has a ton of medical problems, and recently was faced with the need for three separate CTs. They were prescribed by 3 separate doctors from 3 totally separate health networks in 2 different towns. He needed a routine lung CT, and CTs to monitor aneurysm repairs in his aorta and his brain.
Each hospital network does their own imaging. When I went to schedule the first, I told the young woman representative that this series of imaging was going to be stressful for my husband, and I wished he could have them all at the same time. I wasn’t asking for anything, just commenting on the overall situation.
Well, she listened and decided to do something about it. She asked for the doctors’ names, and where they all worked. The next day she called back. She’d convinced all the doctors to allow her hospital to do the CTs, and already gotten the orders squared away. We made one appointment and took care of everything.
This determined young woman is my customer service hero.
This Won’t End Well… Trump’s Plan to Turn the U.S. Military on Americans
Here it is. What to expect in the USA.
What do you think about seemingly “able-bodied” disabled people?
I was very close to being a “able-bodied” disabled person.
I had peripheral artery disease (PAD), not actually a disease, but plaque and junk builds up in your arteries and stops the blood. Walking a mile turned into extreme pain.
My doctor thought it was arthritis. One day changed all that.
I was working on something that needed upper body strength with a 19-year-old. I ran circles around him, and he was no weakling. Then I was walking with a co-worker with an artificial leg, I had to tell him to slow down.
From the waist up, I could compete with a 19-year-old as far as strength, from the waist down, it was all I could do to keep up with a guy who was older than me and had an artificial leg.
Besides being barely able to walk, I had to drink a half gallon of water to have sex.
That got my doctor to realize, that ain’t arthritis.
I got surgery and now I’m fine. But just because I might look not only healthy but in good shape for someone ten years younger, doesn’t mean I don’t have a disability. In my case it was fixed with surgery and drugs, but many disabilities aren’t that simple.
All this is a lot of words to say: Never judge someone, who can’t physically walk a mile in your shoes.
After Seeing The Worst Of Female Nature, Bachelor Went His Own Way 40 Years Ago And Has ZERO Regrets
What doesn’t anyone tell you about hospitals? Why?
When patients die, they don’t put a sheet over their heads or put them in body bags before they are taken to the morgue. They usually leave the patient in their bed and let them lie just as they were when they were alive.
The reasoning behind this is that if you see someone pushing a gurney with a fully covered body, everyone knows that it is a dead patient. And that can scare some people. Not covering the patient’s face usually leads most people to think that a patient is simply being wheeled from one unit to another.
I found out about this after working in a hospital and watching our security officer push a gurney with a man on it down the hall. After ten minutes, the officer was still chatting nonchalantly, and I was like, “Uh, don’t you have to take this guy somewhere?” He goes, “I have time. He’s going to the morgue.” When I asked why they didn’t cover the patient’s face, the officer laughed, “You thought he was asleep the whole time!”
Canadians are threatening an insurgency if the US invades. Do they realize that their families that they leave behind will pay the price?
Canadians are threatening an insurgency if the US invades. Do they realize that their families that they leave behind will pay the price?
And you say that you are not Nazi’s? Right…..
However, if you fucking assholes attack, I am not going to head to the bush to fight the invaders. I am going to head south where guns are plentiful and targets are even more plentiful. Canadians look like Americans, sound like Americans, have visited the USA multiple times and know the US – generally better than Americans do. We are the sixth most armed country in the world and produce some of the best snipers in history. We are not going to fight the American soldiers in Canada, we are going south and killing you, your family and your friends.
No one will be able to tell me from any other old white guy from a northern state. It has been a long time since Initial Combat Training but after a few hours on the range, I will be able to put a NATO standard centre mass at 600m. I trained people in making IED’s so be very careful going to the gas station or the grocery.
Plant a blast, hit the first responders with sniper fire and be gone to the next town before the last victim bleeds out. Your police will be treating old white guys like they treat young black guys at a traffic stop within a month.
Any soldiers mess with Canadian civilians, I go to areas around their bases and hit schools, buses and commuters where their dependents and friends live. When your police get me, and they will, there are 100,000 others doing the same fucking thing and millions more that you are pissing off. BTW, the Canadian Army is not going to be doing anything different except that they will have better weapons, more explosives, more money and better intelligence. They will be the scalpel while guys like me will be creating noise and dust for them to hide in.
29 Arabs almost broke you on 9/11. What do you think a hundred thousand pissed off Canadians are going to accomplish.
What? You are saying “No fair!”? Poor baby. You set the rules of war with your question, didn’t you?
We play by the rules as long as you do. When you don’t, we are just fine with that. Just ask the SS after they murdered some Canadian POW’s in 1944. Wait, you can’t. We didn’t take prisoners from the SS after that.
Shorpy
What’s the pettiest reason a customer asked to see a manager?
Not quite the answer to this question, but I believe it’s still worth telling…
So, many years ago, when my youngest daughter was still in comprehensive school, she bought a black bag from TopShop. About 45 quid it was, which isn’t cheap for a teenager that doesn’t work now, and was dearer back then. The bag itself was fine but there was a big problem. Absolutely everything you put in it came out stinking of rotten fish! I kid you not…I’ve never encountered this problem before, and haven’t since. It was so bad, it was stinking her room out, and her school books. Not one to want to cause a fuss, my daughter gloomily stopped using this bag and started taking something less suitable to school. I said that she should return it. She tried to, but was was fobbed off by staff,saying she’d used it,and it was something she’d put in there causing the problem. She returned home with the bag,went straight to her room and said nothing. I was not having that. So I went back to the shop with her. We tried again. We were fobbed off again. I asked to speak to the manager. Turns out she WAS the manager, and the silly bitch started getting clever with me after that. Bad idea. I informed her that we wouldn’t be leaving without either a refund, or a new bag. She started getting agitated, rubbing her bright pink lips together, getting lip gloss all over her teeth…yuk! She was having none of it. Pity, because neither was I. I went to the bag section, and retrieved the same bag,and brought it back to the till. On opening the bag, I soon discovered that it stunk of fish! So much so, other people at the tills could also smell it. A smug grin slowly started forming on myself, as I went back and took ALL the other bags of the same kind, and brought them back to the manager. Every single one of them stunk. That bitch with the pink teeth just started stuttering, shaking her head, and told a young colleague to take all the bags in the back, and to issue us with a refund. But I was now extremely pissed off, and was no longer happy with just a refund, after being ‘shown up, and made out to be a petty liar’. I wanted a refund, plus compensation. She tried to give us a voucher to use in TopShop. I asked her why would we want to shop in her shop again, after the way we’ve been inconvenienced, and treated this time? So she issued the refund, plus gave me a 20 quid on top. I told her that it’s not my bag, it’s my daughters, she bought this item, and it’s her you should be dealing with. Embarrassed, she gave the money to my daughter. I thanked her, said goodbye to her, and the little crowd of people at the tills, and we left.
We still laugh about that day now. I wonder if anyone told her she had lip gloss all over her teeth? Probably not.
Sir Whiskerton and the Case of Professor Quentin’s Quirky Experiments: A Tale of Mad Science and Feline Ingenuity
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of science, chaos, and one very determined cat. Today’s story is one of mad scientists, talking chickens, and a farm on the brink of becoming a laboratory. So, grab your safety goggles and a sense of humor, as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of Professor Quentin’s Quirky Experiments: A Tale of Mad Science and Feline Ingenuity.
The Arrival of Professor Quentin
It all began on a quiet morning when Sir Whiskerton was enjoying a peaceful nap on the farmer’s porch. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the farm was its usual serene self—until a loud BANG shattered the tranquility. Sir Whiskerton bolted upright, his fur standing on end. “What in the name of catnip was that?” he muttered, his ears twitching in irritation.
He leapt down from the porch and made his way to the source of the noise: a rickety old van that had pulled up to the farm. The van was covered in strange symbols and smelled faintly of burnt toast. Out stepped a man in a lab coat, his wild hair sticking out in every direction and his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Greetings, farm folk!” he declared, his voice booming. “I am Professor Quentin, and I have come to conduct experiments that will revolutionize the world of science!”
Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow. “Experiments? On our farm?”
“Indeed!” Professor Quentin said, rubbing his hands together. “This is the perfect location for my groundbreaking research. Now, where are my lab rats?”
Before Sir Whiskerton could protest, Professor Quentin had already recruited two unsuspecting volunteers: Ditto the Kitten and Echo the Tiny Gray-and-White Kitten. “You two will be my assistants!” he declared, handing them tiny lab coats and goggles. “Science awaits!”
Ditto and Echo looked at each other, their eyes wide with confusion. “Lab rats?” Ditto echoed, his voice trembling slightly.
“Don’t worry,” Sir Whiskerton said, giving the kittens a reassuring nod. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”
The Experiments Begin
Professor Quentin wasted no time in setting up his laboratory in the barn. He filled the space with bubbling beakers, whirring machines, and a contraption that looked suspiciously like a toaster with wings. “Now,” he said, addressing Ditto and Echo, “let’s begin with Experiment Number One: The Vocalization Enhancer!”
He placed a small device on Doris the Hen’s head and flipped a switch. There was a loud ZAP, and suddenly Doris began speaking in perfect English. “What in the name of cluck just happened?” she exclaimed, her voice clear and articulate.
The farm animals gasped in amazement. “Doris, you’re talking!” Rufus the Dog barked, his tail wagging furiously.
“Of course I’m talking!” Doris said, fluffing her feathers. “And let me tell you, this farm could use a little more organization. Starting with the feed schedule. Honestly, who thought it was a good idea to mix chicken and goose feed?”
Sir Whiskerton sighed. “This is going to be a long day.”
The Chaos Unfolds
Professor Quentin’s experiments continued, each one more bizarre than the last. He created a Levitating Vegetable Generator, which caused the carrots and potatoes to float around the barn like balloons. “Marvelous!” Professor Quentin exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Just imagine the possibilities! Levitating salads! Floating stews!”
Next, he unveiled the Hypersonic Egg Scrambler, a machine designed to scramble eggs without cracking them. Unfortunately, it also scrambled the chickens’ sense of direction, causing them to wander aimlessly around the farm. “I feel… dizzy,” Doris said, swaying on her feet. “And hungry. Very hungry.”
The final straw came when Professor Quentin introduced the Teleportation Tonic, a glowing green liquid that he claimed could transport objects across space and time. “Watch this!” he said, pouring a drop onto a hay bale. There was a loud POP, and the hay bale vanished—only to reappear moments later, hovering above the pond.
“That’s not teleportation,” Sir Whiskerton said dryly. “That’s just bad aim.”
The Kittens’ Concerns
As the experiments grew more chaotic, Ditto and Echo began to worry. “What if something goes wrong?” Ditto whispered to Echo. “What if we get turned into… I don’t know, talking toasters?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Echo replied, though her voice trembled slightly. “Sir Whiskerton won’t let anything happen to us.”
Sir Whiskerton, who had been eavesdropping, gave the kittens a reassuring smile. “You’re right, Echo. I’m keeping a close eye on Professor Quentin. But if things get out of hand, I’ll step in.”
The Turning Point
The turning point came when Professor Quentin unveiled his latest invention: the Mind-Melding Machine. “This device,” he declared, “will allow two beings to share their thoughts and experiences. Imagine the possibilities! Chickens could understand cows! Dogs could understand cats!”
“I already understand cats,” Rufus said, tilting his head. “They’re sneaky and they like to sit in sunbeams.”
“Quiet, Rufus,” Sir Whiskerton said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the machine. “Professor Quentin, this invention is dangerous. What if it goes wrong?”
“Nonsense!” Professor Quentin said, waving a hand dismissively. “Science is all about taking risks! Now, who wants to be the first to try it?”
Before anyone could protest, Professor Quentin placed the machine on his own head and flipped the switch. There was a loud BUZZ, and suddenly the professor’s eyes glazed over. “I… I can hear them,” he whispered. “The chickens… the cows… even the vegetables. They’re all talking to me!”
The farm animals watched in horror as Professor Quentin began to babble incoherently, his mind overwhelmed by the thoughts of every creature on the farm. “Make it stop!” Doris squawked. “He’s going mad!”
Sir Whiskerton Saves the Day
Realizing that things had gone too far, Sir Whiskerton leapt into action. He quickly unplugged the Mind-Melding Machine and removed it from Professor Quentin’s head. The professor blinked, his eyes returning to normal. “What… what happened?” he asked, looking around in confusion.
“Your experiment backfired,” Sir Whiskerton said, his tone firm but kind. “Science is a powerful tool, Professor Quentin, but it must be used responsibly. You can’t just rush into things without considering the consequences.”
Professor Quentin nodded, his face pale. “You’re right. I got carried away. I just wanted to make a difference.”
“And you can,” Sir Whiskerton said, “but you need to be more careful. Start small. Test your inventions properly. And maybe… leave the farm animals out of it.”
The Moral of the Story
As the farm returned to its usual calm, the animals reflected on the day’s events.
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Science is a powerful tool, but it must be used responsibly. Whether you’re a mad scientist, a talking chicken, or a cat with a knack for solving mysteries, it’s important to consider the consequences of your actions. And sometimes, the greatest discoveries come from careful thought and patience, not reckless experimentation.
A Happy Ending
With Professor Quentin’s experiments under control, the farm animals were finally able to relax. The levitating vegetables were returned to the ground, the chickens regained their sense of direction, and Doris stopped talking (much to everyone’s relief). Professor Quentin, humbled by the experience, decided to stay on the farm and conduct his experiments more carefully, with Sir Whiskerton keeping a watchful eye.
As for Ditto and Echo, they returned to their usual antics, though they occasionally wore their tiny lab coats for fun. “We’re not lab rats,” Ditto said proudly. “We’re science kittens!”
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new experiments, and hopefully, no more mind-melting machines. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
What was the craziest thing a mechanic said about your car?
Many years ago, as a single mom working two jobs, I sent my 17 year old son, D, to 3 muffler shops to get written estimates for a complete new exhaust system. The first 2 shops gave extremely high quotes. The last place he went was to the King with the golden touch.
Well, it was quitting time, and D isn’t there to pick me up. We didn’t have cell phones. He finally shows up. Seems the manager had the mechanic hoist my car on the lift, then told my son he couldn’t get it back until he authorized the work that he didn’t even have an estimate on yet! Of course my son wouldn’t do that…I needed estimates so I could save up to have the work done. Finally, after a long standoff, my son asked to use their phone. The manager gleefully asked if he was calling to get my permission to do the work. D told him no, he was calling the cops to report vehicle theft and kidnapping a minor! They brought the car out and let him go. D brought me one of their business cards.
When we got home, I immediately called that shop. The manager was unapologetically rude and blamed my son for not okaying the work right off! I asked for the name and phone number of the District Manager. I know how franchises work, but he told me they didn’t have one so I hung up and called another location in town. Told them what happened and they were horrified, especially since the DM’s office was at the original shop.
They relayed my message to the DM and he called me early the next morning. After reviewing the cam footage, he had called the franchise owner who then fired the manager. The DM made an appointment for me to come back and he personally supervised while they replaced my entire exhaust system for free. Even though they made it right, I’ve never gone back to one of those shops.
CHINA FRIENDS! WHAT IF WE BECME REAL REFUGEES? AMERICANS & CHINESE ON REDNOTE DOES & DON’T IN CHINA
How should the international community respond to China’s execution of Canadian citizens?
Standing ovation.
They were not normal Canadian citizens.
They were convicted Canadian drug traffickers.
Not exactly human beings reallys.
If Canada doesn’t have the balls to improve its human rights record by properly protecting its citizens from drugs, then at least it can thank China for doing its job.
Why do patients lie to their doctors? What’s the benefit?
I’ve had patients lie to me, and in general it comes down to three reason:
- They lie about alcohol/cigarette use because they fear they will be blamed for their health issues, or they won’t be treated as well. They fear being judged. This is actually quite common. Most patients don’t lie, in my experience, EXCEPT when it comes to alcohol or drug use. In the old days, we were taught: “However much they say they drink, double it” when it came to taking an alcohol history (one particularly curmudgeonly consultant I worked under would say “Triple it!”). There is a tendency, particularly amongst older Australians, to hide how much they drink. You’d be surprised how many people say they drink “socially”, only for the family member to later confide that that ‘social’ drinking is two bottes of wine a day, every day.
- They lie about what investigations they’ve had or what the diagnosis is, because they don’t want you to dismiss their concerns or stop investigating. I had a young woman who came in with abdominal pain. I asked her if she had ever had this investigated before. She said no, it was the first time she had ever come in to hospital to have it investigated – but she also said she had this severe, crippling, intense abdominal pain for three years. It’s quite unlikely that this was the first time she had come in – and I do a bit of search and lo-and-behold she had presented 25 times in the past two years at different hospitals with a variety of alternate names. She did this because she had been extensively investigated – multiple scopes, abdominal MRIs, gastroenterology appointments, swallow studies, gut motility studies, H. pylori testing – she had been diagnosed with Functional Abdominal Pain (FAP) and that was, from the extensive and exhaustive investigations that had been done, multiple times, the most likely diagnosis. Well, she didn’t like that diagnosis (mostly because the main treatments are psychological support, symptom control and the pain never fully goes away) so she would lie and come in hoping that THIS time we’d find something different.
- They lie about mental health concerns because they fear being judged or that you will ascribe their symptoms to their mental health condition. This is a valid concern, as there are doctors who will do this. In the above example, I spoke of a girl with functional abdominal pain who didn’t accept her diagnosis. In that example, the diagnosis really was FAP. But there have been cases in which people have presented with actual problems, and because they have a well known mental health condition, like borderline personality disorder, their concerns have been dismissed unjustly. I remember a memorable case of a woman who came in with vague neurological complaints that didn’t fit a particular diagnosis. She was very anxious, she had some personality issues and she wasn’t exactly pleasant – she was diagnosed with functional neurological disorder, also known as FND (which is to say, they said her symptoms were due to psychological factors). Most of the time when they diagnose someone with FND, the neurology team is correct – not so in this case. She had the beginning stages of MND – Motor Neuron Disease. It was just a very unusual presentation. She was initially misdiagnosed, and I do believe that her known MH conditions played a role in that misdiagnosis.
Having said that, most patients I’ve met do not lie, most of the time, about most of their history. “House MD” is wrong in that regard. Sure, “everyone body lies” is true, but it’s a blatantly true statement that applies to everyone, patient and doctor alike, and it’s such a banal observation to make of human beings. The “House MD: writers thought they were being clever with that slogan. They weren’t.
Texas Chicken Quesadillas
Texas Chicken Quesadillas filled with chicken cooked in barbeque sauce, caramelized onions, Cheddar and Monterey Jack. Serve with plenty of guacamole, sour cream and chunky salsa!
Yield: 4 quesadillas
Ingredients
- 2 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
- 1 onion, sliced into rings
- 1 tablespoon honey
- 2 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves, cut into strips
- 1/2 cup barbeque sauce
- 1/2 cup shredded sharp Cheddar cheese
- 1/2 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese
- 8 (10-inch) flour tortillas
Instructions
- Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
- In a large, deep skillet, heat 1 tablespoon oil over medium high heat. Slowly cook and stir onion until translucent.
- Mix in honey. Stir until onion is golden brown, about 5 minutes.
- Remove from skillet and set aside.
- Place remaining oil and chicken in the skillet over medium high heat. Cook until chicken is no longer pink.
- Stir in barbeque sauce and evenly coat chicken.
- Layer 4 tortillas individually with chicken, onions, Cheddar cheese and Monterey Jack cheese.
- Top with remaining tortillas.
- One or two at a time, place layered tortillas on a large baking sheet.
- Bake uncovered for 20 minutes, or until cheese is melted. Do not let tortillas become too crisp.
- Remove from heat.
- Cut into quarters to serve.
Attribution
Posted by JBic at Recipe Goldmine 6:14:30am 7/14/03.
What is the most dangerous thing you’ve found in your backyard?
Let’s twist that question around, shall we? Instead let’s make it: What didn’t you find in your backyard that was also dangerous.
You see when I was in let’s say fifth grade and I got home, my mom was soon going to be home from work with her bike. So I was just going upstairs to do homework. Flashforward: the next day we are all downstairs: my little sister, my mother, me and my dad. My parents looked very worried and I just knew something wasn’t right. Turns out my mom left her keys in her bike and left the fence door open. Now that wouldn’t normally be a problem, but the bike got stolen and the keys that where on the keychain also gave excess to our house. So in the end my parents had to buy new keys and keyholes, because of my mom’s mistake of leaving her bike unlocked.
I hope you all have an amazing day and thank you for reading!!
PS: we never got the bike back…
PSS: I’m sorry if there’s mistakes, English is my second language and sometimes I just forget a few things.
Gray Sam
Submitted into Contest #288 in response to: Start or end your story with a breeze brushing against someone’s skin.… view prompt
Colum Knight
GRAY SAM
by Colum Knight
The most violent and subtle forces of nature are perceived by instinct. An inspired pertinence, wreathed in haste and some unwitting foreknowledge, account for the survival of birds, the skittish rodents of the city streets, the playful animals of the country field. They had all gone before Samuel woke that day. The city was empty except for its humans. A storm was coming, and Samuel had not yet sensed it. Still, guided by some vague and strident thing within him, he ventured out toward an open space, driven and perturbed toward some magnetic direction and purpose. He felt it in his neck at two points; one point above the collar bone on his right – a soft, deep well under the skin – the other just under his jaw where the habits of his heart could be seen in paired rhythms. It was suffocating. He unlaced his scarf with a pull from the left and stretched his face toward a cloud-capped sky. The light grey sidewalks underfoot darkened one Dalmatian spot at a time. The brown leather under black leather of his shoes scuffed up a dry – then wetted – percussion of movement. He was walking now, now jogging an unerring pace. It was getting late. He was late. The buses might run away. We have to catch them, he thought to himself. Samuel ran.
Samuel hurt a child once. He stepped on her shins as she was playing on the lawn of a city park. Then he kicked her while catching his balance and stepped again on her legs and hurt her badly. It unsettled him when she cried. Her father beat him. He could never remember exactly what he had said or what words were spoken. He remembered only that the child never looked at him. The shock of the pain must have distracted her from its source. Samuel thought of that day often when he ran, dizzy and hot and hurt as he felt now, running to catch his bus.
Samuel touched the polished metal handrail aboard the bus. It felt cold under wet palms. He slid a finger down until he felt a warm spot and left his grip there. With his offhand, he wrung the trapped rainwater from his loose skin off his face and felt the emerging stubble. It’s late, he thought. Later than I thought, he thought. His face sagged. The bus hissed and lurched. Samuel’s eye color was somewhere between grey and blue depending on the day; some days they might appear hazel. His hair was somewhere between darker or lighter grays; some days nearly white. Everyone seemed young to him. Everyone a stranger. All fading.
His last romance had nearly worked. She played piano. She played violin. She taught privately. She loved him – him and games and the outdoors. They camped wild and hiked off-trail as often as they could both escape. He had a knack for the wilderness. He enjoyed the sounds of solitude in the company of nature. As for music, he had no talent at all. Instrumentations confused him and he simply had no voice for the rest of it. The games, though. He liked the games. She was better at pub quizzes, he – at puzzles, history, and the sort of obscure or tedious details others make a habit of ignoring. He took trivial things in with great seriousness and a particular lack of discretion. When she left, she called him wide-eyed and dumb.
The heavy, steadying rain lulled the bus to a few quiet whispers here and there. Each of them swayed under the weight of their own bodies as the vehicle made its turns, casting waves and ripples onto flowing sidewalks. This wasn’t such a bad place sometimes, he thought. He noticed the tint of the bus windows. Either that or the world outside was getting darker fast.
He had left home that morning unsure and ill at ease. It was one of those days that were becoming more frequent when the world seemed at odds with itself – or just with him in it. The normal cacophony of useful things that populated his home and everyday life – the things that made it sing – now felt more and more unfamiliar and became more and more unused until his apartment became a place of still and prolonged silences. Even his clothes became an irritant felt daily – ill-fitting and caustic gestures of symmetry, he thought.
The bus squealed, then stopped. He could smell the heat here. There was no getting away from that. His face soured at the thought as he slid his glasses away, slick from sweat, dried them, and dropped them into a coat pocket. The still-black hairs on his curved sternum were bursting for freedom under his shirt. Every pore of his being needed air. He never could acclimate to this weather. As the bus moved, there grew a singular idea in Samuel’s head. Slow at first but escalating – doubling in size each moment. And along with it, a frenetic energy bound up, unwilling to release itself. Samuel lost his grip wiping his eyes and stammered toward an air vent.
Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’m fine, he thought. A thunderclap caught him unaware and unsupported between railings. Light shattered across every city window on the street and blinded the bus patrons in stages as a pulse of three. Lightning followed thunder and, in turn, was followed by a deafening absence of sound. Samuel collapsed. He cried. He slept. He woke. He was dizzy. Lost. Samuel clenched the collars behind his neck and moaned. Face down on flocked flooring, he pulled and wrenched and broke things.
As Samuel came to, a confusion of voices forced his large, grey-faded eyes up. More people were standing near him now than he remembered there being. Some were shouting threats. He could see others were frightened, holding themselves or the person nearest them closer. It’s later than I thought, he thought. Others had cupped both hands to their faces to hide their eyes from him. He remembered the girl in the park. He remembered the child’s father. Samuel pulled away, shoulders bent, head down. He forced open bus doors and ran free leaving a chorus of shrieks and cursing behind him.
Barely conscious of what he was doing he tore at himself until every stitch of clothing had gone. Air. Open space, he thought. He lifted both arms mid-sprint and threw his head back. The hot slime of his sweat commingled with rainwater and fell off. This pleased Samuel. All the new sensations he could now feel while running hot, sweat-covered and naked elated and delighted him. Air. He could feel the air.
It was darker and raining harder as Samuel’s faded silhouette sped into the tree line of the city park. His skin swelled, sagging off bone in clumps and ribbons.
As he neared a clearing, all the sounds of the world became dull and dampened. A vibration of hummings and a rhythm of waking dreams brought Samuel to a more calming pace and were joined only by the sounds stirring within Samuel’s chest cavity; here, a vertical line of combed bristles protruded through the sternum and shuddered quickly against one another in frantic, sonic agreements with the coming storm.
This was all the world left to him now: Grass blades whispering along arches of bare feet. Breath. Weaving wind between splayed fingers. Breath. Salt-stung eyes. Tears. Another breath in the chest. Another stride. He peered, grey-eyed and wide-eyed into the day’s night sky awaiting his halo of lights and the smell of a colder, more familiar climate.
At last, a cool breeze touched him, his face awash in light.
Home, he thought.
Then Samuel was gone and the city was empty except for its humans.
Can a doctor simply look at a patient and tell them what’s wrong with them?
I was fresh out of Navy boot camp, about two weeks into vocational training in Orlando, Florida. One morning when I went out for calisthenics, I started my pushups and got a sharp pain in my back. I could not complete a single pushup. They weren’t super strict about morning PT, so I just went back to my room and slept for another hour or so before I had to get up to get ready for class.
When I lined up with the company for inspection before class, I was feeling worse. I couldn’t stop coughing. Our supervisor told me to go to sick bay; I demurred, saying it was just a morning cough and I’d be fine. He explained that he was not making a request. So I headed to sick bay.
I got to the waiting room and signed in. The waiting room was full of patients, all coughing and sniffling as they waited to be seen by the corpsman (an enlisted rate, not a doctor or even a nurse really, but with some training in medical procedures). It was February, which is chilly even in Orlando, and everyone was a smoker. All the seats were taken, and several people sat on the floor against the wall. They made a space for me. A short time later, as I’d been doing all morning, I coughed. Suddenly I heard a voice, with a hint of a Barbados accent, shout from the back room: “Who’s that coughing?”
The overworked corpsman stormed down the hall from his office and into the waiting room. “Who is that coughing?” he repeated. Well, everyone in the room was coughing. Gotta be more specific, man. He pointed at a random person. “You! Cough!” The guy coughed. The corpsman pointed at some one else. “You! Cough!” He coughed. The corpsman pointed at me. “You! Cough!” I coughed. “Stand up! In my office, now!”
I followed him to his office. “Have a seat.” I sat. “How long have you been coughing?” I told him it had just started this morning. “Any insomnia—trouble sleeping?” Um, now that you mention it, yeah, two nights before I hadn’t slept at all. “Are you sweating a lot at night?” How did he know? “Do you have back pain?” I told him I’d been unable to do push ups that morning.
“You have pneumonia. Here’s a pass; go to the base clinic and get an X-ray to confirm. Get moving.” And with that I was on my way. The X-ray did, in fact, confirm his diagnosis: I had a spot on one lung, about the size of a quarter. Two weeks rest and aggressive antibiotics, and I was fine.
That enlisted man, without a college degree and trained in the use of bandages and Motrin, had correctly diagnosed me by sound alone, hearing me cough, twenty feet away in a room full of dozens of people coughing.
That was 30 years ago. I hope he went on to success in the medical field.
What is a story about the day I ran for my life?
I’ve got a good one for you. I was in high school and I went to a basketball game with a good buddy of mine. We were young and dumb. We didn’t realize how dangerous this particular area was.
We weren’t old enough to drive so his mother dropped us off at the basketball game. We didn’t realize we were in an all black community.
After the ball game was over, we found ourselves standing around waiting on his mother to show up and pick us up. We quickly noticed that we were the only white individuals that were left in the area.
We could hear some of the black individuals start yelling at us and making comments. They wanted us to leave but we had nowhere to go.
All of a sudden, one of the guys who was in charge of the black group of individuals said “Let’s get these white boys”.
When I tell you we took off running, I don’t mean maybe lol. We ran as fast as we could and got out of there. This was before the days of cell phones so we had no way to contact his mother and tell her where we were at. We simply ran as far away as we could until we were away from those guys.
After that, we were in a weird situation because we didn’t know how in the world we were going to get home. His mother didn’t know where we were at and we sure as hell were not going back to where we were before.
After about an hour, his mother and her boyfriend started driving around looking for us when they realized we were not in the area we were supposed to be picked up. They finally located us and we told them the story. Needless to say, it was pretty scary.
When I became an adult, I became a police officer in that same city. There was a very rough part of town that was mostly African American. White people were not welcome to go to that part of town. It’s still that way to this day.
When I was a police officer, occasionally, a white dude would make his way into that part of town and he would typically get beat up pretty bad. We would get a call of a wide individual being assaulted in that particular area.
That’s a powerful observation about stewardship of our 4 legged friends indeed, Metallicman.
I was reading something recently about the exponential growth of privately funded/for profit “animal shelters” that the System had to authorize in the months after the COVID lockdowns finally ended overnight back in early ’22. (Conveniently just in time for the next yellow ‘n blue social engineering project: the “war” in what used to be known as “the ukraine”. Ya know, the one that was gonna result in a massed NATO invasion of Russia? Shreeek! hehheh)
The reason for this exponential growth was of course in order to handle the enormous amounts of cats, dogs and other unfortunate creatures simply abandoned on the sides of roads or in hiking trail car parks once the need for their company evaporated, and the chumps all had to return to work and quit beer for breakfast and allday Netflix.
The unsettling number of court cases and prosecutions for gross animal abuse are still ongoing, particularly across the UK and Ireland where such prosecutions have always been common occurrence unfortunately. The details of the abuse are NSFW, naturally. A particularly disturbing form of “human”. Unimaginable to any normal pet owner who’s always treated their charges as one of the family. And also a reminder of the two legged animals that always walk amongst us disguised as your average lemon, but are anything but– see Domain Q&A for an explanation of that. Sounds to me that many of those “shelters” were set up by low-functioning psychopaths in search of some easy targets who can’t really fight back.
Spoiler: yes, there really are creatures out there that would go to the trouble.
But anyway, point well taken… do unto others, indeed.