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How it all ends

Before telling what happened yesterday, it must be acknowledged that I'm an ass and what I did only hurts myself. You don't need to scold me; I've already scolded myself.

And yet, when Dollar Tree has only one cash register open, as 21 people stand in a line stretching back to the $1.25 toilet paper and paper towels… I'm leaving. So I left.

It didn't matter how much I needed those four frozen cheeseburgers, and two big bottles of fruity water, and five mid-size sacks of chips at an unbeatable price. Everything was left behind, like atheists come the rapture.

Now it's Monday, and I must face the consequences: Today, tomorrow, and until I repeat that same trip to the store but actually stay and pay, my sack lunches will include no chips. Two peanut butter and Buddig sandwiches, by themselves, without anything salty and crunchy between the bites? I'm sad about that, even as the sandwiches are slipped into a sack.

It's my own damned fault. I had nowhere else to be but home alone, tilted in my recliner. If I'd simply sighed and waited in line however long waiting in line might have taken, I'd have chips today.

And I'd written the above before reading and re-typing a similar story from 27 years ago, for the latest stale Pathetic Life. On that day in 1995, just like yesterday, I walked into a store to buy something I wanted, got pissed off instead, and walked out without what I'd walked in for.

The point is obvious, isn't it? I'm the same shitty man now that I was then, impatient, full of idiotic indignation about the tiniest things, when I ought to be mellow and patient.

And I'm the same shitty writer, too. Half of everything I write is about what a business, a bus driver, a boss, my mom, or some stranger did, and how it pissed me off. It's all real, but it might as well be copypasta.

This website will end, I predict, shortly after I finally make an appointment to see a doctor about something scary, after letting it fester far too long because I hate doctors. Maybe it'll be headaches so powerful they've cracked my skull like an egg. Maybe it'll be a blood- and pus-leaking lump on my kneecap. What the heck, let's make it both — the cracked head and the pus-leaking knee.

Months after I should've, I'll make an appointment to see a doctor, some specialist in skulls and pustules. I'll be sitting in the waiting room, fuming because my appointment was supposed to be 45 minutes ago and I was on time, so where's this damned doctor? I've already read the clinic's copies of Modern Goiter and Carcinogen Update.

Well, I'll show them — by stomping out of the clinic, limping to the bus stop, riding home, typing a few funny paragraphs about it, and dying in my recliner a week later.

8/8/2022  

itsdougholland.com
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A fountain of news

They've improved bug-bomb technology since the last time I used the stuff, five years or so ago. Back then it stunk up the place so bad that even with the windows open afterwards, the room I'd bombed smelled like mustard gas and was uninhabitable for days.

This time, I bombed my room Saturday morning and slept in the guest room that night, but by last night the room didn't smell any worse than the average woman wearing perfume, so I was back in my own bed.

There were some dead roaches on the floor, but not many. Another one came crawling out from under my blanket, but it was staggering like a drunk, weaving this way and that and tripping over its own head. It wouldn't have survived even if I hadn't smashed it between my fingers. I'm declaring roaches extinct at my place in Berkeley.

♦ ♦ ♦

BART got me to my weekly gig at Black Sheets kinda early, so I stopped at the little grocery store near the train station, grabbed a newspaper and stood at the counter to pay.

This was in my old neighborhood. I've been to that store a hundred times, and standing at the counter waiting to pay is ordinary. The counter-guy always has something more important to do, and today he was talking on the phone about his weekend. Hell, that's more important than me standing at the counter.

There was nobody else in the store, just him and me, me standing there waiting while he talked on the phone about the concert and the band and the seats and the drugs. With ten minutes to spare, there was no big hurry, but I didn't have the patience, so after half a minute I twirled the newspaper over the counter and into the air at the boob on the phone.

It was a fountain of news — the business section flew north, the sports pages fluttered north by northwest, and arts & entertainment missed the clerk's head by mere inches.

"What's your problem?" I heard him saying as I walked out, but I didn't answer. He'd been talking on the phone longer than I'd been in the store, so he was probably still talking on the phone, right? It would've been rude of me to interrupt.

From Pathetic Life #15
Monday, August 7, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

No bus to the bus barn

or, How to drive a bus (part 4)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5 
Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 9     Part 10
 Part 11     Part 12     Part 13     Part 14     Part 15

My week of classes and videos for driving the bus is over, and I passed the first test. Aced it, I guess — they gave us four hours to complete the test, and I was done in an hour and 15 minutes, and scored 93.

#174
Sunday,
August 7, 2022

Now comes two weeks of hands-on training, driving the bus (but not on the street yet) and securing wheelchairs (probably with nobody in them) inside the bus. 

I still have worries about this job. With office work, if you make a mistake you might get yelled at. With driving a bus, if you make a mistake somebody might die. And I make lots of mistakes, in everything I do. Then again, I look at my classmates, especially that ex-cop. If he can do this job, I can do this job. He seems so… 

Wait, I don't want to say 'stupid'. He's not stupid, just way too willing to say the wrong thing at the wrong moment. He has no working filter.

We ended up sitting side-by-side all last week, and yeah, he's an ex-cop, but he seems like a nice guy. All week he never said anything mean, unless you count telling our union rep that he hates unions and thinks they're a rip-off. She laughed it off. I'm sure she's heard worse.

It's a closed shop, so everyone's required to join the union, and I'm delighted to be a Teamster. I'm still on job-hunting e-lists, and a few days ago they sent notice about basically the same job I've been hired for — driving a disabled transit van, but for a different company, a non-union company. Their starting pay is $4/hour less than my starting pay. Yeah, give me a union every time, please.

And then yesterday, what comes across on that job-hunt e-list? Exactly the job I wanted, before being hired as a bus driver.

Metro Transit is looking for someone to answer phones for the bus system, to explain to newbies how transit works, and how to catch the bus that'll take them from where they are to where the want to be. And it pays a little more than driving the short bus. And it's a far, far easier commute.

Driving the disabled bus, I'll have to get to the bus barn and back five nights a week, and it's in an industrial section of a distant suburb, a very long drive from home. Ironically, the bus service to the bus barn is quite bad, so I'll have to drive.

The phone gig, though, would be either downtown (very easy commute on the bus) or work-from-home (even easier). If they'd hire me for that, I would quit driving the bus in half a heartbeat, so I've applied, but I applied as me — meaning, I answered the application's open-ended questions honestly. I told them I'm a bus geek, and opened my cover letter with "Howdy," made a couple of jokes, and blabbered on about how much I love riding the bus.

If an HR person reads my application and resumé I'll have no chance, but if someone who gives a damn about transit reads my app I'll be a shoo-in. Most likely, it'll be HR and no chance. Getting that phone job would be too cool, too perfect, and nothing in life works out that well.

Oh, one more thing. I gotta tell you about the CPR part of our training, but instead of writing it again, I'll just paste in the email I sent to the American Red Cross:

The emergency training at my job this week was of no value whatsoever. I am kinda startled that Red Cross even allows this.

All the videos and training material were branded Red Cross, but nobody from Red Cross was present. The class was taught by a company trainer, the same person who's teaching us how to drive a bus, and she was helped by her boss. During CPR training they disagreed about where to push for chest compressions, with the boss teaching everyone to push on the stomach instead of the chest.

And they allowed jokes all through the proceedings. One new hire was making 'grunt' noises during Heimlich training, every time a man had to put his hand over a woman's chest to practice the back thumps, and then do the stomach thrusts from behind. It was like 7th grade, and nobody said STOP IT except me.

All through this, the person in the room who seemed to know what to do, and answered everyone's questions, was not one of the teachers. She was someone I'd never met, maybe another new hire who'd been CPR trained at her previous job. I'd had CPR training, too, but it's been years, and everything about this session only confused me.

For the closing quiz, the answers were read aloud to the class, during the test, so of course everyone 'passed'. To get any answer wrong, you'd have to write down something other than what the teacher had just said. So 17 people got their Red Cross certification, and at least 14 of us would be useless in any emergency.

When I got home, I went to the Red Cross site, and learned more in twenty minutes than I'd unlearned in that hours-long session. Thank you for that, but I have one question:

Why didn't we have a genuine Red Cross employee, or volunteer, or someone who knew CPR and the Heimlich maneuver, to teach us CPR and the Heimlich maneuver?

Next: Tumbling
or, How to drive a bus (part 5)  
 
Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5 
Part 6     Part 7     Part 8     Part 9     Part 10
 Part 11     Part 12     Part 13     Part 14     Part 15

There are three doors leading into this house. The front door opens onto the top floor, where me and my three flatmates live. The back door, after a short walk down a hill, opens to the basement, where four other flatmates live. The third door is an emergency exit from the upstairs kitchen, with about thirty rickety wooden stairs leading down to an alleyway in the back.

Sometimes my packages get delivered to the back door, which is a slight hassle, but a few days ago UPS somehow delivered a package to the emergency exit. I didn't think to look there until two days later, when I was getting ready to claim it as undelivered. How could they even find the emergency exit? It's nearly invisible from the street. The front door seems like a more obvious choice.


And now, the news you need, whether you know it or not…

♦ ♦ ♦ 

UN nuclear chief: Ukraine nuclear plant is "out of control" 

♦ ♦ ♦

Parts of the moon have stable temperatures fit for humans, researchers find 

♦ ♦ ♦ 

A challenge for antiabortion states:
Doctors reluctant to work there
 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Patton Oswalt critiques his top and bottom 5 science fiction films 

I disagree with Oswalt about the first Star Trek movie — I like it — but his criticisms are valid and funny. And he's sure right about Close Encounters.

♦ ♦ ♦   

List of premature obituaries 

♦ ♦ ♦  

List of unusual deaths 

♦ ♦ ♦  

Are you legally allowed to just stay in the roundabout indefinitely? 

♦ ♦ ♦  

One-word newscast, because it's the same news every time...
climateclimateclimateclimateclimateclimateclimate
copscopscopscopscopscopscops 
RepublicansRepublicansRepublicansRepublicansRepublicans

♦ ♦ ♦ 

♫♬  Sing along with Doug  ♫
"I Wanna Love You Tender," by Armi & Danny 

♦ ♦ ♦

The End
Pat Carroll
Alan Grant
Mo Ostin 

8/7/2022 
 
Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.
 
Tip 'o the hat to Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate's Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I've stolen without saying thanks.
 
Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S, Wynn Bruce, and always Stephanie...

Cranky Old Fart
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itsdougholland.com
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Enough already.

"Fish!"

That's my sales pitch — short and droll. Over and over every day on Telegraph, I say "Fish!" as people walk by. If it gets their attention, they'll stop and look and maybe buy a fish sticker or magnet.

If the fish aren't jumping, I might reel people in by saying, "Fish, damn it," but that's everything I know about sales technique.

Today I said "Fish, damn it," as the wrong man was walking by — a Christian who stopped, frowned, and asked, "Do you have to use such language?" Then he looked at the fish, and began an angry spiel about taking God seriously, because God must always be taken seriously.

Weary of Christians who lack a sense of humor, I replied, "If you don't like the fuckin' fish, then go to fuckin' church and fuckin' pray for me." Umberto, working next to me, thought that was funny, but the Christian didn't. It's my cross to bear.

If you want to talk about the fish, even tell me the fish are offensive, talk to me reasonably and I'll converse. You want to threaten me with the wrath of your god? I am simply not interested, and I'll laugh at you, ridicule you, fart at you.

That guy shook his finger at me, and said, "I'll be back," and I had no idea what that meant. Should I have been afraid? He was a thin, smallish man (which is why I'd so courageously told him off), so visions of Schwarzenegger didn't dance in my head, but the thought that he might return with a gun did. I've seen a few scary Christians on the Ave.

♦ ♦ ♦

Later on, who walked by? The lady vendor who'd worked to my left yesterday, and complained about the book, What Lesbians Do. She gave me crap about it again, and then she said, "And anyway, what do you know about what lesbians do?"

"I don't even know what straight women do," I said, "but my boss wrote the book, and she's done plenty of lesbians, knows all about what they do."

"Then why isn't she out here selling her smut?"

And you know what? Enough already. Enough with Christians angry about fish, and enough with Democrats angry about lesbians. "Leave," I said, pointing to her stall half a block down Telegraph. When she didn't immediately leave, my follow-up line was, "Just get your face away from my table. And I mean, right now."

At that very moment, the "I'll be back" Christian came back (which his Lord and Savior never will). He was accompanied by a large woman I assume was his wife, and she was immediately angry about the fish. No warm-up, no studying the display, she walked right up to me and started shouting, "This is blasphemy!" and some similar stupidities.

I've heard it all before, and have I mentioned? I wasn't in a good mood.

The vendor from yesterday, angry about the book, wouldn't yield to the jumbo fanatical Christian, angry about the fish, so both women were yelling at me at the same time, a ca-ca cacophony. I sighed and stood there for too long, sort of enjoying the show but also sort of furious. Thought I'd have to hose them down, like my dad drenched some dogs that fucked in our yard once.

Instead I grabbed two copies of What Lesbians Do, one in each hand, held out one for each of them, and said loudishly, "Here! A free book for each of you, with my compliments. Why don't you both read it, and then go fuck each other?"

The Christian woman took the book from me, and threw it onto my table with all her might, but all her might wasn't much; the book wasn't even damaged. "We'll be back," she said, same as her husband had said, and then she stomped away, huffing and puffing and dragging him behind her.

The vendor from yesterday, though, wouldn't take her free chapbook, and wouldn't shut up. She wasn't screaming or anything, but she was giving me a tirade that never seemed to end. Jeez, lady, I thought, how much can one person complain about a silly book of poems with a provocative title?

Several stalls down the street, there were dozens of t-shirts with no vendor watching them, because she was at my table, screaming at me, instead of at her table, selling her tie-dye. So I announced in my deepest, most 'official' voice, "Free t-shirts, everybody! Right this way," and I pointed at her stand.

"You're an asshole," she said to me, shaking her head as she walked away, but the best part was, she walked away.

"Works better if you stay calm," Umberto said to me. He often takes crap for his anarchist stickers, so I reckon that's expert advice, and I thanked him. 

Only a few minutes later, before I'd calmed down much, yet another idiot Christian came by. He paused at the table, looked at the fish, and I'd never seen him before but I'd seen that look on his face, so I knew what was coming. I smiled and waited. Here it comes. What's he gonna say?

He said, "Don't you have any real fish?"

"No," I said, expressionless but exasperated. "Real fish would get real stinky out here in the sunshine."

"That's not what I mean," he said, because the complaining Christians never get any jokes. "Don't you have the Jesus fish?" His eyes narrowed, and I could see that he almost understood. "Or are you making fun of the Jesus fish?"

"Exactly," I said, smiling my fattest, fakest smile. "Isn't it obvious? Would you like a 666 fish?"

He walked off, leaving a cloud of righteous indignation, but at least he didn't threaten "I'll be back." I sold that 666 fish to a guy who'd been walking by, and thought the conversation was all very funny, but was it? You tell me. I'm weary of it.

And all afternoon I kept looking for the jumbo & pipsqueak Christians who'd said they'd be back. It would be a lie to say I wasn't a little concerned. Didn't see either of them again, though, so a devout Christian lied to me. No surprise.

When I started selling these novelty fish on the Ave, the worst reaction was a frown, but starting in mid- or late-June, there've been Christians in my face fairly regularly, and they seem to be getting hotter with the summer. For the last week or so, when it's not someone angry about the fish, it's someone angry about What Lesbians Do.

Fuck 'em all. Better yet, crucify them. I just want to sell fish, so I haven't liked my job much these past few days. Maybe I need to carry a squirt gun with me on Telegraph. Maybe I should wear a bulletproof vest. What it's all building up to, I don't know, but I am tired of taking crap about fish and poetry.

From Pathetic Life #15
Sunday, August 6, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Breaking Away, and six more movies

200 Motels (1971)

This is Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, touring and hallucinating. It's not a concert film, not a documentary, but also not very narrative, and never less than weird.

Dr Zappa was brilliant, of course, and this is (a sanitized version of) what it was like to be on tour with Zappa and the Mothers. Lots of drugs must've been consumed, and a good time was had by all, including me.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Breaking Away (1979)

This is about four boys, best buddies and fresh from high school. None of them are going on to college, though they live in Bloomington, Indiana, home of Indiana University. They hate the college kids, and the feeling is mutual, and both sides are probably right.

In a role so famous and a performance so perfect it probably hurt his career, Dennis Christopher stars as Dave Shohler. His family is very not-Italian, but Dave is a bicycling fanatic, and idolizes the Italian national cycling team, so he's taught himself about fifty words of the language, and plays Italian music on his record player, and sings Italian opera, badly but charmingly.

His mom is played by Barbara Barrie, sympathetic to the boy's Italiano dreams — she starts cooking Italian meals, and renames the family's cat Felini. The boy's dad is played by Paul Dooley, who's grumpy and getting grumpier as his son keeps calling him 'Papa' instead of Dad. 

"I won't have any 'ini' in this house!"

The Neverending
Film Festival
#71

There are very few movies that are exactly right all the way through — no flat notes, no moments that don't shine, nothing you'd ever fast-forward past no matter how many times you've seen it. This is one of those movies. I can watch over and over again, and have, and never found a moment of it tiresome or boring.

The kid keeping pace with a Cinzano truck at 60 mph, set to music from The Barber of Seville, is simply thrilling. And the serenade. And Dave's race against the Italian team. The bike repair montage. And the Little 500. And the last few minutes always get me.

Dave's buddies are Dennis Quaid, Daniel Stern, and Jackie Earle Haley, and I always want to hug 'em all.

I watched Breaking Away twenty times when it first came out. Saw it again a week ago, and damn if it ain't still a simply excellent buddy movie, coming-of-age movie, father-son movie, and a pretty good sports movie, too. I'm watching it again as I type this.

Steve Tesich wrote Breaking Away, but never much else, and I wonder why. Peter Yates (Bullitt, The Dresser, and inexplicably Krull) directed and produced. 

Verdict: BIG YES.

♦ ♦ ♦  

It's Alive (1973)

A happy suburban couple are having their second child. Mom's in labor, and Dad's in the waiting room having oblivious man-chat with the other expectant dads.

In the delivery room, things aren't going smoothly. Mom keeps saying that this hasn't felt like her previous pregnancy, but nobody in the hospital takes her seriously until the baby is born, and it's monstrously disfigured, and it kills the doctors and nurses, then escapes to begin terrorizing the city.

Seems to me Mom would be the natural focus of the story, but instead the movie is mostly interested in the dilemma Dad (John P Ryan) faces — he's suddenly famous, and fired, and having spawned this thing is an insult to his manhood, so he refuses to think of himself as his child's father. While the 'baby' is still alive, Dad signs over rights to its corpse to mad scientist Andrew Duggan, and he joins the ridiculous, sometimes comical police dragnet to corner and kill the damned thing.

Of course it's crazy, but this is Larry Cohen teaching a class on how to make an enjoyable scary movie without wasting too many millions of dollars. Instead of relentless gore, he gives us relentless tension. Smartly, we only see the movie's central horror in glimpses, and yet, your imagination will vividly fill in the blanks. It's exhausting and exquisite and great entertainment.

Verdict: YES.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

It's Alive 2 (1978)

And this is Larry Cohen getting everything completely wrong.

Several more of these mosterbabies have been born, so I guess every expectant mom in America is being tested by the government. The cops know that a particular woman in Arizona will probably be the next to bear a monster, so a dozen cops are waiting in the delivery room to kill it as soon as it's birthed.

The movie's biggest mistake is bringing back John P Ryan as the dad from the first movie, and making the sequel mostly about him. He was fine in the first movie, but here he's just a reminder how much better the original was.

He's heading some paramilitary organization, all about killing these monsterbabies, but inexplicably he kidnaps the expectant mother from the hospital — where, remember, an entire police precinct is waiting to kill the newborn if it's a monster — and instead forces her to give birth in a truck — where there's nobody to kill the monsterbaby. This makes no sense.

Why did the dad from this second movie (Frederick Forest) abandon his wife (Kathleen Lloyd)?

Why is no-one worried about the mad scientist (Andrew Duggan) who wants to raise a tribe of these monsterbabies and breed them?

I dunno, I dunno, and I dunno, but even a preposterous monster movie needs to play by some ground rules of storytelling.

Verdict: NO.

♦ ♦ ♦  

It's Alive III: Island of the Alive (1987)

This third installment wastes no time making amends for the shitty second movie. Before the opening credits, there's an emergency childbirth in a cab, with a cop delivering, and the baby comes out huge and terrifying, and the cop screams, "It's one of them!" and then the monsterbaby kills the cop, the cabbie, and the mother, and wow, this installment is underway with a scream.

"They're being born faster than we can kill 'em!"

The world is seeing more and more of these monsterfreak babies, and a court decides that we the people are too civilized to kill the monsterbabies, so instead they're exiled to an otherwise deserted island. And then five years later, some foolhardy fools charter an expedition to that island, just to check up on the kiddies.

Michael Moriarty stars, and he's the perfect muse for Cohen. Like in Q: The Winged Serpent, he's a little bit bonkers and he ought to be unsympathetic, but he's likable even when he's unlikable. He's also a much better father than John P Ryan from the first two movies — he actually cares about his terrifying murderous son.

3/4 of It's Alive III is a pleasing recovery for the franchise, but toward the end there's a woman who's gang-raped for no plot-related purpose, and another woman in peril, and the movie never recovers. It sputters on to a depressingly so-so ending.

Karen Black and Macdonald Carey have smallish parts. Music by Laurie Johnson, who scored Dr Strangelove and TV's The Avengers (no superheroes, please).

Verdict: MAYBE.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Nightmare at Noon (1987)

This is a lousy movie about… fuck all, I have no idea. Space alien Brion James is poisoning a town's water supply, and paramilitary troops arrive in black vans, and there's a redneck maniac with a knife, a dangerous hitchhiker (Bo Hopkins), and a pretty cop and a cop who's not (George Kennedy). I made it through about 25 minutes, and should've quit quicker.

Verdict: BIG NO.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Thunderpants (2004)

Patrick Smash (Bruce Cook) was born flatulent, and farted so chronically and stinkily that his father couldn't stand it and soon moved out. His childhood was farty and lonely, until he met Alan (Rupert Grint), a classmate who's a genius but has no sense of smell. They'll be best buddies for life.

The whole movie is an extended fart joke, but it's surprisingly sweet and innocent, and since it's British even the farts seem to have an accent and an aura of class.

Cook is fine as the little stinker, but Grint, looking about ten years old, steals the movie. He's a walking sight gag, and delivers every line funny, even lines that wouldn't be funny if anyone else said them. He's amazingly adorable, and should've been a bigger child star than Harry Potter allowed.

Simon Callow plays an opera singer, Stephen Fry plays a Brit lawyer with the puffy white wig, Paul Giamatti plays some kind of secret agent, and Ned Beatty is a loony Christian NASA director.

Beatty bugged me; his character is in charge of NASA but seems to know nothing about science, and keeps saying things like, "Praise the Lord!" After a few frowns from me, I decided he's a satire of too many too-Christian American officials, and after that realization I started laughing again.

If you haven't guessed, Thunderpants is a kiddie movie, but I smiled for an hour and a half, and laughed several times. It's as funny as a fart, and that's pretty funny.

"You have that revolutionary new engine, right there in your shorts, Patrick."

Verdict: YES.

— — —

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8/6/2022 
 
Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. No talking once the lights dim. Real butter, not that fake crap, on the popcorn. Piracy is not a victimless crime. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.