tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-216756972024-03-23T13:06:46.135-05:00The Life & Times of Conor J. MurphyAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-2848689855141633602012-06-29T16:20:00.000-05:002012-06-29T16:23:45.231-05:00Today Show Will No Longer Serve Curry<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>S</strong>avannah Guthrie has big yellow pumps to fill and she must be acutely aware of the delicate tightrope she now walks while the NBC buzzards circle overhead. NBC announced earlier today that Guthrie will replace Ann Curry as <em>Today</em> co-host, and Guthrie sat awkwardly this morning on the <em>Today</em> couch next to Matt Lauer and the gang after Curry was unceremoniously publicly executed on national television on Thursday.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Curry, long the scapegoat for <em>Today</em>’s ratings slips, made it crystal clear among tears and sobs that her departure was not of her making saying, “This is not the way I expected to leave.” Like many loyal <em>Today</em> viewers, I choked on my morning cup of Joe while I painfully watched America’s big sister be handed a cigarette and blindfold. True, the ratings are not what they were after Meredith Vieira packed her bags, and her sass, just over a year ago, but to blame Curry for the plummet in ratings is shortsighted. Curry was clearly not the ratings killer that the NBC suits would have you believe. The plunge in ratings after Vieira’s departure only proves that she had a loyal viewership despite the glib and arrogant Lauer. Vieira had the balls to hold Lauer by his, a task the sincere and professional Curry simply wasn’t up to. Yet, Curry was the one who got axed rather than Lauer, whose following is receding quicker than his hairline. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><br />To use a phrase made popular by <em>Today</em>’s News Reader, Natalie Morales, “here’s what’s trending.” General consensus among those who left comments on <em>Today</em>’s Facebook page is that Lauer did Curry something dirty and while he may not have actually stabbed her, he certainly held the knife she fell on. During Curry’s four-minute soul-baring farewell, viewers noticed an irritated Lauer lean in to give Curry the kiss of death as she clumsily tried to shield herself from his embrace, as if it wasn’t awkward enough to watch Lauer casually sling his arm across the back of the couch just stopping short of pissing on the throw-pillows to stake his territory. <br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">While some have ridiculed Curry for her blubbering four-minute farewell, I cannot think of a better way for her to exit. She was honest, raw and sincere, attributes we have all come to admire from Curry. True to form, Curry once again exhibited her trademark bravery and grace she typically reserves for her reports from war zones when she gave NBC the finger as she recounted her flawless credentials. She looked dead into the camera lens and told viewers, “You are why I have ventured into dangerous places and interviewed dictators and jumped out of planes and off of bridges and climbed mountains and landed in the South Pole and convinced the Dalai Lama to come live in our studio.”<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But where was the big fanfare? The video synopsis of a near-perfect 15-year tenure with <em>Today</em>? As one person so astutely commented on <em>Today</em>’s Facebook page, “Meredith Vieira got a four-hour farewell, I went to the kitchen for coffee and Ann Curry was gone.” And that’s the rub, Vieira got the bash of a lifetime while Curry simply got bashed. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Next to Curry’s earnestness and nerdy charm, Lauer seemed smug and disingenuous and Curry simply didn’t have Vieira’s brass, or the girlish pep of Katie Couric to counterbalance Lauer’s ego—cue Guthrie.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A lawyer by training, Guthrie seems fresh out of the sorority house and may not have the prowess to navigate this sinking ship safely to harbor. Sure, she’s cute and bubbly, but she sometimes comes off ditsy and won’t likely possess the personality to keep Lauer in check. I for one will not tune in to see the-girl-next-door date raped by Lauer each weekday morning.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I tuned-in to <em>Today</em> this morning expecting some sort of explanation for yesterday’s shenanigans, and when it became apparent an explanation was not to be had, I changed the channel for the first time in 15 years. I scarcely remembered that my TV has other channels, but I landed on CBS. And, while CBS’s <em>This Morning</em> is more sober and stoic than its counterpart on NBC, it just felt right. After the public disgracing of one of America’s most beloved journalists—America’s big sister—I felt more sober and stoic.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>CJM</strong></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-20019839893323067282012-05-13T18:27:00.003-05:002012-05-13T18:32:00.719-05:00Soiled Carpet<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><i>On Mother's Day</i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><b>I</b> was young when my two brothers and I would spend
every day after school and at least nine hours a day with my grandparents
during summer vacation. Both of my parents struggled to make ends meet and my
maternal grandparents were retired; it only seemed logical that my parents
would take advantage of the free daycare that my grandparents provided. My
grandparents didn’t mind looking after us, to them we were a wealth of free
labor directly at their fingertips.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />During the summer months, my two older brothers and I were like migrant workers.
My brother Mike would mow the expansive lawn careful not to run over the rose
bushes and iris beds that dotted the lawn like fragrant land mines. My brother
Patrick would busy himself trimming the hedges and pulling weeds, quite mundane
and most of all, rather harmless tasks that would somehow lead to his eventual
loss of blood. Patrick had a real talent for bleeding, and by the end of the summer,
hundreds of dime-size droplets of his blood would splatter the front porch.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />After the cut, gash or puncture wound of the day, Patrick would sprint to the
front door gripping the bleeding extremity and crying for my grandmother’s help.
She would answer the door, eyes squinting against the summer sun and holding
whatever utensil she was using moments before for cooking. She would always ask
in a smooth and even tone “Pat honey, what in the world did you do to yourself
this time?” She displayed stoic patience for Patrick’s sobbing and the stream
of blood running down his face, arm or leg. She would leave him lamenting at
the front door while she made a path for him to walk on out of large black
garbage bags. If there was one thing she would not tolerate, it was soiled
carpet.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />I would spend the summers in the house with my grandmother. She was afraid that
Mike would run me over with the riding lawn mower and I believed her. Mike once
had the plastic string of a trimmer break and hit him in the eye, so I wasn’t
very confident in his vision. I would sit at the breakfast table and break
green beans from my grandparents’ garden until my thumbnails were green and my
fingertips throbbed. My grandmother would can green beans to use in winter for
our Sunday dinners and she had strict specifications for how large each piece
should be. Break a piece too large or too small and that was grounds for a
forceful smack on the back of the head. She insisted that you do things her way
and if she was satisfied with your toils, you earned your daily pay of tuna
salad sandwiches and lemonade with angel food cake and strawberries for
dessert.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />My grandparents could not have been more different. My grandfather was jovial
and kind-hearted and would often warn of the dangers of picking up wooden nickels.
He would cry at commercials both happy and sad and any commercial depicting
starving children would ensure that he would spend the next half hour with
tears blurring his vision while he looked for his checkbook that incidentally
was always in his front shirt pocket. “It’s always the last place you look,” he
would comment while moving on to search for his glasses that inevitably rested on
the top of his head. My grandmother, on the other hand, never shed a tear. I
didn’t see her cry once when one after another of her nine older brothers and
sisters died. She would simply shake her head and mutter to herself, “I hope
they were right with the Lord.”</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />I realize now that she kept me in the house with her not because my brother was
likely to mow me down literally, but because in me, she found a sparring
partner that could match her harsh quips better than anyone could. One day when
I was 11, sitting on my legs at the kitchen table breaking a pie plate full of
green beans, she turned to me with a scowl and flatly stated, “If I find one
piece bigger than an inch I’ll choke you.” Of course she wouldn’t really have
choked me, but instead wrap her callused fingers around my neck to scare me
into submission. I looked up from my pie plate and very plainly replied, “I
will do what you want. But only because I know you’re not likely to live until
next summer as old as you are.” She winked at me while she loaded her green
bean packed Mason jars into the pressure cooker and asked if I wanted a piece
of cantaloupe. Of course, she lived through the next summer, even if she was on
the verge of death she would have pulled through merely out of spite.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />A few years back she was close to dying. I remember sitting in the hospital
holding my mother’s hand while my grandmother lay in the hospital bed
motionless and hooked up to several beeping machines. By all of the doctors’
accounts, she would pass within hours. I went to her bedside wanting to tell
her how much I loved her along with all the other things that she would have
never tolerated me saying to her in the past. I put my hand on hers while tears
began to sting my eyes. She turned and looked at me solemn and determined and
said, “Con, now you stop this horseshit. I am not going to die, I haven’t made
jelly yet.” She was right. A week later, she was discharged from the hospital
and home washing raspberries to make jelly.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />I was 16 years old when my grandfather died of Parkinson’s disease. He spent
the last eight months of his life in a VA hospital 100 miles from where we
lived. My grandmother made the two-hour trip to see him everyday for eight
months; she never missed a day. I never once heard her tell my grandfather that
she loved him, but actions speak louder than words, as the adage goes and if
that is true, then a two-hour trip to sit next to man who barely remembered you
for 10 hours a day for eight months speaks volumes.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />After the funeral, my grandmother sold the house where she and my grandfather
had spent 30 years together:</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;">Thirty
years plowing, planting and picking. She couldn’t take care of the yard and the
garden by herself, especially with both of my older brothers now adults and not
as willing to work for tuna salad sandwiches. She moved into a small town house
on the south side of town, but not until I relocated every last iris bulb from
the yard from which she took such pride.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />We replanted the iris bulbs in her new yard as my mother watched nervously
afraid she might spot a worm in the soil. I still spent my summers with my
grandmother, not because I needed the supervision, but because I enjoyed her
company and loved her stories. When she was 18, she and her niece, who incidentally
is a year younger than she, took a train to Calif. They soon found work, in
addition to a group of sailors ready to be shipped off to war the following day.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;">They danced all night at a club where Glen
Miller and his band were performing. I loved to see her bright eyes and her
mischievous smirk spread across her face as she recalled her youth, both of us
knowing full well that she was saving a few details for herself.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />I would beg her to tell me “the chicken story”, not because it was particularly
pleasant, but I liked to dare myself to listen to the story in its entirety and
not squirm from disgust. When she was about 15, she lived on a farm in rural
Ill. Her mother had asked her to get a chicken from the yard and kill it for
dinner. It was the first time she had ever killed a chicken, or any animal for
that matter. She spread the chicken’s neck out on the chopping block and closed
her eyes as tight as she could. When she opened her eyes again, the chicken was
running around the yard while its beak lay to the right of the ax embedded in
the wood. My grandmother darted to the door terrified of the beakless chicken
that was perhaps ever so slightly more terrified than she. She would throw back
her head and laugh with her whole body slumped over the arm of her burgundy
Lazy Boy recliner and gasp between fits of laughter, “I was never asked to kill
another chicken!”</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />I sank back in my chair gagging and appalled at the senseless carnage and
wondering how she could just laugh it off. If a bleeding grandson, nine dead
siblings and husband and a beakless chicken didn’t give this woman a moist eye
then nothing would.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /><br />Later that summer after I had come into the house from mowing the lawn, I
noticed that my grandmother’s cat had something moving in its mouth. My
grandmother swatted at the cat with the wooden spoon in her hand when the cat
released a small mangled, shaking rabbit. My grandmother scooped the frightened
prey up into a hand towel, lowered her glasses from her head to the bridge of
her nose and carefully examined the squealing rabbit in the blood soaked cloth.
She determined that the poor bunny was indeed suffering and would not live. The
rabbit needed put out of its misery. I trusted her opinion; after all, she grew
up on a farm.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I began scolding the cat as my grandmother made her way through the sliding
glass doors to the back porch with the rabbit still enveloped in her hand towel.
She closed the door behind her. There was silence for about thirty seconds,
then finally I heard the loud smack of a cement block crashing against the
concrete porch. It was done. Moments later, she returned with tears streaming
down her face. She walked over to the kitchen sink and moistened an old washcloth.
She then started to clean the rabbit’s blood from the carpet while softly
crying to herself. If there was one thing she would not tolerate, it was soiled
carpet.</span><br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;">
<o:p></o:p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-78036865606467146922012-05-01T13:11:00.000-05:002012-05-01T13:11:29.533-05:00Humiliation 360<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>After my all-too-brief 15 minutes of fame from yesterday's <a href="http://www.npr.org/2012/04/29/151654947/identity-crisis-your-name-is-famous-but-you-arent" target="_blank">NPR</a> article, I decided to post a story I wrote in June 2006 about my own encounter with a celebrity.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong>I</strong>’ve never been one to swoon over celebrities and have always been of the opinion that they are just like me but with better clothes and an endless Botox reserve. Of course, I can count the number of celebrities I have seen in person on one hand. I was bewildered to see Rod Stewart driving a very small British convertible as his puffy hair trailed in the wind. I saw Christina Applegate walking in Boston’s theater district surrounded by, what I assume to be, hired muscle. I met David Sedaris at a book signing where he pointedly asked if I enjoyed his monkey, he was referring to his primate friend that sat on his shoulder while he read. And, last night I met Anderson Cooper.<br /><br />Anderson Cooper was scheduled for a lecture at the Boston Public Library to promote his new book <em>Dispatches from the Edge</em>. I have a lot of respect for Anderson and daydreamed about having a conversation with him since I first spied the announcement that he was coming.<br /><br />While on my lunch break three days ago, I scooted off to a nearby Barnes & Noble to purchase his book. A book of this nature is not something I normally would enjoy, preferring tomes by the likes of Judy Blume or the adventures of Amelia Bedelia, but since he was coming to Boston, I desperately wanted an excuse to meet him and getting my booked signed was the ticket.<br /><br />That night, I stayed up late to read his book cover-to-cover in case the universe smiled on me and I was allowed to meet him. I wanted to be prepared when he asked what I thought of his book or insisted I reveal my favorite parts. I was resolute to be astonishingly articulate and charismatic; I wanted to leave him thinking, now that’s a guy I want as a friend. I imagined he would say something like, “Gosh Conor, you should be on CNN, why don’t you be my co-host for <a href="http://ac360.blogs.cnn.com/" target="_blank">360</a>?” I knew that if he met me we would be best friends forever.<br /><br />Yesterday morning I picked my clothes for the office with Anderson in mind. I paired my gray trousers with my favorite shirt, a white button-down with thin vertical blue stripes. I navigated the length of smart blue and white diagonal striped tie that I thought Anderson himself would wear. The weather yesterday morning was cold and drizzly so I completed my ensemble with a charming black wool sweater. My hair fell in all the right places, my skin was especially clear and I just had a handsome glow. I imagined people would nudge one another on the street and whisper, “Is that a Ralph Lauren model?” I was ready to become Anderson’s best friend.<br /><br />I wasn’t disappointed when I got to the library. They were selling Anderson’s book in the lobby, a good omen that ensured Anderson would be signing copies. Upon entering the lecture hall, a dowdy young woman (surely not the kind of person that should be around Anderson) greeted me and asked if I wanted my booked signed. I shook my head vigorously unable to form any sort of audible confirmation. She handed me a numbered card that would designate my position in the book-signing queue. I heard the couple behind me grumble, “That asshole got the last card.” I beamed; <em>I</em> was the asshole that got the last card, which meant I was the last person he would talk to. Without a line behind me, it wouldn’t be awkward when he invited me for cocktails.<br /><br />I grabbed a seat in the exact center of the room, reasoning this would be the best seat for viewing no matter where he was on stage. I sat in my seat silent and waiting with sweating hands and rehearsing my talking points for when we met.<br /><br />“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cooper, I really admire your frankness when writing about your coverage of Bosnia.,” or “where did the government go awry when responding to Katrina?,” or “I found your book to be a riveting memoir about loss and survival. How did you find the courage to weave your own personal story of grief into the plot?”<br /><br />Anderson gave a brief lecture, and to my disappointment, he regurgitated excerpts from his book, but it didn’t matter. The real magic would happen when we met.<br /><br />After the lecture, the frumpy mess handing out cards began calling numbers by groups of 20. I waited anxiously and wondering what he would say to me. “Numbers 110 through 130,” the woman at the podium finally called. I was up! I was 130! I waited what I thought was a reasonable amount of time to join the line and hoping to be last. Unfortunately, a few others were even slower. Apparently, an oxygen tank makes one really pokey. Six or seven people stood behind me, but it didn’t matter, Anderson would surely have the courage to invite me for drinks in front of a few people. I would then turn to them and smirk slyly as if to say, “He could have asked you, but he asked me, bitches!”<br /><br />The woman in front of me was getting her book signed and I began shaking nervously. When it was my turn, I handed over my copy, turned to the title page, with a trembling hand.<br /><br />“What’s your name?” he asked extending arm for a handshake and I grabbed his hand and he gave a firm squeeze. “Cah— Conor,” I managed while still holding his hand.<br /><br />“That’s a cool name,” he said, “C-O-N…?” “C-O-N-O-R,” I said, still squeezing his hand.<br /><br />“Are you from Boston, Conor?” “Nah— no, I’m from Illinois, orig—originally,” I stuttered, becoming self-conscious and finally releasing the death grip I had on his fingers.<br /><br />“Where in Illinois?” “Between Chicago and Decatur—um wait—I’m from Decatur—St. Louis—no wait—between Chicago and St.—well if you draw a line… Central. I’m from central—central Illinois!” I cried. I wasn't prepared for the question. <em>Damn your ruthless interviewing tactics</em>, I thought.<br /><br />The blood drained from my face and I began giggling uncontrollably while trying to push my extraordinarily short hair behind my ears. The couple behind me earlier in the evening was right. I was an asshole. He handed back my signed book and with a large smile on his face, said, “Thanks for coming out Conor,” in the tone of voice one uses to thank a child who put away his toys without any help. <br /><br />I let out an odd shriek reminiscent of a dolphin distress call, a sort of “ea-a-ooo-a-ewww” in a decibel that I’m sure only a dachshund could hear. I finally composed myself and managed a guttural “thanks man” while walking backwards and leering at him. I felt like I was out of my body and witnessing the entire painful exchange from the ceiling. It was like a conversation between Sandy and Flipper—Anderson, impish and good-looking while I flailed my flippers and squealed. <br /><br />Anderson and I did not become fast friends, but just to make certain, I laid in bed with the covers tight over my head and replayed the entire excruciating incident in my thoughts until sunrise. Cool and charismatic I was not, but at least I got my book signed.<br /><br />I imagine one day Anderson and I will sit in a swanky Manhattan bar and laugh about the whole episode.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-69589212305108744812012-04-30T14:45:00.000-05:002012-05-01T14:03:32.858-05:00Had I'd Known NPR Would Link to My Blog<ol>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong>I</strong> would have updated my blog last night with something witty or plagiarized a short story by Mark Twain instead of drinking five glasses of Franzia and scraping peanut butter out of the jar with my tongue.<br /><br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
I would have Photoshopped (Adobe hates that verb) the photos of me on this blog to make myself appear more like <em>Homeland</em> hottie, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0507073/" target="_blank">Damian Lewis</a>, rather than a Ronald McDonald impersonator who struggles with sobriety or a convincing argument for genetic testing.<br /><br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
I would have taken the day off so I could monitor my site’s visitor activity, instead of sending a company-wide email urging my coworkers to “suck it!” and trying to convince anyone who listens that it is only a matter of time before I have <a href="http://www.npr.org/people/2100593/terry-gross" target="_blank">Terry Gross</a>’ babies.<br /><br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
I would have never mentioned in previous posts that I <a href="http://www.conorjmurphy.com/2012/04/mac-me.html" target="_blank">curled my dog’s hair</a>, <a href="http://www.conorjmurphy.com/2012/03/curing-my-writers-block.html" target="_blank">take Tylenol PM</a> as a method for forming brilliant ideas, <a href="http://www.conorjmurphy.com/2012/02/tits-time-for-coffee.html" target="_blank">decoupaged breasts onto a coffee mug</a> or claimed to have once <a href="http://www.conorjmurphy.com/2012/02/lententide-is-here-again.html" target="_blank">handled snakes to achieve spiritual enlightenment</a>.<br /><br /></div>
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<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
I would have said something cleverer, had I known Alan Greenblatt was going to quote me directly in his article, <a href="http://www.npr.org/2012/04/29/151654947/identity-crisis-your-name-is-famous-but-you-arent" target="_blank">Identity Crisis: Your Name Is Famous But You Aren't</a>, although this is honestly the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Thank you, Mr. Greenblatt.</div>
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</ol>
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<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-1116945296017933902012-04-22T14:06:00.000-05:002012-04-22T14:31:20.986-05:00An Earth Day Message From the Lorax's Brother, Otis<span style="text-align: justify;"><b>D</b>ear people of Earth,</span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
You have been led astray, and that’s why I write this
letter today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
My brother, the Lorax, though he means well, spreads rumors
of disaster that I feel I must quell. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
It all started in college where he majored in Sociology,
and so to you I issue this apology. He became liberal and soft like the Grickle-grass
under foot, pointing his finger about smoginess and soot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
A hippie, a tree hugger, misguided, indeed. Recycling and
bicycling and speaking for trees, as if there were need. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
“The Truffala Trees, the Truffala trees,” he cries and he
judges. From his soapbox, he scarcely budges. Looking down his Lorax nose at
you and at me, refusing to see he need not speak for the trees.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
He wasn’t always this way I tell you my friend. He took
suit with the Bar-ba-loots and that was the end. Dope-smoking degenerates, those
Bar-ba-loots are, preaching sustainability and strumming guitars.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
My brother, like I, grew up with religion. A detail he
hides for fear of derision. Like you and like I, he followed the Savior, and partook
in none of this immoral behavior. A creationist, pro-life and anti-gay, he
heard the Swomee-Swan song and they led him away. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
He joined PETA, ate organic and became ever bolder—began to
believe that the Earth was much older. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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His conclusions, these delusions, were liberal and
misguided. “The Earth was warming,” he warned and he chided. “Global warming is
a farce,” I said to my brother, but he spewed his false beliefs one after
another.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I speak for the trees,” my brother insisted. Yet, even I
knew his logic was twisted. “Fossil
fuels are to blame and the weather is changing,” his beliefs are so wrong, so
liberal and wide-ranging. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You’ve got it all wrong,” I said with correction,
knowing full well I’d meet his objection. “Buy an SUV, you’ll feel so much
better, and forget all about your ideas on the weather. Forget all about your
fears of pollution. If there’s a problem, buying more is the solution.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He huffed and he shouted, he foamed and he spit; “It’s
you that’s got it wrong; you’re voting for Mitt.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Get a job,” I retorted from under his glare. “Become a
banker, a lawyer; start a family in Whoville, who cares? Just stop with this nonsense,
for once and for all. Buy this and buy that, spend more at the mall.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He turned on his heel and left in a shout, back to his protests
on Wall Street, no doubt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, so on this Earth Day, I make this confession, to
free you all of environmental oppression. My brother, the Lorax, says he speaks
for the trees and has developed a following who whole-heartedly agrees.<o:p></o:p></div>
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These people, they’re soft; their ideals are wrong. They
blog on their MacBooks and puff on their bongs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Consume more for the economy, I soundly advise. Pay no
more attention to my brother, his lies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so, dear reader, this concludes my fair notice. I’m
the Lorax’s brother. Buy more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yours,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Otis<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-33498889424300248052012-04-16T21:08:00.000-05:002012-04-17T19:54:50.687-05:00Friend Cuts Affect Hundreds<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><b>D</b>es Moines, Iowa – Founder and President of Conor J. Murphy Social Networking, Inc. announced Friday that Conor J. Murphy’s Facebook page will undergo substantial reorganization with Murphy’s friends list experiencing the majority of the impact.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“Our first-quarter returns on pokes and birthday wishes were lower than forecasted. We have to make drastic changes if we are to remain competitive in the social-networking market, and that means trimming the fat,” Murphy said in a status update from his living room.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQckvy1Lw4yDFZnhIyDc5TYuNE8YJUIenvjxdnLM9iTaYhHZFufUPG0wGVhz7tSUWruZ6iIGBIoHNwN7QnZc1zN-asGQhYOu-TKwDJu835X7_ZKCTKIVbrfHgtg5tTa5e28kMyw/s1600/Fakebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQckvy1Lw4yDFZnhIyDc5TYuNE8YJUIenvjxdnLM9iTaYhHZFufUPG0wGVhz7tSUWruZ6iIGBIoHNwN7QnZc1zN-asGQhYOu-TKwDJu835X7_ZKCTKIVbrfHgtg5tTa5e28kMyw/s400/Fakebook.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">As announced, Murphy has already dropped nearly 75 fat friends in an effort to keep his page more attractive to future friend requests.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“We plan to downsize in three phases, Murphy said. “ Those who will be affected have already been notified via a tag in a note. We are currently working with those friends to help them garner admission into other less demanding social networks like LinkedIn and Twitter.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Those who have tagged Murphy in unflattering photographs will be immediately impacted in Murphy’s Facebook restructuring, followed by friends who Murphy met once while intoxicated and those whose only status activity is a daily horoscope update.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“So far, we’re hoping that only these three groups will be touched by the downsizing, but we have to consider the value that Farmville players and those who only post photos of their children bring to our network,” Murphy stated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Since Aug., Murphy’s social network experienced a steady increase in childless friends who have more time to comment on Murphy’s status updates.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“Our childless friends are our highest performers, same with our unemployed friends—we can’t afford to lose them,” Murphy stated. “We also plan to keep immediate family despite the criticism. Sure it’s nepotism, but it’s a practice that’s extraordinarily common in social networking.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Since early 2005, Murphy’s Facebook network has experienced a dramatic increase in activity and Murphy admits that their practice for vetting friend requests hasn’t always been very sophisticated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“As long as we knew who was sending the friend request, we gladly accepted. But, now more than ever, it’s imperative that we become more selective in our approval process,” Murphy stated, citing his social network’s policy to approve requests from one-time acquaintances he met at a cocktail party and ignore only those requests depicting strange buxom women looking to meet “cool people.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">No word yet if coworkers will be cut, but insiders report that they have already been blocked from receiving status updates</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">In 2010, Murphy shocked the social-networking community by restricting his profile access to friends only, a strict departure from the company’s previous open-access policy. That decision drew sharp criticism from many of Murphy’s Facebook stalkers and left perspective employers wondering just what Murphy had to hide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Earlier this year, Murphy’s Facebook page underwent an extensive rebranding initiative by migrating to the new Timeline format and adding a cover photo, a move generally viewed as progressive and garnered Murphy several likes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Murphy’s Facebook page is not the only social-networking site that will experience drastic downsizing. Murphy has already begun un-following people on Twitter and Murphy’s MySpace page, a subsidiary of Conor J. Murphy Social Networking, Inc., is slated to be deleted in May, citing friend request activity down nearly 99 percent since 2008.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“MySpace performed well for us a decade ago, but the market has changed and we’re no longer looking to pimp our MySpace page by adding flashy backgrounds and pictures of kittens with sassy captions,” Murphy stated via his Google+ account. “It was a hard decision to make, we still remember the code to add a photo from the Internet to someone’s comments,” Murphy reminisced. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Conor J. Murphy Social Networking, Inc. made a similar decision in 2006 to close Murphy’s Friendster page. Many of those friends were reassigned to MySpace.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong><br /><br />CJM</strong></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-33704054840482387182012-04-10T00:02:00.000-05:002012-04-17T13:14:54.925-05:00Mac & Me<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-style: italic;">To Jim Torsky, who like many of us, had to say goodbye to a dear friend.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgV7RfsFwrv-l_c2mZlJD7zfAaBbWrHUUZ3bT_keZ68DafN8iLtdLVrqgV0d771-kzMc3BcbMEI7VEibXzoqGsxvxsahVP2MhEzWsLwTs5LwhA1Z3TdPc-9xg9dCvZAf3Lfyr-uQ/s1600/Mac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgV7RfsFwrv-l_c2mZlJD7zfAaBbWrHUUZ3bT_keZ68DafN8iLtdLVrqgV0d771-kzMc3BcbMEI7VEibXzoqGsxvxsahVP2MhEzWsLwTs5LwhA1Z3TdPc-9xg9dCvZAf3Lfyr-uQ/s400/Mac.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> grew up watching reruns of <i>Lassie </i>on Nickelodeon. I longed to be just like Timmy and have an unbreakable bond with a dog all my own. I imagined all the things my dog and I would do together. If I were trapped in a well, my dog would bark for help. If a rattlesnake bit me, my dog would drag me safely home by the collar of my shirt. And, if my dog and I happened to be aboard a burning ship floating aimlessly in the turbulent sea after the crew had leaped overboard taking with them all the life vests, my dog would certainly know how to bark out an SOS into the ship’s radio. My dog and I would be an extension of one another, just like Lassie and Timmy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I was seven years old when my older brother Patrick told me we were getting a puppy. Patrick burst into our shared bedroom where I was going over multiplication tables to a classroom of stuffed animals that were struggling with the concept. He ripped the little chalkboard from my hand and tossed it to the floor, barely missing Perry the Penguin. I began collecting a scream in my throat determined to deafen my brother, who I assumed was going to hold me down and fart on my face like usual. He cupped his hand over my mouth, wrapped his free arm over my torso and dragged me into our closet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“I’ll take my hand off of your mouth and tell you a secret if you promise not to yell for Mom,” he whispered to impart the seriousness of the message he had to deliver, then blew a big breath in my face to let me know that he had just eaten peanut butter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I shook my head to indicate my consent when he took his hand from my mouth and slumped down so that we were eye-to-eye. “I heard Mom on the phone,” he said in a barely audible murmur. “She’s getting us a dog.” I shrieked in a frequency that only our awaiting puppy could have heard and attempted to bolt for the closet door. He grabbed me and smacked me in the mouth bloodying both my upper and lower lips. In retaliation, I kneed him in the crotch as hard as I could and while he fell moaning into our clothes hamper, I freed myself from the closet and our bedroom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“What in the hell happened to you?” my mother asked running for the paper towels.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“The dog, dog—” I wheezed, blood running down my chin and covering my large gapped smile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“We don’t have a dog,” she said holding a wet wad of paper towels to my mouth and perhaps wondering if I was delirious from the loss of blood or the rubber cement I sometimes inhaled.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“But, we’re getting one,” I screeched through the soggy mess affixed to my lips. Pulling the bloody gob away from my mouth, she laughed and shook her head in confirmation and smiled while she examined the cuts on the insides of my lips and wiggled my teeth to ensure that they weren't lose.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">A week later my mom came home with a tiny wavy-haired Golden Retriever poking his wet nose out over the edge of the brown box that she was carrying. I loved him from the moment I saw him. I actually loved him from the moment that I knew we were getting a dog, but now that I saw him, I really loved him. I finally had my Lassie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">My parents debated for days over what to call him and they occasionally took into consideration the names that my brothers and I offered, but much to my consternation, they were not as sold on names from the <i>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles</i> as was I. I thought Shredder was a perfectly legitimate name for a dog, even if it was the name of the turtles’ arch nemesis. My parents decided finally to call him Mac and my dad believed it was a fitting name for a dog who was obviously as Irish as the family to which he belonged and who had very large paws like the wheels of a Mac Truck. After Mac chewed his way through my baby blanket, an encyclopedia and the arm of Rocky, my stuffed raccoon, I felt that Shredder would have been a completely suitable name. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Mac and I spent hours running and playing in the backyard. Well, I mostly ran and played and he spent the majority of his time chewing grass underneath a laundry basket that I had trapped him under so he wouldn’t get away. When I tired, I laid in the grass next to the laundry basket and poked my dirty index finger through the holes to stroke his snout. He especially liked it when I forced dandelions through the holes for him to nibble on. I loved his sweet puppy breath that smelled of grass and fibers from my baby blanket and I couldn’t wait for him to get bigger so that I could ride him to school.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">He did get bigger, and unfortunately, so did I. I was never able to ride him to school, so I contented myself with dressing him in my clothes. I thought he looked particularly dapper wearing my white briefs while his tail wagged frantically through the fly. He reminded me of Tom Cruise in <i>Risky Business</i>, the epitome of cool and I pinned black sunglasses to the fur on his ears. He was the younger brother that I never had. When I made myself a bologna sandwich, I made him one too. When I got a haircut, I came home and trimmed the long hair that hung from his legs. And, when I came home from Sunday school, I recounted the entire lesson to Mac.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“In the beginning,” I boomed while Mac rested his head on my lap and I imitated the preacher at the Pentecostal church that my family attended, “God created the heavens and the earth.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“What are you doing?” my mother asked poking her head inside my bedroom and scanning for dishes that tended to pile up on the empty spaces of my desk, nightstand and floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“Reading the Bible to Mac so he won’t go to H-E-L-L,” I replied, careful to spell what I thought was a forbidden word so I wouldn't get in trouble for cursing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“I don’t think you need to read the Bible to the dog,” my mother said snidely and closed my bedroom door behind her with a twist of the knob that indicated that she was looking forward to me returning to school on Monday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“Pagan,” I whispered under my breath so that only Mac could hear and he glanced up at me to concur with his glossy mahogany eyes. Mac and I both knew if anyone was bound for H-E-L-L, it was my mother for screaming profanities from her bedroom every Sunday morning when she put yet another run in her pantyhose, only to tear them off and slide on a fresh pair that she would ruin en route to her bedroom door. I knew that with each “Son of a Bitch!” emanating from her bedroom I was allotted an extra five minutes to play with my hair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Mac developed an intense ear infection that caused him to grunt and rub his head methodically on the carpet in a motion that mimicked a metronome. My mom tried to coax him into the backseat of her Pontiac Sunfire </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">for a trip to the vet first, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">with gentle cooing; second, with exasperated cursing; and finally, with the Tic-Tacs in her purse. Ear infections are fairly common among dogs with floppy ears, the vet explained while he peered inside Mac's ears with a light.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“What’s that?” the vet asked pointing to the quarter-size bald spot that was pink and raw on Mac’s right paw. My mother and I glanced at one another, then at the floor and shrugged.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“He licks it all the time,” my mom finally managed, afraid she might be deemed an unfit pet owner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The vet determined that much like girls who play with their hair, or people who bite their nails (like me), Mac had developed a nervous habit. I didn’t dare mention that he sometimes licked it so loudly at night that my mom couldn’t sleep and would give him a Benadryl to knock him out. When I protested about drugging the dog, she claimed that the vet had once prescribed an antihistamine when Mac swallowed a bee. He was the size of a grown adult at 120 pounds, so at least she wasn’t administering him an overdose. The vet also mentioned his weight and wondered how he had gotten so fat. I didn’t bring up the fact that I fed him bologna sandwiches or let him lick my ice cream bowls either. Mac was immediately placed on a diet and prescribed a bad-tasting ointment to discourage him from licking his paw. Can dogs taste? I've eaten kibble before and swore that anything with taste buds would rather starve. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“How did he develop a nervous habit?” my dad interrupted while my mom struggled to deliver the prognosis. “He’s gay you know.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“Mac is not gay,” I fired back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“Sure he is, look at the way he squats when he pees, and he probably has a nervous habit because of the way you brush him, Conor.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“Dogs like to be brushed,” I said with authority and sarcasm in my voice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“They don’t like their fur brushed the wrong way,” my dad retorted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">“Big hair is in!” I screamed running to my bedroom and slamming the door wondering how I could belong to such an unfashionable family. What did my dad know? He wore flannel shirts and had a beard. He looked like a lumberjack.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I didn’t care if Mac was gay, he was still my dog and I wanted him to know that it didn’t matter to me. I questioned what gay dogs looked like and finally it struck me. That night, I waited for my parents to fall asleep and I snuck out of my room and into the bathroom with Mac on my heels. I locked both of us in the bathroom and plugged in my mom’s curling iron. I was going to give Mac a makeover. I curled the long hair that hung from his legs into tiny spirals and asked if he had any plans for the night. He looked at me as if to say, “I don’t care if you’re gay, you are still my master and it doesn’t matter to me.” When I had finished, I marveled at my work and knew that although my mom would be mad, she would also be impressed since she was a beautician.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">When I entered high school, Mac and I didn’t spend as much time together. Often he was busy licking his paw while I was going to movies or attending parties with friends. We did however find the time to catch up every night. I confided in him who got in trouble at school or which teachers likely drank on the job or went home and dialed sex hotlines and he licked his paw. By then, he was getting old and had bad arthritis that caused him to moan, or the dog equivalent, when he tried to stand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Although my mom swore she never liked him since he bit her on her ankle when she was cooking, she babied him and gave him an aspirin every day to help with his joints while I was away at college. She came to rely on Mac to keep her company while she wandered between rooms tidying up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">By the time I was 20, his arthritis was so severe that he could barely walk and sorrowfully, my mom and I made the sad decision to end his suffering. I said goodbye to my best friend for the last time. My mom and I rode home in silence for what seemed like an eternity. She softly sighed, placed her hand on mine and said, “remember when you used to read the Bible to Mac.” She wasn’t so much asking me as she was reminding me. As she blankly stared down the road, she squeezed my hand and said to herself, “I think he’ll go to heaven.” I think he did go to heaven.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>CJM</strong></span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-47335271446630336112012-04-04T21:34:00.001-05:002012-04-17T13:15:45.738-05:00Monsters Among Us<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnyrQggE4h7dqx68LWCzZh8yQAkbz0OWqrCRgFvGLKRhEn7JTLEKpa-BIpMRatlQATBptew4aFQBUPuNG0UNOJXYNyySNh4krFLBye1MoPkTecRWIc3RnEi4nysFiJn_tFxayQew/s1600/Campfire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnyrQggE4h7dqx68LWCzZh8yQAkbz0OWqrCRgFvGLKRhEn7JTLEKpa-BIpMRatlQATBptew4aFQBUPuNG0UNOJXYNyySNh4krFLBye1MoPkTecRWIc3RnEi4nysFiJn_tFxayQew/s400/Campfire.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><b>A</b> post such as this is perhaps more appropriate for the Halloween season, but as the weather warms and the days grow longer, I get an itch for travel and exploration. Anyone who’s met me knows I have a penchant for the curious and uncanny, the mysterious and macabre. And, if you can mix a halfway decent cocktail and tell a chilling story (whether true, hearsay or fictitious) we are guaranteed to be fast friends.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /><br />I grew up in Decatur, Ill., a city of 72,000 that is possibly as famous for its grisly unsolved murders and strange local lore as it is for the Jesse Jackson protests and the ADM price-fixing scandal that would later serve as the plotline for the movie </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1130080/" target="_blank">The Informant!</a></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Decatur’s legends tell of phantom soldiers who roam the rolling hills of the city’s </span><a href="http://www.haunteddecatur.com/greenwood.html" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;" target="_blank">Greenwood Cemetery</a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> as well as accounts of mysterious </span><a href="http://www.prairieghosts.com/ilpanthers.html" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;" target="_blank">panthers</a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> that dart in and out of oncoming headlights nearly frightening motorists off the road. And, perhaps even more unsettling, rumors persist that one of the town’s </span><a href="http://www.haunteddecatur.com/shellabarger.html" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;" target="_blank">grain towers</a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> is home to a demon that attacks anyone brave enough to venture inside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was against this backdrop of whispered accounts of ghosts, ghouls and things that go bump in the night that I developed my taste for the truly terrifying. And so, to satiate my own appetite for the peculiar, I’ve compiled some of the Internet’s most nail-biting narratives for you to recount around your campfire this season. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Bridgewater Triangle, Bridgewater, Mass.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Just 45 minutes south of Boston, the Bridgewater Triangle is home to a profusion of paranormal peculiarities. According to<i> <a href="http://www.weirdnj.com/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=shop.flypage&product_id=44&category_id=2&manufacturer_id=0&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=26" target="_blank">Weird New England</a></i> by Joseph A. Citro, the sky over this area was said to glow an eerie yellow in colonial times. Colonists became so accustomed to the phenomena that they began to refer to the anomaly as the yellow days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Long considered by the native inhabitants as both malevolent and sacred, the Hockomock Swamp lies at the center of the triangle and seems to be the epicenter for all manner of unusual activity. <a href="http://jennie-arpin.suite101.com/hockomock-swamp-a35985" target="_blank">Jennie Arpin</a> reports that glowing orbs can be seen buzzing about the trees performing complex acrobatics before vanishing suddenly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Perhaps even stranger are the curious critters that seem to inhabit the area. <i><a href="http://www.boston.com/news/local/articles/2005/10/30/tales_from_the_swamp/" target="_blank">Boston Globe</a></i> correspondent Ross A. Muscato documents tales of “giant dogs with red eyes seen ravenously sinking their fangs into the throats of ponies; a flying creature that resembled a pterodactyl, the dinosaur that could fly; Native-American ghosts paddling canoes; and glowing somethings hovering above the trees. There's also talk of a shaggy half-man, half-ape seen shuffling through the woods.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Bridgewater Triangle covers nearly 6,000 acres, which gives the inquisitive plenty of alarming area to explore. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Black Dog of West Peak, Meriden, Conn.</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“If a man shall meet the Black Dog once, it shall be for joy; and if twice, it shall be for sorrow; and the third time, he shall die,” or so the legend goes of the Black Dog of West Peak.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nestled among the Metacomet Ridge, West Peak is home to a seemingly friendly preternatural pooch, but despite appearances, he’s a killer. According to <a href="http://ctweekender.com/2009/05/the-black-dog-of-the-hanging-hills/" target="_blank">Connecticut Weekender</a>, reports of the Black Dog of West Peak have been circulating since the late 1800s and those who have seen this uncanny canine describe it as eerily quiet despite being visibly happy to greet the people it meets along its path. </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">One of the earliest reports of the Black Dog was documented in the April-June 1898 edition of the <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=n_8aAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA123&lpg=PA123&dq=Connecticut+Quarterly,+%28April-June,+1898%29&source=bl&ots=JnDJcPykv2&sig=qeDK_x-hJInxvMrPbL0CsGUQMjo&hl=en&ei=locgSq_QAYGMtgfTz6nJBg&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=4#v=onepage&q&f=false" target="_blank"><i>Connecticut Quarterly</i></a> in which N.Y. geologist W. H. C. Pynchon records his own experience. In Feb. 1891, Pynchon and fellow geologist Herbert Marshall were conducting research when they noticed the Black Dog approaching in the distance. Distracted, Marshall slipped from the ledge of the cliff to his death. According to Pynchon, this was his second time meeting the killer canine, while it was Marshall’s third—causing Pynchon sorrow and Marshall death.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><a href="http://www.damnedct.com/the-black-dog-of-west-peak/" target="_blank">Damned Connecticut</a> reports that nearly half a dozen people are believed to have met their demise after spying the Black Dog of West Peak.</span></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Devil’s Tramping Ground, Chatham County, N.C.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In a patch of woods in rural Chatham County, N.C. lies a barren circle nearly 40 feet in diameter that has long spurred tales that old Mr. Split-Foot himself does his devilish dance under darkness of night like something akin to a Whirling Dervish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">According to <a href="http://greensboro.greensboring.com/2011/10/devils-tramping-grounds.html" target="_blank">Escaping Greensboro,</a> this legendary ring is something of an anomaly with nothing growing within in its perimeter for over 100 years. Additionally, locals claim that anything placed within the circle will most certainly vanish by the following morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Stranger still, <a href="http://hauntedstories.net/devil-stories/north-carolina/devils-tramping-ground" target="_blank">Haunted Stories</a> reports that the local Department of Agriculture took soil samples from the circle and was able to determine that the area is entirely sterile. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Devil’s Tramping Ground is so notorious that even our canine counterparts are said to refuse to venture inside the circle, perhaps aware of something that we humans cannot perceive. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Lizard Man of Scape Ore Swamp, Lee County, S.C.</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In June 1988, 17-year-old Christopher Davis stopped on the side of the road along Scape Ore Swamp to change a flat tire. As he was finishing, he turned to see a large bipedal creature with rough green skin and glowing red eyes dashing toward him. As Davis scurried into his vehicle to escape the monster, the Lizard Man, as it would later be dubbed, hurled itself onto the roof of Davis’ car. Davis sped down the road and swerved wildly in an attempt to dislodge the beast. When Davis returned home, he found large scratch marks on the roof of his vehicle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Davis would not be the only person to catch of a glimpse of the Lizard Man, however. According to <a href="http://terrifyingtales.blogspot.com/2007/05/lizard-man-of-scape-ore-swamp.html" target="_blank">Encounters with the Unexplained</a>, a construction worker named George Holloman witnessed the monster cross the road in front of him and lope into the nearby swamp. Holloman reported the incident to authorities who launched an investigation that allegedly turned up some unusual three-toed footprints in the swamp’s mud and muck. But, the story doesn’t end here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In 2008, <a href="http://www.wistv.com/Global/story.asp?S=7978464" target="_blank">WIS-TV</a> reported that the Lee County Sheriff’s Department was called to the home of Bob and Dixie Rawson when a coyote and cow were found dead on their property in close proximity. Even stranger, the Rawsons’ van had been extensively damaged by something large enough to chew through the van’s grill and bend the wheel wells.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">While no arrests have been made regarding the oddities that occurred on the Rawson’s property, the Lizard Man of Lee County remains a suspect. </span></div>
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<i><b><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Robert the Haunted Doll, Key West, Fla.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></b></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Originally owned by artist, Eugene Otto, Robert the Haunted Doll is said to move on his own accord and curse anyone who dares take his photograph without asking permission.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The legend begins in 1906 when the Family’s Bahamian servant, an adept practitioner of voodoo and the black arts, made the doll as a gift for Otto. According to <a href="http://www.paranormal-encounters.com/wp/?p=243" target="_blank">Paranormal Encounters</a>, inexplicable occurrences immediately began in the Otto home. Otto’s toys and the family’s clothes and bed linen were found torn and destroyed. Even more unsettling, the family reported hearing Otto talking to Robert at night and a peculiar voice would answer back. </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After marrying, Otto demanded that Robert be given his own room in the attic. According to <a href="http://www.unsolvedmysteries.com/usm532007.html?t=Hauntings" target="_blank">Unsolved Mysteries</a>, Robert could be seen peering down from the attic windows and glaring at passersby.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Robert is currently housed at the Fort East Martello Museum, and legend says that visitors must ask Robert’s permission to take his picture. Reportedly, Robert will confer his consent by tipping his head slightly.</span></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Pope Lick Monster, Louisville, Ky.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Purportedly part man, part goat and part sheep, this monster who lives beneath <span lang="EN">a Norfolk Southern Railway trestle over Floyd's Fork Creek in Louisville, Ky. is strangely reminiscent of the <i>South Park</i> beast, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ManBearPig" target="_blank">ManBearPig</a>, that continually eludes a parody of former Vice President Al Gore. “I’m super cereal.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Legend states that the Pope Lick Monster was once a satanic farmer who sacrificed his goats to the devil in exchange for power, while other reports claim that the monster is an escaped sideshow attraction who claimed his freedom when his train derailed near the trestle he now calls home. Whatever the origin of the legend, the Pope Lick Monster continues to frighten locals and thrill seekers alike.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">According to <a href="http://paranormalstories.blogspot.com/2009/11/pope-lick-monster.html" target="_blank">Ghost Stories</a>, this satyr-like creature wields a bloody axe and threatens any person daring enough to wander across the trestle. Allegedly, many folks have deliberately flung themselves from the trestle to the creek below rather challenge the monster.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">A fence has been erected around the trestles to discourage thrill seekers, or perhaps, protect them.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Beast of Bray Road, Elkhorn, Wis.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Since the late 1980s, reports of a terrifying beast have been surfacing in and around the town of Elkhorn, Wis. According to <a href="http://www.prairieghosts.com/brayrd.html" target="_blank">Unexplained America</a>, 24-year-old Lorianne Endrizzi was driving on Bray Road in the autumn of 1987 when she thought she saw a person kneeling on the side of the road. As she drove closer, she was shocked to make out a form with fur, pointed ears and fangs that resembled a wolf. She would later call the monster as a “freak of nature” and describe how its eyes glowed yellow as the headlights of her vehicle passed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On Halloween night in 1999, <a href="http://www.gods-and-monsters.com/werewolf-sightings.html" target="_blank">Gods-and-Monsters</a> reports <span lang="EN">Doristine Gipson also got a glimpse of the beast. She too was driving down Bray Road when her car jolted as if she had hit something. When she climbed out of her vehicle to investigate, a large hairy creature came </span>hulking toward her. She quickly sped off in her car, but not before the beast jumped on her hood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The television program <i><a href="http://www.history.com/shows/monsterquest" target="_blank">MonsterQuest</a></i> picked up the story in January 2008 and subjected numerous Bray Road Beast witnesses to a polygraph. The test’s administrator could find no evidence that the witnesses were being untruthful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Since the initial sighting, numerous individuals have come forward describing a similar creature. Journalist and investigator <a href="http://lindagodfrey.com/about/" target="_blank">Linda Godfrey</a> details these accounts in her book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Beast-Bray-Road-Wisconsins/dp/1879483912/ref=pd_sim_b_4" target="_blank">The Beast of Bray Road</a></i>.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Black Angel of Oakland Cemetery, Iowa City, Iowa</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">According to legend, anyone who kisses or even touches the Black Angel of Oakland Cemetery will die instantly, but that doesn’t stop hundreds of thrill seekers from testing their luck each year. Indeed a popular attraction on Halloween, the Black Angel is missing a few fingers due to vandalism. No reports have emerged regarding what eventually happened to the vandals and whether the Black Angel exacted her revenge remains unknown. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">How the Black Angel acquired her sinister hue remains something of a mystery as well. According to <a href="http://www.weirdus.com/states/iowa/stories/ll_black_angel/index.php" target="_blank">Weird U.S.</a>, one story claims that Teresa Felevert, buried beneath the Black Angel, was so evil that her wickedness was able to transform the coloring of the monument from beyond the grave. Still another legend claims that Felevert’s husband swore his eternal fidelity and later broke his promise instantly turning the angel a scornful black.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Does the Black Angel kill anyone who dare touch her? While I’m dubious, I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Goatman of Old Alton Bridge, Denton, Texas</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Connecting the towns of Denton and Copper Canyon, Texas, the Old Alton Bridge is the setting of a baffling mystery and the attempted lynching of a local goat farmer dubbed the Goatman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">According to <a href="http://dentonhaunts.wordpress.com/2011/08/29/dentons-top-haunts-goatmans-bridge-and-unt/" target="_blank">Denton Haunts and Ghost Stories</a>, Oscar Washburn, a black goat farmer lived near the Old Alton Bridge with his family in the early 1900s. Despite being well liked by his neighbors, Washburn angered Klansmen simply by posting a sign, which read, “This way to the Goatman.” With their headlights off, the Klansmen crossed the bridge one evening and abducted Washburn. Later, they placed a noose around his neck and pushed him from the Old Alton Bridge. When they peered down to ensure Washburn was dead, they were astonished to find the noose empty. Further enraged, the Klansmen murdered Washburn’s wife and children.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Since the time of the mysterious lynching and grisly murders, locals assert that the area is plagued by strange occurrences and other oddities. According to <a href="http://www.goatmansbridge.com/index.html" target="_blank">Goatman’s Bridge</a>, many insist that those who dare to cross the bridge at night with their headlights off will be met on the other side by the Goatman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The bridge is currently closed to vehicles, but remains open to foot traffic. Those brave enough to traverse the bridge at night just might encounter the Goatman.<span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"></span></span></div>
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<i><b><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Skinwalker Ranch, Uintah County, Utah</span></span></b></i><i style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In 1994, the Gorman (aka Sherman) family purchased this 480-acre ranch in Uintah County, Utah and immediately the uncanny events began to unfold beginning with a peculiar wolf that greeted the family like a beloved pet. According to journalist <a href="http://www.rense.com/general32/strange.htm" target="_blank">George Knapp</a>, when the wolf lost interest in the family and began attacking one of the family’s calves, Tom Gorman retrieved a “.357 Magnum from his truck and shot the wolf at point-blank range. The slug had no noticeable effect.” After nearly six shots at point-blank range, the unfazed wolf simply trotted away.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Over the course of the next several months, the family would continue to experience inexplicable events. According to Knapp, the family would spot strange tropical birds and glimpse creatures reminiscent of Sasquatch. Even more perplexing, several of the family’s livestock were found mutilated. Additionally, the family witnessed strange aerial objects and glowing orbs in the sky above the ranch.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In 1995, the National Institute of Discovery Science purchased the ranch from the Gormans and installed surveillance cameras to capture the unusual activity. Knapp reported for <a href="http://www.8newsnow.com/Global/story.asp?S=4275629" target="_blank">KLAS-TV</a> that the cameras were disassembled by an unseen entity. </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">George Knapp and NIDS scientist, Colm Kelleher chronicled the perplexing events that have occurred on the ranch in their book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hunt-Skinwalker-Science-Confronts-Unexplained/dp/1416505210" target="_blank"><i>Hunt for the Skinwalker: Science Confronts the Unexplained at a Remote Ranch in Utah</i></a>.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">If you have strange tale to tell, leave a comment or <a href="mailto:conorjmurphy@email.com" target="_blank">email</a> me.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>CJM</strong></span></span></i></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-42958669696887316262012-03-27T11:36:00.000-05:002012-04-17T13:16:37.223-05:00Memoirs of a Mustache: What I learned in 24 Hours with a Furry Lip<div style="text-align: justify;">
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The mustache harkens back to a more genteel time when pipe tobacco wafted through the air of a mahogany paneled room and bourbon was meant to be savored among leather-bound atlases and taxidermied wildlife. Perhaps one gentleman said it best when, upon seeing my mustache, he blurted, “Dude, that is awesome! My wife would divorce me.” <br />
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Women hate mustaches<br />
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For some reason, best known to themselves, women hate mustaches. One woman remarked, “Why would you purposely do that to yourself,” as if I mutilated my face by hacking off my nose because it didn’t go with my outfit. <br />
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People assume you drive an El Camino or Camaro<br />
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I was loading my groceries into the trunk of my Dodge Stratus when a teenage boy sized me up and said, “I would have thought you would drive something a little more vintage.” I followed his eyes and noticed he was smirking at an El Camino parked a few spaces down.<br />
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Men with mustaches love men with mustaches<br />
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It’s as if men are under the spell of some sort of mustache <i>Brokeback Mountain</i>, but men with mustaches love other men with mustaches. Perhaps it’s a sense of camaraderie that men feel when they happen upon other men bucking the trend, but when there are two men with mustaches in a room, mutual love and admiration isn’t far behind.<br />
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Children are afraid of mustaches<br />
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If you have a mustache be prepared for children to glare at you from behind their mothers’ legs. There is something about a mustache that frightens children; after all, every villain they’ve seen in a cartoon has a mustache. Or, maybe, children are merely frightened of Greek women.<br />
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People assume you’re a stalker<br />
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When donning a mustache, one mustn’t walk too closely behind another person. While on my way to the restroom in my office, one woman quickened her pace and continually peered over her shoulder at me as if I was going to have my filthy hirsute way with her right there among the file folders. Hitler and Stalin have done irreconcilable damage to the mustache.<br />
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Don’t eat tuna salad<br />
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Certain foods should be avoided when one has a mustache. After enjoying a very creamy tuna-salad sandwich, I spent the remainder of the day smelling of a Friday fish fry or a Red Lobster. One should also avoid barbeque; the sauce is like a henna rinse for your stache.<br />
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You won’t stand out in a hipster bar<br />
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If you’re growing a mustache to be different, don’t walk into a hipster bar or an Urban Outfitters—the mustache is essentially hipster camouflage. If you’re desperate to be noticed, you’d have an easier time sporting a pair of Dockers or reading an <i>USA Today</i>.<br />
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A mustache demands a different name<br />
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Sometimes your name simply doesn’t match your mustache, in which case, you must adopt an alias. While donning my stache, I insisted people call me Gary; the name Conor simply wasn’t worthy of a man with a mustache as regal and red as mine. Other possible names include, Steve, Dale, Wayne and Archibald.<br />
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Only Tom Selleck can truly pull off a mustache<br />
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I don't feel this one needs much further explanation. Unless you're Tom Selleck, you look like an asshole.</div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-47529359198504165742012-03-13T23:01:00.001-05:002012-04-17T13:17:42.060-05:00Stranger Danger, Childhood Abducted<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<b>I</b> was swinging during recess at Mt. Zion Grade School in Mt. Zion, Ill. in 1987 when a suspicious van slowly and malevolently drove the perimeter of the chain-link fence that demarcated the safety of our playground from the outside world. Maybe it was instinct, or perhaps it was simply our parents’ cautioning put into action, but my playmates and I began to cluster around our teacher like zebras sensing an impending attack from a lion. Who first noticed the van, I don’t recall. I don’t remember if our teacher felt the same sense of alarm that we children did, but we knew: strangers can and will kidnap you.</div>
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Twenty-five years later I’m sitting in a restaurant in Des Moines, Iowa having a drink with a group of friends. We’re chatting about nothing in particular—who’s aged well and who’s selling their house—350 miles and over two decades away from my six-year-old self who huddled closely to a first-grade teacher on the steps of Mt. Zion Grade School and watched a white utility van dawdle by.</div>
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“You know, I was a paperboy when Johnny Gosch went missing,” my friend on my right leans in and whispers to the table in a tone meant to impart both his seriousness and apprehension in making such a statement. The chatter immediately ceases and I scan the faces of the men seated around me as each visibly struggles to craft a response. The atmosphere around the table has changed; what previously was loud and buyout banter has become hushed and contemplative. “His mother believes he is still alive,” the man on my left adds softly.</div>
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Until that night, I hadn’t heard of Gosch. I didn’t know he was a 12-year-old paperboy who disappeared from his delivery route in West Des Moines, Iowa on a September morning in 1982 leaving behind his dachshund Gretchen and a red wagon filled with newspapers. Nor did I know that this 30-year-old cold case was so fraught with conjecture and rumors of conspiracy that it would spur children of my generation to fear strangers and fuel tales of organized pedophilia rings and satanic ritual abuse.</div>
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Like many children who grew up in the 1980s, I was well versed on the topic of “stranger danger,” a concept that cautioned against talking to strangers, let alone divulging your name or accepting food from people you didn’t know. According to a popular public service announcement, a sinister man might try to lure me into his vehicle with the promise of candy or by claiming he needed help searching for his lost puppy, while another PSA advised me never to let a stranger know I am home alone. </div>
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The fear of child abduction had reached near mass hysteria and to keep me safe, my mother devised a secret code word that I was to ask for if she sent another in her place to pick me up from school. My brother nearly beat me senseless when he was sent to collect me and I refused to get into the car with him after he failed to give the correct code word.</div>
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Back at the restaurant, my friends tell me what they remember of the Gosch abduction and the similar disappearance in 1984 of Eugene Martin, who vanished while delivering newspapers on the south side of Des Moines. While authorities were never able to connect the two cases, many, like Gosch’s mother, are convinced the two are linked.</div>
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“Why kidnap a couple of paperboys,” I wonder aloud, suspecting a serial abductor, when my friend and former paperboy replies, “They’re alone at five in the morning.” The simplicity of his explanation smacks me, but he’s right.</div>
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These abductions remind me of a radio interview I heard with Nick Bryant, who authored <a href="http://franklinscandal.com/" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Franklin Scandal: A Story of Powerbrokers, Child Abuse and Betrayal</i></a>. In his book, Bryant details an alleged nationwide child-trafficking ring out of Omaha, Neb. that furnished children to U.S. politicians and other high-level officials for both sexual and satanic abuse. If true, it’s explosive, but my friends seem dubious so I change the subject to the recent news reports of human feet mysteriously washing ashore in Washington state and British Columbia.</div>
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Returning to elementary school after summer vacation, one of our classmates was noticeable absent. Sarah, a mousy girl with long brunette hair, hadn’t returned and immediately rumors circulated among the monkey bars and teeter-totters that she had been kidnapped during the summer. One girl told me that Sarah fell for the old “would you like some candy” trick never to be heard from again. Sarah, in fact, was heard from again; I bumped into her at a party in college. She was alive and well and studying psychology.</div>
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Later in grade school, the police department lined up my classmates and me to be fingerprinted. A note went home to our parents a week before to inform them that we were to be fingerprinted as a precaution in case any of us would ever go missing. The officer explained to my class that our prints would help the police find us if a bad person ever took us. More likely, our prints would aid in identifying our bodies.</div>
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Police never turned up any serious suspects in the Gosch case, and 30 years later, they have yet to find a body. According to <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2009/CRIME/11/09/grace.coldcase.gosch/" target="_blank">CNN</a>, Gosch’s mother Noreen maintains that her son visited her early one morning in March 1997. Gosch, then 27, allegedly told his mother that he had been abducted and forced into child prostitution. </div>
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In 2006, an anonymous person left photos on Gosch’s mother's doorstep depicting three boys bound and gagged. According to CNN, Gosch’s mother believes one of the boys to be her son, but police are skeptical. Gosch’s mother states on her website “Johnny was subjected to severe trauma and torture of a satanic and sexual nature.” (I haven't linked to Noreen Gosch's website due to the graphic nature of the photos. A simple Google search will take you to her site.)</div>
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A moral panic erupted in the 1980s over allegations of satanic ritual abuse and media pundits convinced the public that Satanists, bent on abducting and indoctrinating America’s youth, had successfully infiltrated our schools, churches and government. At the height of the hysteria, rumors persisted that Satanists were making blood sacrifices in the woods near my home and a childhood friend of mine swears she would hear pounding drums and screaming emanating from those woods each Halloween. </div>
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By the 1990s, claims of satanic ritual abuse decreased as reports were continually disproved or met with skepticism. Still, given the prevalence of reports, one must wonder if there remains a kernel of truth to these allegations.</div>
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I leave the restaurant preoccupied by the tragedy of the Gosch abduction; this singular event is my childhood fear realized. Was Gosch abducted from his West Des Moines neighborhood only to be forced into an organized pedophilia network? Gosch’s case remains open at the West Des Moines Police Department and he is still officially considered a missing person. When Johnny Gosch went missing on that September morning in 1982, so did our security. Every time a child is frightened by an unfamiliar face at the door, or is wary of a car that drives a little too slowly, in some small way, it is a childhood abducted.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-44630105471113102172012-03-06T20:06:00.000-06:002012-04-17T13:19:24.129-05:00Curing Writer's Block<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<b>I</b> sometimes suffer from extreme bouts of writer’s block and if you've ever had a stone trapped in your urethra of creativity, you know just how frustrating and painful it can be. </div>
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When ideas fail to freely flow, I’ve developed a ritual for inspiration.</div>
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<li> I read<br /><br />Reading can give me inspiration, especially if I'm reading something boring. While reading a tedious tale my mind tends to wander and sometimes my mind may actually wander upon a great idea. If I'm really stuck, I'll read the Bible. The Bible has everything: blood, sex, circumcision...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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<li>I sleep<br /><br />I let my subconscious do the work and hopefully by the time I wake from an Ambien-induced coma I'll be full of bright ideas.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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<li>I troll Craigslist<br /><br />I know it seems crazy, if not seedy, but nothing inspires me like free TVs and sex addicts. If at any point you want to take the pulse of the current condition of humanity, browse Craigslist. Abraham Maslow would have appreciated the ample proof that is teeming among the personals and apartment listings to support his hierarchy of needs. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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</li>
<li>I watch TV<br /><br />Watching TV distracts be from the anxiety and fear of not being able to come up with a clever idea and the constant self-loathing and doubt. TV helps me direct my inward rage outwardly toward television's most hated villains. And sometimes, by the time a GEICO commercial is aired for the 43rd time, I'm at peace and ready to write.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7gj7132f1HYKWMNuUWxMMKFdfHECaI2mWp9ro7dtL6neL3LnKCGVFH0YGniQ-JbWJ8NW-9VIYu0jSmnriUHukd9tk6DR5oov9cK_Ov5qEMC_2uhwRdRiz4VwBUNyeKHSfNYuJA/s1600/Glee.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht7gj7132f1HYKWMNuUWxMMKFdfHECaI2mWp9ro7dtL6neL3LnKCGVFH0YGniQ-JbWJ8NW-9VIYu0jSmnriUHukd9tk6DR5oov9cK_Ov5qEMC_2uhwRdRiz4VwBUNyeKHSfNYuJA/s400/Glee.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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</li>
<li>I chat with Perry the Penguin<br /><br />Perry the Penguin is my most beloved childhood stuffed animal. Perry and I went everywhere together up until I was 17. Perry lets me bounce ideas off him and is always supportive. Strangely, he has a British accent and speaks in a frequency that only I can hear.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2b6KnCCdQPP6vGB3lxg3LzuaPZwnaaEbJsyIMeFHngKhlo7z7seqyo9MjczLfKjurCpKGLOGRLPYkqcih0szNbEwNfTS6iJZ39Rf9idL6UjemEfbiRix6Jdvb4wnku3K_5Gl2FQ/s1600/Perry.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2b6KnCCdQPP6vGB3lxg3LzuaPZwnaaEbJsyIMeFHngKhlo7z7seqyo9MjczLfKjurCpKGLOGRLPYkqcih0szNbEwNfTS6iJZ39Rf9idL6UjemEfbiRix6Jdvb4wnku3K_5Gl2FQ/s400/Perry.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<li>I sit and wait<br /><br />If shootin' the breeze with Perry doesn't cure my writer's block, I'm forced to just wait it out. I'll let my mind go blank and see if any great ideas decide to pop into my head.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-22202480720927569172012-02-28T19:12:00.000-06:002012-04-17T13:20:11.451-05:00Tits Time for Coffee<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<b>Y</b>ou’ve been invited to a house-warming party or to a friend’s place for dinner, and if you’re like me, you spend a frantic 30 minutes running up and down the aisles at Target trying to find a passable gift for your host and still make it in time for cocktails. <br />
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<i>Does he need a Shake Weight</i>, I ask myself. <i>Maybe she could use a Ped Egg.</i> And after scolding myself for considering any item emblazoned with the red “As Seen on TV” logo, I grab a bottle of merlot or a scented candle and scamper to the check out. <br />
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I’m sick of giving tired and predictable gifts, and while wine is always welcome, you want to give your host something that will impress. Homemade gifts are always unique and genuine, but can be hard to pull off. That’s why I came up with the “Tits Time for Coffee” mug; it’s easy to make and guaranteed to get a toast from your host. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>What You’ll Need:</b></span></div>
<ul>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
An old coffee mug</div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
Smutty magazines</div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
Scissors</div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
Decoupage glue (I use Modge Podge)</div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: justify;">
Sponge brushes</div>
</li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />Let’s Get Started: <br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></b></span>First, ensure your old coffee mug is clean and dry. Soak your coffee mug if necessary to remove excess coffee stains or lipstick residue from the rim of the mug.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMBP21CtUmlSXIVYoA6itjyWFXjIKcqvaPLooSFOksKI9PQsG8onNVgkGLUCI_d1p6bgaGHmDDXqHJrMFx4vdUdSsr08QYkAPy6XrUplOa8s0kINbz4acYQC8bDLrVGfQf9kpdQ/s1600/Playboy1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMBP21CtUmlSXIVYoA6itjyWFXjIKcqvaPLooSFOksKI9PQsG8onNVgkGLUCI_d1p6bgaGHmDDXqHJrMFx4vdUdSsr08QYkAPy6XrUplOa8s0kINbz4acYQC8bDLrVGfQf9kpdQ/s400/Playboy1.png" width="400" /></a></div>
Next, cut enough pairs of breasts from your smutty magazines to cover the exterior of your old coffee mug in its entirety including the mug’s handle. <br />
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Working in small sections, liberally spread your decoupage glue with your sponge brush to your old coffee mug and begin sticking your breasts (the cut-out breasts, not your actual breasts) to the mug’s surface. Be sure to apply your breasts by first working from the center of the picture to the edges. This will ensure that you do not get lumps in your breasts.<br />
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Continue gluing your breasts to your old coffee mug until your entire mug is covered. You may overlap your breasts if you wish.<br />
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Once your decoupage glue has dried, apply another coat of glue with your sponge brush to your coffee mug and allow glue to dry. Repeat this step until the edges of your breasts are smooth. <br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-68137031289541476222012-02-22T00:00:00.000-06:002012-04-17T13:20:58.131-05:00Lententide is Here Again<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>I</b> didn’t grow up celebrating Lent, or dreading Lent, as some do. I suppose the Pentecostal church of my youth simply hadn’t heard of Lent, nor were they informed of women wearing pants or the toxicity of snake venom. Yet, now that I am a card-carrying Episcopalian, I look forward to each fresh Lenten season as a time of reflection and penitence as well as an opportunity to flaunt my piety by unabashedly working into conversations the 40-day sacrifice I make to ensure my eternal salvation. Giving up chocolate is child’s play; try abstaining from pooping until Easter.</div>
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I often wonder what first attracted me to the Anglican faith. Was it its church’s red doors that I find so reminiscent of an Elizabeth Arden fragrance? Or perhaps it’s the throat-choking fog of incense that sends Vietnam veterans scuffling under the pews for their gas masks. No matter the reason, each Lenten season brings with it the promise of redemption and the occasion to prove oneself more worthy and virtuous than others. </div>
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This year, like in years previous, I am giving up shaving. Refraining from shaving is my personal reenactment of our Lord’s sacrifice of proper personal hygiene when he wandered in the wilderness for 40 days. However, unlike Christ, my beard is as thick as a 14-year-old Latina's; therefore, I’m obliged to fill in the patchy spots with mascara.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiNT2NpkGGgwzDSoVoqTke_gGsX5vH6nPg2q4CD7N1yNbC06srtpo0i02fidVdq3nwn40yCiZCqfbIkJRhCVGwyVgD_h4LrZEfP8XuXq8BAVwgD3cujI9iPChuv1LMq_2DEQcrA/s1600/Mascara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiNT2NpkGGgwzDSoVoqTke_gGsX5vH6nPg2q4CD7N1yNbC06srtpo0i02fidVdq3nwn40yCiZCqfbIkJRhCVGwyVgD_h4LrZEfP8XuXq8BAVwgD3cujI9iPChuv1LMq_2DEQcrA/s400/Mascara.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b>GET THIS LOOK: To get Conor's bold and bushy beard, apply mascara liberally to thin <br />spots and rub into beard to blend. For long-wear hold, finish with White Rain Firm <br />Hold Aerosol Hair Spray.</b></span></td></tr>
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Admittedly, not shaving for five weeks is not all that much of a sacrifice. I detest shaving and will forgo the razor for several days only to shave my neck to give the impression that I’m growing a beard. But, as previously stated, my facial hair is thin and wispy like the coat of dog with mange. “You’re <i>trying</i> to grow a beard,” coworkers will comment. “That’s so cute.” And I’m forced to come face-to-blade once again with my Lady Schick Quattro.</div>
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Aside from having the face of a babe and the whiskers of a menopausal woman, my beard of burden often gets me mistaken for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jesse_Tyler_Ferguson" target="_blank">Jesse Tyler Ferguson</a>. I will concede, however, that like Asians, we redheads look more or less the same. Still, to be beamed at by buoyant women who <i>just have</i> to tell me who I look like for the next 40 days is, in some ways, my own Via Dolorosa.</div>
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Besides relinquishing my razor, I plan to stave off booze—save for the Blood of Christ, which according to the theology of transubstantiation, makes me something more akin to a vampire than an alcoholic who’s fallen off the wagon. And so, I’m trading in my usual spirits for the Holy sort.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMb_mAx8tIuCvu-GJlN9mF6bF1dbqJYK-h-BrKlAf0Akb5nc-XUtcyARDkkkWjIiWUMSjBG_IAkOJAc3D1Q9ioT3WsBqedyqStsa2lKbhVi5LZ6n30Rw4pbJZsOF5bxhGeCpCA5g/s1600/Beer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMb_mAx8tIuCvu-GJlN9mF6bF1dbqJYK-h-BrKlAf0Akb5nc-XUtcyARDkkkWjIiWUMSjBG_IAkOJAc3D1Q9ioT3WsBqedyqStsa2lKbhVi5LZ6n30Rw4pbJZsOF5bxhGeCpCA5g/s400/Beer.jpg" width="400" /></a>Halting the hooch isn't all sacrifice, however. I won’t miss the headaches, nausea and vomiting. And I certainly won’t pine for those guilt-ridden occasions of trying to explain why I simply <i>had</i> to call you at two in the morning to ask your opinion of the last episode of <i>Glee</i>. I won’t miss sweating gin, leaving my office cubicle smelling like a pine forest, or the tremors and tantrums that come with withdrawal. But mostly, I won’t ache for the false confidence that assures me that I <i>can</i> actually sing "Alone" by Heart.<br />
<br />
Noticing what I stand to gain by swearing off shaving and alcohol, this year I plan to emanate an aura of charity. For instance, I’m going to make eye contact with the homeless rather than staring at the sidewalk and muttering something in Spanish when they ask for my spare change. It will be a compassionate me who looks them square in the eye and says, “No hablo Ingles.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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I will give more money to my parish by leaving my entire five-dollar bill in the collection plate because I won’t be counting out the children’s dimes and nickels to make change.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And, I’m going to do something good for the environment. I’m going to put my soda cans in one trash bag before tossing them into the Dumpster instead of letting them mingle with my empty shampoo bottles and glass jars. </div>
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Yes, I can see it now; I am most assuredly guaranteed a place in Heaven.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-8334973674174404882012-02-18T18:37:00.004-06:002012-04-17T13:21:31.437-05:00Someone's in the Kitchen with Conor: Sausage, Kale & Potato Soup<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<b>I</b>’m not a cook who carefully follows a recipe, nor do I tediously measure ingredients. I’m an eyeballer; I trust my palms and intuition and I’m known to stick my tongue directly into a simmering pot to perfect the ratio of ingredients. Of course, that’s not to say I don’t read recipes. Au contraire. Come by my place on a Sunday afternoon and you’ll find me sprawled on the living room floor among my cookbooks while disassembling recipes and uniting the best from each (if only Dr. Moreau were a foodie.) And, without being <span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">egotistical, I fancy myself a slow-cooker savant—a trait I assume I inherited from my mother who raised three boys solely on home haircuts and a crockpot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Before this gets too </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Under the Tuscan Sun</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> (the book, not the film,) I’ll just give you the damned recipe, rather than a long soliloquy on brick floors and crusty bread.</span><br />
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<b>What You'll Need:</b></div>
<ul>
<li>Olive oil </li>
<li>1 pound Italian Sausage (I like the kind from my grocery store that looks like ground beef and isn't in the casing)</li>
<li>4 bacon slices, chopped or crumbled </li>
<li>1 medium onion, chopped</li>
<li>4 garlic cloves, minced </li>
<li>3/4 pound of kale, chopped or torn</li>
<li>4 cups potatoes, chopped (I use red potatoes with the skins on; I like the way it looks in the soup)</li>
<li>48 ounces chicken broth</li>
<li>2 bay leaves</li>
<li>1/2 pint cream</li>
<li>Salt and pepper</li>
</ul>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's Get Cookin':</span></b><br />
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Drizzle a few tablespoons of olive oil into a heated skillet. Add Italian sausage and brown while breaking up the sausage with a wooden spoon. Once the sausage is browned, drain and add to crockpot.<br />
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Next, add bacon slices to skillet and cook until crisp. Remove bacon and blot with paper towel, then crumble or chop bacon and add to crockpot. Reserve the bacon grease in the skillet.<br />
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Add chopped onion to bacon grease and sauté until golden. Then, add the minced garlic to the skillet with onions and sauté until the garlic becomes fragrant. Drain and add to crockpot.<br />
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Add kale, potatoes, chicken broth and bay leaves to crockpot and cook four hours on high, or until potatoes are tender. Next, add cream and continue cooking for 15 minutes.<br />
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Remove bay leaves, salt and pepper to taste, then serve.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21675697.post-79346972811176722352012-02-13T16:18:00.008-06:002012-04-17T13:22:13.267-05:00Back to Bloggin' & Ain't it Grand?<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>I</b> began blogging in my early twenties as method for catharsis—to purge myself of the accumulated angst of a prolonged adolescence. Of course, my end goal was to parlay my ample rivers of twenty-something self doubt and part-time alcoholism into a tell-all book or a sex scandal involving one of the Channings—Carol or Stockard, I didn’t care which. “Channing Gets Cheeky with Gentle Ginger,” I imagined the headline would curtly read while every shameful detail lay scrawled across page-eight of <i>The Baltimore Examiner</i>. But when neither fame nor shame came rapping unremorsefully at my door, and my lingering adolescence began to bloom into diffident maturity, I unintentionally parted with my dreams of attaining the sort of notoriety enjoyed only by the likes of local newscasters and purse snatchers beaten within an inch of their lives by elderly women armed only with their AARP cards.<br />
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And so, I am back blogging—not with the hopes of achieving mediocre celebrity, but because in my thirty-something wisdom and yuppie sensibility, I, like Gwyneth Paltrow, have so much condescension to offer that I simply must heave it out into the blogosphere like a sanctimonious Mount Vesuvius dusting your private Pompeii with molten bits of priceless guidance. Trust me, cherished reader; you’ll be better for it.<br />
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In these upcoming annals, you’ll find things that interest me, and should therefore interest you, like stories about me. Additionally, you find recipes I like, and books I think you should read. Consider me your white Oprah with a thinly veiled gay lisp. Perhaps I’ll even provide tips on childrearing. Since I don’t have children of my own, I am at a prime vantage point to ridicule how you raise yours.<br />
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So check back weekly, or more often. After all, we have the same goal: ensuring my success.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CJM</span></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14272515424609495814noreply@blogger.com2