October 2007 Archives

my hero!

From distinguished Stank troll Rob comes this delightful post about a Maine man's experience with self-righteous Seatards. I'd like to say I don't condone his act of violence, but on the other hand I know these people.

This web site implores you to boycott businesses that don't allow you to bring your gun to their location.


As luck, mostly of the female variety, would have it, I have an extra $400 ticket to an upcoming Ohio State game. My first thought was my old friemisis d'Andre. Then he reminded me that he'd already declined six months ago. He's going to be out of town.

"Okay, then," I said cheerfully. "I'll take your wife."


"And pour alcohol into her afterward."

Speechless, he made a priceless sound. Kinda a gurgle.

on loving hillary

"I'll vote for Joseph Goebbels for President before I vote for Hillary Clinton."
- John, 2000ish

I just can't stand her. I think she's cold, petty, vindictive, remorseless. If any prospective president is going to make a Nixonian "Enemies List," I think it's her. Yet I cannot imagine a circumstance where I will not vote for her in a year and a week. This depresses me.

The latest issue of The Atlantic had an article that resonated with me. About how even Hillary's admirers find these same traits off-putting, it's typically long, but it's worthwhile.

classless, defined

As I type this, the Patriots lead the Redskins 38-0 in the fourth quarter. Not only are the Pats still playing all their starters, but they just went for it on 4th and 1.

Touchdown. 44-0 now. They should definitely go for two.

dear ed

Hey, pup, how's the afterlife? Good, good. Say, I need a favor. Since you left, the fucking neighborhood cats are getting out of control. They're all over the car and the deck. They crap in my yard. The other day, a huge orange tabby came up to me with a dead snake dangling out of his mouth. He looked like a particularly grotesque Fu Manchu. So if you could, like, astrally whiz in the yard or haunt them or something, that'd be great. Thanks. Hope the squirrels are all fat and crippled where you are.

Be good.

(the guy who used to feed you)

I finally watched the last episode of Ken Burns' miniseries about World War II. I found it uncompelling in an oddly familiar way, and I think I've figured out why. You know how when you're watching the Olympics, all enthralled as the American in second place takes to the diving platform for the last time, and suddenly NBC cuts away to a 10-minute fluff piece about how she knitted booties for her sister's baby? The War is exactly like that. It's thrilling history garnished with excruciating mundaneness. They'll be showing the Russians liberating the first concentration camp, and then they'll cut away to Private Cooter P. McNugget (Ret.) of Laverne, MN talking about how he once dated a nice Jewish girl. They had ice cream at the place on Main Street that doesn't exist anymore. Her name was Melissa. She got Rocky Road.

I exaggerate, but not nearly as much as you'd hope.

• • •

Burns portrayed race with his typical deftness. It's revolting, of course, that black American war heroes returned home from the front to be told "Look at a white man when he's talking to you, boy" by some cousin-stickin' mouth-breather, but it's sadly not all that surprising. One thing that did surprise me: when young Japanese men were finally allowed to fight for the U.S., they were released from internment camps and sent to Army boot camps, many of which were in the South. "Don't worry," one recent releasee was told by his white Southern hosts. "You'll be treated as white." And when he didn't know where on the bus to sit and decided to err on the side of sitting in the back with the black passengers, he was ordered to the front of the bus with the whites. Yet the week before, he was an imprisoned "national security risk" who had no rights. Wow. The contrast, the hypocrisy are just astonishing.

scenes from an italian restaurant

Last night I dined in a swank Italian restaurant. The last time I'd been there was several years ago, when a girl I'd dated briefly invited me to her birthday celebration. I repaid Heather's generosity by focusing my attentions on her friend Kristin all night. It's not as vile as it sounds. Kristin was fantastic. About meeting Kristin, Katrina once declared, "Oh. My. God. John, I have met your ideal woman." You don't seat me next to a pretty tomboy without knowing exactly what's going to happen next, right?

I chickened out with Kristin. Bummer, but at least I had the satisfaction of watching Heather implode. She shot me daggers all night. When I gave her her customary bottle of Godiva liqueur, Heather took this opportunity to recount, for all her friends, all the things I'd done for her in birthdays past. It was quite an impressive list. The description of her birthday scavenger hunt alone lasted a couple minutes. In establishing her long history of enduring specialness to me, she was wearing my bloody name out. It was slightly embarrassing.

"Hey Heather," I called from the other end of the table. "I have one question."

"What's that?" she chirped.

"What month is my birthday in?"

And right there, in front of all the friends assembled to celebrate her own birth, she had no earthly idea. Divine.

• • •

I used to think that the worst food presentation possible is a creamy pasta that contains shrimp with their tails still intact. I stand corrected. Garlic roasted in its head, then decapitated so that you have to use a tiny fork to meticulously dig out minuscule boogers of garlic, meanwhile getting oily skins everywhere—that's much worse. I had that shit in my hair, afterward. And I'm shaved bald.

• • •

I got to tell the old last time I saw my dad story, which is always great fun. This led to a larger discussion of our childhoods and our lives' respective crises, which further led to a discussion of how much we want to smack people who conjure earth-stopping dramas out of comparatively benign setbacks. The world's filled with so much actual awfulness, we said. Famine, disease, war, evil everywhere. It's really hard to respect the awfulness that exists only between someone's ears. I felt shame about my own such indulgent lapses, and as my penance I resolved that the next time some goateed Seatard whines that his life's failures stem from his mother not breast-feeding him until he was twelve...smackity-smack.


When you get a phone call that there are approaching whales, and you scoot five feet to your left to look, and you almost immediately see orcas silently breaching in the distance, and you watch until they disappear from view, and then you scoot back to your desk and resume surfing Pittsburgh real estate....well, these are the things that make ya pause.

• • •

Maybe there are attractive homes in Pittsburgh, but I'm sure not finding any. Whatever the case, no one should start looking at real estate in Spokane's Manito Park. Everything else seems like a meth lab.


Of the responses to my poll the other week, "whore" was the most commonly cited worst-thing-someone-can-call-me. That was fairly predictable, and I thought little of it until yesterday, when I reread my low fidelity post and was reminded that as a child I had, in fact, deemed a girl who I liked a "whore"—for no reason other than she didn't like me back.

This got me thinking about how I've heard the term used since. It's invariably in similar contexts. What an irony that we men use "whore" as a synonym for "a woman who won't have me." And that women use it as a synonym for "a woman admired by the man I want."

People are so kind.

chasing elise

Having been recently informed by a woman how I was not, in her view, her ex-boyfriend—and who can blame a girl for trying to lawyer her way out of that indignity?—I got to thinking about the qualifications for the designation. How many meals must a guy purchase to make bar? How many months of morning I love yous must be uttered out of the sides of mouths? How many new tampons must be fetched and passed through the two-inch crack of the bathroom door?

Then it hit me. The woman who for years I called "my first girlfriend" has, at some time or another, taken a demotion herself. She was my summer romance when I was 14. As I grew older and relationship debris accumulated in my wake, her status diminished, and until this weekend she was almost completely forgotten. A pretty amazing fall for someone who was once the whole universe to me.

The last time I looked up an old love interest didn't go so well, so it was with some trepidation that I looked up Elise (pronounced Alisha). She is two years older than me, which to a 14 year old boy is pretty much the Holy Grail but which now, curiously, holds no allure for me whatsoever. All I had to go on is her long-memorized childhood name and address. Unfortunately, the address is in Holland, which makes surfing many orders of magnitude harder.

I found her within 10 minutes. God bless the Internet.

I officially reclaim her as my first girlfriend. Since we last smooched in the pool, Elise has gone on to become an attorney who specializes in children's rights. Good for her. Great for me. I want this on my romantic resume. I need this on my romantic resume. "I only date wholly selfless human beings, altruistic types whose sole priority is to give back to the community," I'll sniff. "For instance, an utterly random sampling of ex-girlfriends now work as a physical therapist, a nurse, and an attorney crusading for children's rights." I badly needed a third thing for that list. This is perfect.

But the ex who now manages a sports bar? She's my secret favorite.

she who talk'um shit

My mother sought no one's belief more than mine. This is likely because no one believed her less than I did. I was the man of the house, and as such, I was her principle bullshit repository.

"I know what I have to do, now," she would pronounce airily.

What followed that weighty preamble? It hardly mattered. It could be kicking my sister out. It could be finally filing for divorce. Or it could be dating again. Or it could be leaving one of those losers. It could be going back to school, losing weight, changing careers, going on a trip, "learning computers," reconnecting with conspicuously absent friends. It could be almost anything. I knew only one thing for certain: it would never, ever be in the remotest danger of happening.

"Why don't you save us both a lot of trouble and heartache and stop lying to yourself?" I'd say. "Or at least stop lying to me."

She'd wail something about having such an unsupportive, hurtful child, and then she'd rush out and prove me wrong by vigorously not following through. On anything. And then one day, reminded of her false start, she'd identify the blocking issue. "Yeah, the thing is, I would have dated...but you're just not ready for me to date again," she'd say. "I couldn't do that to you." Or maybe it was that "we" couldn't afford for her to go to computer class.

"How much is the class?" I'd ask.

"Whatever it is, we can't afford it. Not with school shopping coming up."

I bestowed upon her an Indian name: She Who Talk'um Shit. (Clearly, I hadn't met an Indian yet.) Mom's misery was chronic, and so were her hollow vows to do something about it. Our money problems were a common theme, but she always had a ready solution that involved a career change or stock tips or Amway. But even being scammed by Amway requires some degree of follow-through on the victim's part. She doubtlessly frustrated them as much as she did me.

"Do you know what else gives the illusion of progress?" I'd ask, exasperated. "Actually making progress. It's very convincing."

After she'd contracted cancer, the shit-talk became unremitting. "I know what I have to do, now," she'd say. "Yoga!" Or "crystal pendants!" Or "sailing classes!" Or "wheat germ!" Or "pyramid power!"

"Chemo!" I'd counter. "Or radiation!"

"Those hardly ever help anyone," she snorted. What a unsupportive, hurtful child.


"If you've ever had too much to drink and can't drive, just give me a call," they say. "I'm serious. Anytime of the night. I believe in this that seriously."

And on two occasions now, I've taken them at their word and called. And I've been screened. Nice.


My eleventh summer, as part of her doomed effort to keep me from getting a dog, Mom allowed me to get a kitten. Mom and I clashed instantly on what to name the little orange-beige thing. She favored "Peanut Butter," and I favored anything else.

"We could get his sister and name her 'Jelly!'" Mom squealed, delighted by her skilled wordplay. Then she cupped her hands over her mouth and pretend-called the names out the front door. "Peanut Butter! Jelly! C'mon!"

Using mere logic, I was unable to derail my mother's attempt to ensure that I never, ever got laid in my imminent teen years. Desperate, I veered spiritual.

"I can flip to any random book of the Bible and find a better name than 'Peanut Butter.' Why don't we let God decide?" Mom agreed. I flipped through the Bible and stuck my finger in at random.

Psalms. "Best, two out of three," I said.



Canticle of Canticles.


Jeremiah would never be neutered. This was elective surgery that my mother considered a luxury on the order of a boob job. This decision led to much misery for all concerned, none more so than our longtime vet, a frequent target of Jeremiah's unmitigated testosterone levels. After treating Jeremiah, the vet would manfully dab antiseptic on his face while he lectured Mom about neutering the cat. And then he would attend to Mom's and my wounds, too.

After one particularly violent visit, he grabbed my arm as we left the building. "It doesn't have to be surgical," the vet pled. "Just slide a rubber band down his tail, loop it around his balls, and wait for them to turn black and snap off."

As bad as the destination was, the journey was even worse. Jeremiah insanely hated riding in the car. No cardboard kitty carrier afforded any amount of protection. He's go through that like, well, claws through cardboard. Mom would be driving, and we'd hear the low, psychotic rowl emanating from the box, followed by the terrifying sound of a sledgehammer systematically testing flimsy cardboard joints for weaknesses. And then one of the rowls would non longer sound muffled, and we'd look in the back seat to find a bug-eyed cat bursting out of the corner of the box. And my mother would yell "GO GET HIM!"

Lamentably, it was my job to corral him and keep him restrained during the remaining six to seven days it took to get to the vet. I would lunge into the back seat, and it it was like my world was a blender and someone had hit puree. Those trips were a whirling blur of cat claws. I remember images of Mom screaming while driving, cat biting boy, boy pinning down cat, cat death-gripping Mom's head, Mom biting cat, cat driving while screaming. Fortunately, the vet always had antiseptic waiting.

Jeremiah and I both outlived Mom. She'd always said we'd be the death of her, and while I have no evidence of causality, I certainly can't disprove it. Alone at 17, I couldn't afford a place that would allow a cat, so I found Jeremiah a good home. Or rather, Celeste, my first girlfriend, did. I came home one day to find Celeste there but Jeremiah gone. I was upset.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you would have wanted to say goodbye, but time was..."

"ARE YOU OKAY?!" I inspected her face and arms for lacerations. "Did you use the carrier and the manacles?!"

"Huh? No. I just put him on the passenger seat next to me, and he curled up and slept the whole way."

oh my god, they aired kenny!

spenny.JPGStill smarting from my last such prediction—that when Aisha Tyler landed a recurring role on "Friends," the whole world would immediately fall in love with her—I'm hesitant to predict that the public will embrace the puerile delight "Kenny vs. Spenny" when it airs on Comedy Central. So I'll just be happy that my longtime guilty pleasure is returning to American airwaves. And produced by the South Park boys, no less. Excellent.

Watch the boxing episode.

fathers, stop buying jeans for your daughters

Confirms the survey respondent:

If you wish, you may inform the curious that I did not grow up to be a lesbian.

winner, redux

Says curious Stank troll Dan:

You left out the answer to the obvious question: did she grow up to be a lesbian?
Good question.

winner! kinda.

The survey results are in. When one reader was ten, her grandmother told her that if she wore jeans, she'd grow up to be a lesbian.


Perhaps the worst advice I ever got was, not surprisingly, from my father. Upon hearing my career choice of technical writing, he sniffed confidently that there was no such profession and that I would end up starving to death. He based this assertion on the fact that in his minuscule subset of the world, there were no technical writers. What with him knowing everything, this observation must hold true everywhere. Today, everything and everyone in my life flows from my having ignored this advice.

Similarly moronic advice came from my older brother. When during college I bought a computer for word processing, he told anyone who would listen that I was sinfully wasting money. You'd think I was snorting coke off hookers' chests. "Use a pencil," he snarled, thrusting a pencil in my face. Presumably he meant for writing, not for the hookers.

The familial mental handicap didn't stop there. My mother would yell at me any time my genitals came with six feet of the color TV. The radiation would sterilize me, she said. Today, although I am quite nearsighted, I am not sterile. So I wear glasses while I contemplate a vasectomy.

My Polish immigrant grandmother takes the prize, though, for sheer jaw-droppingnessity. Visiting our local pool, she yelled at me to get out of the water. Since I don't speak Polish, it took me a while to understand all the fussing, but with my dad's help I came to realize that she was concerned about my swimming with black children. Why? (Wait for it... wait for it...) Because the black would come off their skin and get on my own.

I defy you to beat that for sheer idiocy. What's the worst advice a family member ever gave you?

how to fix these shows

Almost anytime someone mentions a junk TV show I've seen, my first impulse is to tell them what's wrong with it. And then it struck me: why not allow others to benefit from my programming expertise? Why not, indeed.

Heroes. The Ali Larter character is a cooler. A show-killer. If the show is a nuclear reactor, she's the control rod dropped into the core to stop the reaction. She's what the 30-second skip button is for. Save us the trouble and kill her off.

The Simpsons. No one could sustain greatness over 18 years, but producing fewer shows (say, 18 instead of 24 in a season) would certainly help. Concentrate on quality over quantity. At least six shows suck each year, anyway.

Rescue Me. I think every scene should be about how creator/producer/writer/star Denis Leary is stunningly brave and irresistible to women. What's that? Every scene already is? In that case, fewer soap plotlines (Denis Leary screws his nephew's teacher after screwing his dead cousin's widow but before Leary's brother impregnates Leary's wife, who Leary just raped and who liked it, etc.) would make me far less ashamed to watch the show. Perhaps showing a fire or two each season would help.

Lost. I know you're not going to be able to tie together all those weird-for-the-sake-of-weird threads. You know it. We all know it. To fix things, get Hiro from Heroes and have him go back in time, become a network executive, and cancel you after Season One.

Mythbusters. Remember the good old days, when Elevator of Death and the hovercrafts could be in the same episode? That was a great show. Despite the fact that they've diluted the on-camera "talent," the volume of padding in this show has become excruciating. Relentless cutaways lead to unending recaps of what we just cut away from 10 minutes ago, and padding like "vodka myths' is, well, padding. Yawn.

The NFL on Fox. Please, for the love of god, stop cutting to a different camera angle mid-play. These are not actresses in music videos whose inability to dance you must disguise in editing. That's all. Thank you. Say hi to Bradshaw for me.

Survivor. How can we miss you if you won't go away? You're in a creative and casting rut, but most of all, we're on what, season 16? 17? The show started in 2000. That's only seven years. Milk it much? We're exhausted of you. Go away for a while.

24. Learn the difference between a daisy chain of Macguffins and plot, please. The irrelevance of any given episode is deathly to our interest in the series.

American Idol. Know what's interesting? Trying to spot the next Kelly Clarkson during the auditions. Know what's not interesting? Watching you give airtime to uninterestingly, conspicuously "weird" people who just want to be on TV. Endlessly. To summarize: talent is interesting, unknowing lack of talent is interesting, and a moronic desire to be on TV at any cost is decidedly not interesting.

steelers 21
seahawks 0

Oh heavenly father,

Today, I praise your name. I thank you for my many blessings. Like, when my team committed stupid penalties, their having the mettle to stop the Seahawks from scoring anyway. I thank you, too, that when questionable penalties were called, the Steelers had the wisdom to convert 3rd and long instead of whining to the media, that they quietly mounted a 110 yard drive from their own 20. Thank you for rewarding the virtuous and smiting the deserving. Thank you for providing me a team about which I can be proud and not ashamed. Thou art most wise.


but enough about me

Longtime trolls have already seen this, but for you probationary trolls, I'd love to see your responses to the reader survey. Okay, love is an overstatement, but I have no post ideas this morning.

Decrying Latinos' lack of special treatment in the PBS series "The War," shrill imbeciles like this guy succeeded in getting 30 minutes of jarringly irrelevant footage tacked on to the end of the series.

Now, I'm well aware that "special treatment" is a racially charged term oft abused by people who look like me. But it fits here. From an artistic standpoint, the series was told from the point of view of four small American towns. This narrative device does not lend itself to easily accommodating the demands of special interest groups. The Latinos-only epilogue is jaw-droppingly irrelevant to that arc. Imagine watching Star Wars, and the boys get their medals at the end, and as everyone in the theatre rises to exit, you suddenly see a Latino rebel pilot telling his own mildly interesting story about a separate skirmish. "Many Latinos fought alongside all the other, unspecified ethnicities during the Rebellion," a narrator intones almost apologetically.

Worse, though, is their calling out Ken Burns for recognizing black, Jewish, and Japanese stories during the war. Perhaps the protesters should shut their cry-holes for a moment and actually listen to those stories. If they did, they'd learn that blacks were segregated and therefore have a story of their own; that Jews were slaughtered and therefore have a story of their own; that Japanese were thrown into internment camps and therefore have a story of their own. Latinos? Intregrated, not murdered, not incarcerated. They have no collective story of their own that warrants a collective history of their own. Their story is the American story. Their story is, in fact, indistinguishable from mine, except that mine doesn't warrant its own, unjustifiably racially-themed epilogue.

critical mass

I just had a visit from Amy. No, the other one. (Having given considerable thought to what the opposite of Fucking Amy would be, I've settled on "Fuckless Amy.") She was visiting from Maine for training at her new job. In fine fashion, Microsoft repeatedly stepped on its own dick and rendered her trip utterly pointless. Except for seeing me, of course. Cough.

Sarah, Fuckless and I loitered around a bit. When the social fabric of your life is composed almost entirely of critical women, an unfortunate phenomenon happens. They meet. They drink. They compare grievances against you. They drink some more. And then, worst of all, they start planning your life for you. In this case (after I told the old last-time-I-saw-my-dad story), they very much agreed with one another that John should write a book of whiny reminiscences. They were insistent.

"No one wants to read that crap," I objected. Then they brainstormed a list of best-selling whiny reminiscences.

"Okay, maybe I don't wanna read that crap."

They made me a reading list.


Of all the jobs I've held, "construction worker" is most likely to cause unexpected (and unwarranted) respect, "beret-wearing busboy" is likeliest to cause demands for photos, and "managing editor of a health and fitness magazine" is most likely to cause choking and gasping. The job people seem most intrigued by? "Stock boy in a candy warehouse."

Someone has to deliver candy and cigarettes to all the mom and pop stores, and that was us. My job was to move boxes around. Off the truck, on the truck. Only rarely did I see candy, and if I did, it was disfigured beyond all palatability. Sorry to disappoint.

I was the college kid, and as such, I was the target of much abuse from those who'd never caught so much as a whiff of dorm mold. There was no subtlety about it. "Hey dumbass," the owner's son would yell across the warehouse. "Drop your dick for a second and college me up some Goetz caramels."

Everyone would laugh and high five. It was a great fit for me.

My first day, I was introduced to Teddy Cope, the longtime warehouse foreman who had recently been demoted to make room for the owner's son. Which is to say that Teddy had lost his title and pay, not any of his responsibilities. He would still train me. Teddy was a marvel. In a country where the average lifespan of a black man is 64, Teddy had somehow lived to be 127. His teeth hadn't made it past 42, however, and when he smiled you wished for nothing more than for him to scowl again. He walked slowly, efficiently, expending not one step more than necessary to perform a given task. And my personal lexicon was forever changed by the invective that poured past the cigarette flapping omnipresently on his lower lip.

"Teddy, this is John. He's replacing your boy Mike. He's all yours."

Teddy, slumped over the back of a dolly, glared at me. "Jesus Christ pushin' a hand-cart," his cigarette flapped. "Who are you related to?"

You'd think his disdain for me would be tempered by my not, in fact, being related to the "saltine-assed motherfuckers" who'd recently bought the place, but I was doomed. Nothing I did was good enough. Sometimes he couldn't wait for the truck drivers to get back at the end of the day so he could regale them with stories of my bumbling.

Teddy was a curiosity. He listened to country music. He loved Willie Nelson. This drove me insane. He smoked constantly. He cursed unremittingly yet yelled at me if I even began a profanity.

"Oh, sh—"

"Yooouuuu be careful." He'd wag a finger at me.

"But you swear all the time."

"Fuckin' a. But I don't want to hear it out of you."

Teddy was full of colorful expressions. It was from him that I learned such mainstays as "Tear you a new one," "Get your head out of your ass," "I need you like I need a second asshole," and his daily mantra: "John, I'm so happy I could just shit all over myself." Those all made immediate sense to me, and I adopted them as my own. Other expressions didn't quite make the cut. "And if roosters had titties, they wouldn't crow until 10:30." comes to mind.

Teddy and I lived near one another, and to curry favor I'd taken to swinging by his bus stop and picking him up every morning. It was during these trips, free from the previously undetectable constraints of a professional environment, that I learned what an abomination the entire cracker race is. He'd rail. I'd listen. Then I'd remind him that a cracker was giving him a ride. He'd point his flapping cigarette out the window. "Yeah. Well. You're just trying to curry favor."

His apartment was next to a high school, and on Friday nights he went to games alone. I thought this was unfathomably cool. I still do. I hope that when I'm 141, I can do the same. I joined him a few times, and my education as a self-loathing white guy continued under the lights. Every time a Big White Stiff screwed up, Teddy guffawed, nudged me, and pointed, lest I miss it.

One day, we were unloading a truck, in our usual positions. Teddy was behind the dolly, smoking a butt, and I was unloading heavy cases of Snickers bars. I dropped the first one on the dolly instead of setting it down, and the dolly recoiled. I heard the sickening sound of celery snapping. Those were Teddy's ribs. He glared at me, eyes bugging. He made not a sound—the most terrifying sound in the world. I thought he was just building up speed, but the eruption never came.

After a few hours, after the severity of his injury had become apparent, he asked me to topple a tall stack of cases. I did. He then went into the owner's office and said the stack had fallen on him, and that he needed to go to the hospital.

As I drove him to the hospital, I thanked Teddy for his white lie. This was the difference between my getting fired and not. He nodded, knowing well that he'd saved my job. I wasn't exactly sure what constituted being a cracker (this seemed to morph on me), but I knew Teddy's gesture was crackerdom's exact opposite. He smiled his best evil, gummy smile. "If you thought I was rough on you before, kid, just you wait. I own your ass now."

My pride kicked in. "Yeah, and if cows had boobs they'd, um, be, um.."

"Ca-righst. Just stop. I'm beggin' you. You were making such strides."

moron taxonomy
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super bowl xl officiating
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