In the otherwise magnificent Carnegie museum in Pittsburgh, there's an exhibit about race. Sadly, predictably, what purports to be thoughtful really just mines the worst of humanity for dramatic effect. I was disappointed.

This wall features quotes from locals about race relations. Which brings us to a woman who really, truly needs to specify antecedents to her pronouns when granting interviews.


don't be a dick

One day I was sitting in my office when Annette came in to get popcorn. Normally she scooped from my machine without sending more than a cursory grunt in my direction, but on this day, something grabbed her attention. Slumped over my desk as though shot, I was listening to hysterical idiots on my speakerphone. Annette had seen me this miserable before, but never without my being trapped in a meeting room with Microsoft marketers. This was something new.

Annette lingered for a while, munching popcorn. "What am I listening to?"

"Oh. Right. This is an angry message my sister left me in which she's holding her phone up to her answering machine so she can play me an angry message that my brother left for her."

"And what does any of this have to do with you?"

"Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. It's just really important to her that I hate him, too."

"That's so..." She searched for the right word. She found it.



This is when Annette started inviting me to Easter dinner with her family. They're awesome. They root for one another, not against. Although I enjoy their company, my annual drive home is utterly depressing. For two hours, I'd pretended to belong to the family I'd always wanted. But the problem with fantasies is that they end.

• • •

When I was a kid, even back in the single-digit ages, I used survey the carnage that was my family and dream about the day I would never have to see these people again. As an adult, of course, I saw things differently. I tried to make it work. Yep. I lasted until I was 20 before activating the trap door under their feet. And except for occasional tightly controlled cameos, I've stuck to it. For more than half my life, my family has had to be hateful without my participation.

The consequences have been surprisingly few. I have nieces and nephews I don't know—the collateral damage of my decision. And if I don't have a girlfriend, holidays can be pretty pointless.

That's it. That's the list. The rest is all upside.

One sibling has figured it out: if you're simply not a colossal dick, John will stick around. You would think that this nominal bar would be easily cleared, but the rest of my family has been impaling themselves on it for decades. This sister, in turn, has assured me that my nieces and nephews, too, are not phalli. And thus did I reach out to one.

She's an adult, now, and I haven't been a part of 95% of her life. She's getting married, and instead of going to their wedding, I'm going to take her and her Steelers-fan husband to a game. She seems pleased, but she did ask the obvious question.

"Can I ask why we're the lucky few who get to be reacquainted?"

"I need a kidney, and it turns out you're a perfect match," I replied.

patriots fans' nicene creed

We believe in the Patriots, the One Team Almighty, the takers of trophies.

We believe that the Patriots are the true Team of true Teams, above reproach in all things.

Toward that end, we also believe that illegally videotaping other teams' signals was of no competitive advantage whatsoever, which is why the Patriots took the risk of doing so at the cost of fines and their #1 draft pick. Obviously.

We believe that Tom Brady, our wide receivers, and our running backs are less capable than Ravens and Colts defensive players of noticing that a ball is illegally underinflated.

We believe that the equipment manager called himself "the Deflator" because he's a fattie trying to lose weight.

We believe Tom Brady when He says that He didn't know the equipment manager with whom He threw footballs during pregame warmups for over a decade.

We believe owner Robert Kraft when He says the Patriots did not deflate footballs, for if you cannot believe an established Cheater about cheating, whom can you believe? Seriously, we defy you to name a higher authority. Go on. We'll wait.

Because the Patriots didn't deflate footballs, we believe the Patriots immediately canned the equipment manager's say it's because he's fat.

We believe that Patriots running backs who leave for other teams see their fumble rate go up 38% because those other teams overinflating their footballs.

We believe that the noble martyr Robert Kraft isn't appealing His team's punishment because it's what's best for the league and because, as He Himself decreed in a written, prepared statement, "I have a way of looking at problems that are very strong in my mind."

We believe that anyone who doesn't share these beliefs is just jealous of our trophies, even the teams with more trophies than us.

fiddla, please

When my mother purchased music at this thing we used to call "record stores," she walked right past the Pop/Rock and R&B sections and went straight to the Atrocities section. As I was tethered to her, this means that my formative years were replete with abominations like Barry Manilow's "Copacabana," Morris Albert's "Feelings," the Captain and Tennille's "Love Will Keep us Together," and Neil Diamond's "Turn on Your Heartlight."

So to those of you who think me a douche, I say that's fair, but I also assure you that is the best possible outcome. Given the aural cesspool from which I sprang, you're lucky I didn't open fire in my teens.

Among her many gifts to me is that I still—still!—know all the words to the Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack. It's horrible. It haunts me. I catch myself singing it, and then with a jolt I'm throughly disgusted with myself, as if I'd just awoken to find myself having sex with a particularly homely underaged yak.

This morning's incident involved Matchmaker, Matchmaker, in which idiotic teen girls sing about the vapid man of their retarded dreams.

For Papa,
Make him a scholar.
For mama,
Make him rich as a king.
For me, well,
I wouldn't holler
If he were as handsome as anything.
I had never considered these lyrics as an adult. They peg mothers' and teenage girls' priorities well enough, but fathers? Where are these fathers-in-law who value scholarship? I've seen them value money, or their daughters' continued dependence on them, or money, or whether or not I believe in the correct invisible man in the sky, but I've yet to meet a dad who gave a single flying crap about my scholarly accomplishments.

mad max

Critically adored, nay, fawned over, this movie was so much meh to me. I didn't care who lived or died. At all. Kill any of 'em; it's all the same to me. I was exactly as invested in this aimless cacophony as I was in the Transformers movies. Did no one else have this reaction?

Okay, okay, I secretly hoped for the stupid guitar player to die, but that was just so I didn't have to watch shots of him preening anymore.


When Randy and I start talking about football, his wife, Stephanie, looks at her watch and then zones out. Ten minutes later, she interrupts.


It's fair. We get to talk about football for a bit, and she gets to hear us stop. She hasn't the slightest interest in football nor anything else I like.

Steph is a gardener and vegetarian, and her kids go to one of those hippie schools where they learn about feelings instead of monetizable skills. She's sweet, she's gentle, and for some reason that eludes us both, we get along.

It was a considerable delight this week, then, when the first text I received about Deflategate was from her.


Non-Bostonians, enjoy.

I was mowing my lawn while smoking a cigar and listening to a Steelers podcast.

"Jesus Christ," groaned Mike, "You are the single straightest man I have ever known."

There once was a time when that was unambiguously a compliment. Ah, the good ol' days.

• • •

I was having dinner with the pink mafia one night. I was the token straight amidst a full spectrum of queens. It's always a good time. It's a far more reliably good time than hanging out with straight friends or, god help me, family. Perhaps my attitude is better. Perhaps they're just kinder. I don't know, and I don't care. I enjoy differences between people. I love reveling in differences, learning from them, and most especially, making fun of them. In uptight Seattle, we don't even acknowledge differences, let alone have the grace to find humor in them. It's an uncomfortable fit for this polka dot, which brings us back to that dinner table.

"So back when you chose to be gay..." I slurred. It's my standard ice-breaker.

"FUCK OFF!" they slurred back. Also standard.

They were surprisingly curious about women, far more curious than I am about men. I would characterize their interest as zoological. What a weird species women are, they agreed, with horrific biological plumbing. It's hard to look at the stirrups in my doctor's office and disagree. I was far more interested in how the recent societal shifts have affected their lives. Are things noticeably better, day to day? Are they happier?

It was then that the conversation took a dark turn.

There was a lot of self-loathing at that table, a discomfort in one's own skin. I was shocked at the uniformity and depth of it. These are great guys. Yet to a man, they all found gayness a burden. I'd always looked at it as just something Like height. I don't love my height, but I also don't resent it or particularly think about it. This required some mental adjustment on my part.

Trying to understand, I posed a horrible question: if you could take a pill and be straight, would you? Four out of five immediately said yes. The fifth needed to think about it.

My mind was blown. I cannot imagine that feeling. I have never been where they are. I've never been in a place overlooking the rumor of a shadow of where they are.

I have no conclusions to draw from that throughly depressing conversation, but it forever colored how I look at gay issues. When I see religious nuts opposing gay marriage (or as I think of it, asserting special rights for straight people), it just saddens me. Like these guys aren't self-loathing enough, we have to shriek hysterically that they're unworthy of an institution with a 50% failure rate? Throw them a bone, already.

Bad choice of words. I'll allow it.


"You have got to learn his name!" laughed Amy.

During a work meeting, I had confused clients' names again. I do this often these days, and I do it predictably. I confuse a guy at one company for a guy at another, and I always confuse the exact same pairing. It's when you start to solve for the common denominator that things get uncomfortable.

Company A Company B Common Characteristic
Steven Brad White guys
Manik Varij Indian guys
Jane Lucy Women

I'm some kind of an -ist, clearly, but which kind(s)? Me, I'm going to argue for cannotbebotheredtotellmoronsapartist.

victim of the week: tom brady

Rewarding achievements in claiming victimization

In January, a Colts defender intercepted a pass and noted that the ball provided and used by the Patriots was underinflated. An NFL investigation showed that yes, almost all of the Pats' balls were underinflated. What's the competitive advantage there? The ball is easier to throw and catch, and fumbles become mysteriously rare—right up until the same running back goes to the Bengals and his fumbles soar, anyway. More to the point, it's against the rules. It's cheating.

All eyes turned to Tom Brady, who did himself no favors by disavowing all knowledge and saying he had no idea who the equipment manager was after having thrown footballs with the guy during warmups for 15 years. For good measure, when the NFL asked to see his related text messages, Mr. Brady declined.

As a fellow cheater who's incapable of manning up and admitting it, I understand completely.

But then Brady's agent unleashed this:

"What does it say about the league office's protocols and ethics when it allows one team to tip it off to an issue prior to a championship game, and no league officials or game officials notified the Patriots of the same issue prior to the game? This suggests it may be more probable than not that the league cooperated with the Colts in perpetrating a sting operation."
Pretty much, buddy, yeah. They got a tip your client was cheating, and then they sought the proof. Sorry about the whole absence of "Hey, just a heads up, if you were planning on cheating this weekend, we're going to be trying to catch you. Cheers!"

I'm sure when the police get a tip that a suspected serial burglar is going to hit house x on Friday night, the very first thing the cops do is call the robber and warn him of their surveillance that night.

Never forget: Tom Brady is the real victim, here.



At my favorite cigar shop, they have a giant Jenga set made out of cut 2x4s. What dominoes are to my old Columbus neighborhood, Jenga is to this Pittsburgh haunt. Rules are strictly enforced:

  • Thou shalt use only one hand.
  • Thou shalt touch only one block at a time.
  • Thou shalt touch a maximum of three blocks during one turn. This last rule is a motherfucker. If your first three blocks are stuck, well, you're yanking on one anyway.
I was playing Jenga with Courtney, a sparkly, well-read, adorable Pittsburgh native and Steelers fan with whom I'd hit it off spectacularly. We were well on the way to dateville when it happened.

I cheated.

I had absent-mindedly stopped the stack from falling by touching a second block.

Courtney saw it. "CHEATER!" she shrieked, extending her finger in accusation.

I was at a crossroads, I knew. Yes, I could cop to cheating. Courtney and I would have a nice laugh about it. Then I'd take my future wife out to dinner. We'd have a great "how we met" story for the rest of our lives. Her family and our children would lovingly address my Christmas gifts to "Sleazy McCheats." And eventually, at my funeral, my lovely pearl-haired widow would tearfully say that by going to heaven, I'd cheated even death. Everyone would chuckle warmly, shaking their heads. Oh, that John.




Earl was there, selling out his gender. "You totally cheated, man."

"SEE?!" Courtney whirled at me. Caught, I had no choice.


And thus did I have dinner solo that night. "He ate meatloaf alone and watched an old Simpsons episode" is a decent eulogy, too.

old math

I was playing with a retirement calculator. You type in when you expect to retire, your saving plans, how long you plan to live, and your anticipated living expenses in retirement. It doesn't take long for you to intensely resent your future self. What a goldbricking mooch. So I cut him off.

"Screw Old John," I muttered as I massaged the numbers until I got something attainable. "If he lives past 82, he's on his own."

From Cheryl Strayed's (so far) insipid memoir Wild:

"I got an abortion and learned how to make dehydrated tuna flakes and turkey jerky"

shower thought

The San Francisco 49ers desperately need to name their cheerleading squad the Gold-Diggers.

butt stuff

My being back in Metamuville is horrible for this site. No social interaction = happy John = crap content.

In Pittsburgh, I instantly had multiple circles of friends that in several ways crushed my 20+ year circle here. I was about to allow that my Seattle friends are predominantly parents and therefore less accessible, but then I remembered Stephanie in Pittsburgh saying "Let's go out for an adult evening! We'll get a babysitter."

Specifically, I remember thinking, "I have never heard that sentence in my life."

People in Pittsburgh were curious about why I would consider leaving Seattle for a city with no ocean, no mountains, worse weather, worse jobs, and—unbefuckinglievably—fewer days of sun. And I was never really able to explain it to their satisfaction. No matter what angle I used to explain the social repression here, no matter how many colorful metaphors I found for Seattle people having their heads intractably shoved up their own asses, they were confused.

"But you're such a nice guy!" I heard more than once.

"Immaterial. I am not the problem there."

Once, I was chatting with a pastor (something that would never happen in Seattle) who'd befriended me (also something that would never happen in Seattle. I'll stop saying that, but you should mentally place it after every phrase that follows). He was explaining his faith, and I was explaining my lack of same. It was all very cordial, and we genuinely liked one another—despite his not understanding where I think good and evil come from and my not understanding why he thinks they come from an invisible, mind-reading zombie-Jew in the sky. We had a spirited conversation, and soon it drifted into football, food, and Seattle.

"What's the racial situation there?" asked the pastor, a black man.

I considered the question. I thought about d'Andre's assessment that in Seattle, even the brothers are whiney white guys. I thought about the squabbles I've had with young Seattle blacks who'd corrected me on what white people think and feel. I thought about how I had an integrated circle of friends the moment I set foot in Pittsburgh, and how I'd felt the sudden shock of missing that more than I'd even known. But how to explain all this to the pastor?

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," I said. "This conversation would never happen there."

"Why's that?"

"Because white and blacks ignore one another like they do everyone else. Because this level of trust between strangers does not happen there. Hell, this level of trust between friends seldom happens there. But mostly, it's because no one cares. People aren't remotely curious about things not up their own butt. To ask that sort of question, you have to think outside the butt."

And yes, I told that whole story just to share my perfected metaphor.

upsell this

I cut it close, but I arrived at the theatre five minutes before my movie's start time. My local theatre long ago got rid of their kiosk, making interaction with humans an unwelcome cost of admission. Now they've upped their obnoxious game.

"Purchase tickets at the concession stand," read the sign in the booth.

I was greeted, of course, by a long line. One eye on my watch, I squirmed as I watched each customer get the hard sell. The long, hard sell. The staff managed to fritter away 10 of my minutes. By the time the elderly woman in front of me was paying for her comically large bucket of popcorn, I was steaming. Waste my money, waste my heart, but do not waste my time.

She took her sweet time getting out of line, so I tried to expedite things. "Medium unbuttered popcorn," I said to the employee who'd gotten everyone else's popcorn. She nodded and did nothing. Another eternity passed. Finally, the old woman left, and I put my M&Ms on the counter.

"Would you like to upgrade to a large for only 75 cents more?" chirped the employee.

It was all I could do not to lunge at her. I closed my eyes.

"Yes. In fact, make it a small. You talked me out of it."

"Uh, okay. You can combine that with—"


"—a large soft drink for—"


"only $1.25 more."

"Still no."

"And if you add your candy—"

I grabbed my candy and put it back on the shelf. "You're really good at the upsell," I observed. "Let's move this along."

"Do you have a Regal card?"

"No, and I don't want one."

"Do you want one?"

"No, I still don't. I want to see the beginning of my goddamned movie."

We stared at each other, and I realized I wasn't going to enjoy the movie. I began my 30 minute drive back home.

You know that guy at the car dealership who you have to talk to, even if you're paying cash, about financing and undercoating and warranty extensions? You know that desperate, trapped-animal feeling?

I was preparing to take the dogs to the park, and that half-assed idiot savant Fredo was waking the neighbors with his customary shrill yipping. Vibrating, he poised behind my tailgate, ready to leap into the car.

"I wonder if this moron is moron enough to fall for a hand-fake?" I thought. So I pantomimed opening the tailgate.

Pow. Faceplant into the back of the car.

highlight of my day

For work, I'm building a web site with someone else's content. I just let the following sentence slide. Why? Because it delights me.

"Jesus knows deeply our competitors."
And it's because of that sort of gem that my postings here have been subpar lately. I knocked out 312 hours in March. Among other revelations, I discovered that I'm not 28 anymore.

10 more years

Dex and Fredo are going to be my last dogs for a while. Yep. They broke me.

Oh, they're fine companions. My problem is that they're perpetual companions. I literally cannot shift my weight in my office chair without instigating a panicked, swirling, competitive scramble for affection. Mind you, I don't pet them when I'm working. This is all in their imaginations. If I get up to get a drink, or to relieve said drink 30 minutes later, I am stalked. Sometimes I'm pre-stalked, as a dog will walk right in front of me, stopping every two feet to look back and recalibrate my direction. If someone visits, they get excited like any dog does, but with a pathological flair: they bound back and forth from the visitor to me, poking me with their noses to say Hey! (poke) Yes, we're happy to see this other person (poke), but we just wanted you to know you're still foremost on our minds every fucking second of the day! (poke poke poke)

They drive me bloody insane. I'm starting to book dog-free vacations where the "dog-free" part eclipses the "vacation" part. Am I happy to be traveling next month? Mildly. But I'm counting the days to when I dump the dogs at the kennel.

Fredo was so shadowing me on a bathroom run that when I stopped and locked my knees together, I trapped him between my calves. He's an inbecile, so where other dogs would consider this play, he was just confused by what mysterious force had arrested his momentum. "Superfreak" was playing on the stereo, and I pivoted on my feet to make Fredo dance. He was miserable, so naturally I whipped out my camera and recorded the event at his face's level. I was going to share it in this post, but that ain't happening. It looked exactly like I was vigorously violating my dog.

So instead, I share this almost-published typo.


culture clash

We ended up hiring an English developer with a very Italian name, which made me nervous until I heard the posh accent pouring voluptuously out of my speakers. Score! That led to the following exchange, perhaps the quintessential Anglo-American interaction:

English developer, trying to say that SharePoint sucks without offending: "Well, it's generally considered that SharePoint, in point of fact, isn't the, er, might not be, er, the highest quality of product."

Amy: "Ya THINK?"

the ugliest american

We're in over our heads at work, and we needed to bring in outside help. Amy and I were discussing bringing in a freelance developer when she said "I almost hate to say this, but I sort of don't want to bring in a non-native English speaker. I mean, I feel bad, but I have to be able to understand them."

As the exhausted person paying by the hour for people to go What? Can you repeat that? Huh?, I am less ambivalent. "I'll be the bad guy," I growled in agreement. "We will not hire any damned foreigners!"

It was then that I realized that my Mexican housecleaner was five feet behind me. Thankfully, I have ample evidence that she doesn't understand a thing I say.

interactive left

I've had several questions about the second Pittsburgh left, so here's an interactive explanation. You need to go straight toward that YMCA building and make a left on Pawlowna.

My first time, I had zero idea what to do and made the leap of faith.

well, i'll be

I just noticed that "Funky Cold Medina" and "Wild Thing" are actually two different songs. Who knew?

just divine

During last year's downturn, most of my business's best people left for jobs elsewhere. Now work is heating up, and I'm left staring at the C- through D-lists. It ain't pretty.

Anita Phakename was a pretty good worker. Above average to good. I ended up phasing her out because she was flaking and unreliable, albeit understandably. Her husband had not only cheated. He hadn't just left her for another woman. He not only did it in Australia. He was her ride home. They had sailed there, and they'd intended to sail back. She worked as crew on some transport to get back to the States. Always a sucker for hard luck stories, I gave her a job. And she repaid me by being really good for while.

Alas, Anita's emotional roller-coaster manifested in serious boy-craziness and mood swings with a chaser of disappearing without notice for weeks at a time. I wanna help, but only to a point. I stopped giving her assignments. I don't think she noticed. A year or so later, I heard she had a kid.

Well, now I need to think about hiring back up. I got to wondering if she'd pulled out of her precipitous dive into flakedom. Perhaps motherhood sobered her up? So to social media I went, where I found out she's attending this on Sunday:

"The Tantric Mother and Sacred Parenting."


If I haven't been posting much lately, that's only because I've spent every waking second sitting at my computer, typing. Last week, I hit a 40-hour work-week by Tuesday night.

It's been a long time since I've had to knock out these kinds of hours. I can't say I'm still a fan. It's doubly difficult because 2014 was such a leisurely pace. It was pleasant, frankly. Now hard work feels morally wrong.

So this is what it feels like to be every boss I've ever had. Huh.

advanced ethics

My boss of the last five years called me, cringing. He is not normally even a smidgen deferential to me, so I was confused. I soon realized that he was dreading hearing my whining.

"John, I just got a mail from HR. We all need to take the corporate ethics class."

The ensuing few minutes are a blur to me, indistinguishable in my memory from similar HR-inspired rages that have flared over the years. But then I calmed down and did what needed to be done.

I paid someone to take my ethics class for me.

i got yer pittsburgh left, right here

Distinguished Stank Troll CJ had warned me about Pittsburgh lefts, and sure enough, I found them extraordinarily useful.

But there was another kind of left that drove me insane. The "Oh My God, They Can't Possibly Expect Me to Understand This" left.

For instance, you need to go across this bridge. What do you do? I just about plotzed when I was sitting at this light.


Answer: you turn left, then right at this "no left turn" intersection.

I've jumped off cliffs that took less courage than this next left. Do you see it?

pittsburgh left 2a.JPG

Of course you don't see it. That's because it's both invisible and subterranean. Your path would be like this.

pittsburgh left 2aa.jpg

The red dots indicate where the other picture was taken.

pittsburgh left 2b.JPG

• • •

Katrina visited me in Pittsburgh, and Uber was driving us around when she did a double-take.

"Holy crap," said Katrina as we went through a five-way intersection. "We just crossed the intersection of 6th St and 6th St. That's...insane."

"That's Pittsburgh," said the Uber guy. "If you can drive it here, you can drive it anywhere."

mulling evil

My niece is getting married. I briefly considered attending the wedding. After all, she's the only relative of whom I'm not ashamed. Indeed, I'm actually proud to be related to her. Look, everyone! That girl and I are composed of essentially the same genetic material!

I haven't attended a family function in 20 years. There's a reason for that. They're wretched people. And at that wedding, I was a focus of attention, mostly of the unwanted, negative variety. I don't want to similarly detract from this bride's day. Plus, again, I hate these people. So my skipping is a win-win.

I perused her modest bridal registry. Few items are over 50 bucks, and nothing has been purchased yet. And then I had an idea. I had a wonderful, awful idea: buy the whole schmear.

Enjoy coming up with gift ideas, everyone!

Pro: fucking over my relatives
Con: three more nieces are in the chamber

What to do...

karma, schmarma

A friend once had a workday that was out-of-body horrible. I drove into Seattle that evening and delivered her a bottle of chocolate liqueur. I had no know idea if she would like it, but that was hardly the point. At least she knew someone noticed.

As is His custom, God punished me for my kindness. On my way home, an 18-wheeler hopped the median of the 520 bridge, and I was sitting on that bridge for 8 hours, well into the night. With a dog who deeply, truly had to go.

That's my most spectacular example of the "God punishing me for kindness" phenomenon, but it's hardly the last. I swear, if I hold a door open for someone on my way to a job interview, they'll step on my foot and break my toe, then get the job because they weren't wincing in pain during their interview.

Allie credits this unerring principle with her not being an atheist. "I used to think religion was just made-up crap. But the evidence that there is a God and that He's out to get's kind of staggering."

• • •

A few months ago, Anna (1, 2) asked me if she could earn some extra money doing chores for me. "Sure," I said. "The only thing I'm planning on farming out is gardening."

She was up for it, we agreed to pay her $25/hour, and yesterday it finally happened. Kind of. She showed up with her Mom, who helped, in air quotes. For about 3 of the 10 hours Anna worked, Mom helped. The other 7 hours, she sat in my deck chair and ate my food and shouted criticism at her daughter.

Yet when the bill came, it was for 20 man-hours.

"Seriously?" I said. They had no idea what I was talking about.

"Yeah, two people, 10 hours, that's 20 hours."

I waited for them to volunteer that maybe this accounting wasn't entirely fair to me, but no such acknowledgement was forthcoming. I looked at my table, where among the empty cups of my yogurt I saw my plate holding the discarded bones of my ribs. I guess I'm just grateful that she didn't find the humidor.

Because the idea was to help get Anna money, I chose not to argue. But she also isn't going to be allowed to finish the job, nor is she ever getting another lick of help from me. This is how you know you're a fuckup. For a mere $175, she cheated her way out of a source of aid and revenue. Forever.

As I gave Anna her fraud money, I heard Allie in my head. "You know what you did wrong, right? You were being nice, and wham."

moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

Monthly Archives