Ian slipped on a banana peel, and his bottom hit the ground— HARD. None of the children gave even the slightest snicker. All of them carried on with their daily chores. Sasha came tumbling down the stairs- her newly found method of speedier moving than crawling, or walking. This, too, did not seem to faze the other kids. They continued to carry out their tasks~ but as soon as Ian went to open the front door…a grand burst of laughter proceeded out of the McGregor villa. Ian had had enough, and was ready to storm back in when he was greeted by a little birdie. It cooed, and cooed. Ian tried to shoo it away. Then it began to laugh. This was now all too much for Ian. He ran toward the little birdie and took a dive trying to grab a hold of it. The little birdie flapped its wings, and took off into the beautiful indigo cotton candy like evening sky. Ian had landed in a pile of the McGregor’s cow dung. What a day he was having! He took a deep breath, and tried to calm his nerves. This had been quite an arduous time for him. Not only had he been instructed to watch over the McGregor hyper bunch, but he had to also make sure that even their livestock- including the indoor and outdoor pets- had to be all taken extra care of. Ian stared at his reflection in the front entrance glass door. In his current state, he looked like some kind of manny who just happened to have finished performing a circus act- either being chased by a pack of cackling hyenas, or swimming in a tank full of great white sharks. This was the end of trying to be a serious manny. Maybe he would just have to work on being hired as a birthday clown for children in other parts of the village, or at least further away from the McGregor estate.

https://youtu.be/lvPvBTSr-mc?si=BzCOi0gA1kmXf0YM

Sunday 01.26.2025 #TheManny.

Before anything else... this has to be said.

Miss Caroline Lenore insists that future scholars the future people who read about these incursions after the fact...

That she-- at fourteen years old-- genuinely had no idea how she ended up among Coven meetings for a Cold guerrilla war that had never been meant to break the oh-so frail veil shielding the unnatural, unexplainable to mortal eyes.

Therein was the first lie then, Caroline Lenore would write.

Incursions of witches against werewolves, moving against the scattered cabals of Vampire lands and drafting prophets across Europe in chains, it'd never been against France as a country.

There was no war-- should not be recorded-- as a war of France against Sweden and small, isolated holdings deep in Italy.

Perhaps there'd been an entirely unseen, unknowing third Party of provoking humans, perhaps they'd been the ones a little too close to the Covens, they'd sold plants that turned out to poison their potions and medical salves unknowing that they'd take lives.

Possibly the Wolves had had no choice but to expand their territories what with four cubs being born to a pair.

No one entirely knows how or if the wailing souls-- Ghosts-- even joined the conflict to begin with.

All Caroline Lenore knew is that she tried to focus on the good that came from befriending Yvette Evers. A witch-in-training from Petit Epee Way.

They claim that American’s have no culture when they’re the ones lacking in culture…

When they come to this country their morals and values are gone. They say it’s because “American women are just giving it away”.

Are they really? Or are the ’Greater Middle Eastern “men”’pretending to be interested to get into a white woman’s pants?

Aren’t they the ones selling the stories? I doubt they’re the ones who approach women by simply and honestly saying, “I just want to fuck” because according to them that’s “distasteful”. But if the women here are whores then why are they so concerned with logistics?

When they go to their country they can’t fuck around because their government and their people would kill them. They don’t do what they want in the mother land because of their culture?

Hypocrisy is when someone cries wolf while wearing sheep’s skin.

My counter arguments always begin and end with the cold and hard facts;

Culture is something that’s engrained into one’s soul; culture is not a jacket you hang up when it’s convenient, culture is something you love and admire, not something you disregard like the shit that comes out of the asshole.

These “greater” men are the worst of cowards, and I’m disgusted that we gift them our love, so they can boast about how much better they are than others.

They respect nothing and no one—they aren’t even worthy of being called pigs. Perhaps this is why they haven’t the stomach to eat the holy swine.

They have no integrity and they have no culture because they disown it when they leave their country.

Then they go back and marry their women—and feed them the leftovers.

And they proudly state that they respect women, but that women in America don’t respect themselves—but lying and cheating to get the prize, doesn’t really make anyone a winner.

An accidental submarine run in, that's all it took. They happened to be nuclear subs, one American, one Russian. In a split second the world was immersed in nuclear war. The stockpiling began; the naive went for food and toilet paper, those more aware geiger counters or dosometers, and the batteries required to keep the functioning. The devices and batteries stored in every possible location to attempt assurance one would survive if they survived to use them. Most of the immediate deaths happened in the first forty eight hours. Missles were launched at all major cities and nuke stockpiles immediately when war was declared. Most were vaporized before they could clock what was happening, more still died of radiation burns so severe, their flesh was no longer connected to their bones. A small number suffered the slow, agonizing demise of radiation sickness. The length of their suffering diminished but worsened by the lack of medical care. These unlucky souls were caught up in the explosions at stockpile sites because these were the only ones that created substantial fallout.

That was it, the war was over. It ended faster than it started since the countries involved were immediately annihilated after years of stalemate.

What survivors there were sought sanctuary in less affected regions. Rural healthcare infrastructure was easily overwhelmed by survivors in desperate need of care they weren't equipped to provide. The extent of irradiated land is too vast to create monitered exclusion zones, especially since the government and economy are in shambles. Survivors hoard geiger counters to this day and pull them out when trecks to the old cities are undertaken in remembrance of the day forever etched into their minds. Country borders are used as checkpoints crossed only after radiological briefings. Permission is limited to survivors, ever since the decontamination efforts were abandoned. I've heard stories from survivors who have dared to return of the wildlife that thrives in the absence of humans. The former territories of the Russian Federation and the United States of America serve as vast reminders of what happens when countries have nuclear stockpiles.

CONCEPTION

I felt the initial wave of nausea during dessert after taking the last bite of my third piece of pie. Stopping to catch my breath, I tried neutralizing the discomfort by finishing my glass of eggnog. This gesture was ineffective. Not wanting to acknowledge my gut feeling, I excused myself from the post meal conversation and went upstairs to swap out my already unbelted, unbuttoned chinos for sweatpants. Even after changing and without tightening the drawstring, there was no relief.

Slowly navigating down the stairs and proceeding back into the kitchen, I grabbed a clean plate and snagged more sweet potatoes with marshmallows before they were transferred into a Tupperware container. Grandma looked up from washing the serving utensils and made the comment, “There’s a certain glow to you.” She turned as I walked by and rubbed my belly. This is when I accepted that I was pregnant with a holiday food baby.

This is not my first food baby. I had two last year (Easter and Fourth of July) with three the year before (Super Bowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day and Pop’s retirement party). So, by now I am immune to getting emotional. I know the routine. Unlike the 38 to 42 weeks required for a standard baby, the gestation period for a food baby is 38 to 42 hours. So, I understand the importance of getting things in order and preparing for my new little bundle of joy. Speaking of little bundles of joy, I ate six more buttered crescent rolls to tie me over until my snack before bedtime.

Nobody at the table was surprised when I shared the news. My one cousin did say, “Now that you mention it, I think I’m with child, too.” Just like her to try and steal the spotlight from my important moment. I knew it was a false pregnancy because of her uncontrollable flatulence. She wasn’t gravid. She was gassy.

FIRST TRIMESTER

My supportive family hastily organized a baby shower. With such short notice and the out-of-town kinfolk’s flights leaving the next morning, I couldn’t burden them by expecting anything extravagant. I didn’t even have time to register at Dunkin Donuts or Omaha Steaks. I did enjoy eating the meal of reheated turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes with gravy while appreciating their effort. And with the nearby grocery store still open, those in attendance were gracious in gifting me an eight-pack of Charmin (“Quilted for his pleasure”), some Wet Wipes and a bottle of Tums.

I solicited their opinions to help me choose which professional should assist in the delivery once my water breaks. Thankfully, I have a few hours to decide between:

1) A Gen Z pediatrician specializing in gastronome pregnancies.

2) A non-judgmental proctologist with a 5-star rating from Yelp.

3) The local Roto-Rooter man who is on call 24/7.

SECOND TRIMESTER

My ankles are swollen. Might be from the excessive ham I nosh on between trips to pee. Don’t know how my food baby is pushing against my bladder, but it’s annoying having to put down a fork full of mac and cheese every fifteen minutes so I can waddle to the potty.

Sleeping on my side took some adjustment. I found that a pillow between my bent knees makes a difference. Although the reoccurring dream of being chased by a giant, partially carved turkey while I throw homemade cranberry sauce back at it in defense is what’s really preventing me from getting a full eight hours of slumber.

The baby kicks a lot in response to me opening the refrigerator. Cute in a Pavlovian, gluttonous sort of way. It feels as if it is riding lower than before.

THIRD TRIMESTER

My body continues changing. I’m simultaneously experiencing brain fog, linea nigra and the mask of pregnancy. My mood swings like an unsecured shutter in hurricane force winds. Those within earshot try appeasing me with green bean casserole. It works.

All the cocoa butter in the world won’t erase the hideous stretch marks that creep across my belly. And don’t get me started on my hemorrhoids. I swear I am taller sitting down than standing up. Seriously.

As much as I enjoy the process of creating a food baby, I want this one out of me soon. Very soon. In keeping with the previous deliveries, I’m opting for a natural birth. But I am not opposed to the use of an epidural, C-section or Colace suppositories if complications arise. Nothing is routine when a food baby enters this world.

DELIVERY

Well, I am now the proud father of a three-pound, bobbing miracle. Cigars for everyone. Decided to wait a spell before naming the baby. I want to get a better feel for his personality. The resemblance to me is uncanny. We both have brown hair. The recovery is going well. I get some exercise in with multiple trips to scour the refrigerator for any leftover leftovers.

SOMBER EPILOGUE

Tragedy struck while I was having my food baby baptized. Some witness (I suspect my jealous cousin), flushed the toilet during the ceremony.

Goodbye, Beauregard Miller. Shine bright you little stinker. You’ll always be #1 in my heart.

I will be in mourning, wearing black because it’s slimming, until New Year’s Eve.

Look, I need you to understand something right off the bat—I'm not an idiot. (Well, mostly not an idiot. The jury's still out on my decision to wear Crocs to a robbery, but we'll get to that tragic footwear choice later.) You might be wondering why someone with a bachelor's degree in Contemporary Philosophy—yes, I know, LAUGH IT UP—would end up pointing a trembling finger-gun at a Korean corner store owner at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday. The answer involves three maxed-out credit cards, a gambling addiction I swear I totally have under control, and an ex-girlfriend who took my cat in the breakup. (Mr. Whiskers, if you're reading this somehow, I miss you buddy.)

But here's the thing about desperate times and desperate measures—they're basically first cousins who shouldn't date but totally are, you know what I mean?

The fluorescent lights in Kim's Quick-Stop buzzed like thoughts in my anxiety-riddled brain—incessant, flickering, probably in need of professional attention. I'd been standing in the chips aisle for twenty minutes, pretending to have an existential crisis over Doritos flavors (Cool Ranch vs. Nacho Cheese as a metaphor for the duality of man), while actually having a very real existential crisis about everything else.

My hand was in my pocket, wrapped around absolutely nothing, which—if we're being philosophical about it—is a pretty apt metaphor for my entire life strategy. The plan was simple: walk up to the counter, pretend to have a gun, grab the cash, exit stage left, pay off Kenny the bookie before he introduces my kneecaps to his favorite baseball bat. TOTALLY FOOLPROOF, RIGHT?

Wrong. So cosmically, catastrophically wrong that future civilizations will probably discover the wrongness fossilized in sedimentary rock layers and build entire religions around avoiding such spectacular failures.

Because here's what they don't tell you about robbing corner stores—the owner might be a former Olympic speed-walker. (I'm not making this up. There's literally a faded photo behind the counter of Mr. Kim power-walking his way to bronze in Seoul '88, a fact I probably should have noticed during my previous 3 AM taquito runs.) They also don't tell you that Crocs—even in Adventure Mode with the heel strap engaged—are surprisingly poor getaway shoes.

"Empty the register!" I shouted, my voice cracking like I was going through puberty all over again. (Note to self: if you ever attempt armed robbery again—WHICH YOU WON'T—maybe try voice coaching first?)

Mr. Kim looked at my pocket—my very obviously empty pocket—then at my Crocs (lime green, because if you're going to make questionable life choices, why not make them VISIBLE FROM SPACE), and did something I hadn't factored into my brilliant plan.

He laughed.

Not just a chuckle, mind you. We're talking full-body, shoulders-shaking, tears-in-eyes LAUGHTER that made me feel like I should either join in or offer to workshop better material for next time.

"You want money?" he wheezed between guffaws. "Maybe first you buy better shoes, eh?"

And that's when my fight-or-flight response kicked in, except—because I'm me—it manifested as more of a deer-in-headlights-then-trip-over-own-feet response. As I stumbled backward, my Croc caught on the edge of a display stand, sending approximately 847 packets of beef jerky cascading through the air like meaty confetti.

In the ensuing chaos—as I lay there, covered in teriyaki-flavored shame—Mr. Kim didn't call the cops. Instead, he made me tea. TEA. Earl Grey, served in a chipped mug that said "World's Okayest Speed Walker."

"You seem like you're having bad time," he said, sliding the mug across the counter to where I sat, thoroughly defeated, still picking beef jerky crumbs out of my hair. "Want to talk about it?"

And you know what? I did. I really, really did.

(Though I still maintain that the Crocs were a bold fashion choice, not a failure. Some people just aren't ready for that level of comfort-forward criminality.)

The “Holiday Season” is sometimes called “The Christmas Season”. I find this a bit unfair; we scapegoat the oddness of this month as if it were based on religious tenets. The “holiday season” of December is driven by retail needs. This is not a knock against retail, or against any particular financial system; every financial system has its own weirdness. But much of what might have been called “The Christmas Season” was driven largely by commercial, not spiritual, desires. Ain’t anything inherently wrong with that; but let’s not misattribute stress, eh? That’s seldom helpful.

5. TRICK OR TREATING.

More than one critic has noted that sweets played little to no role in the original holidays which created this season. And yet, who among us does not have fond memories of young persons going from house to house, promising pleasantries from Santa Claus or malfortune from Krampus if people did not ‘give up’ their spare sugarplums?

4. CANDY IN GENERAL

It’s my personal belief that we underestimate this segment of the season. As sober adults, we’re supposed to disclaim the utility of this acclaim for a food which is, dietarily speaking, both an evolutionary leap, and essentially poison.

But let’s be honest: candy is delicious.

3. WE ALL LOVE WEARING COSTUMES

It doesn’t matter whether you enjoy being a jolly Elf from Santa’s workshop, or a Krampus coal miner, or a holly wreath, or a decorated tree, or even a non-traditional costume, like a lamp with nine lights on it. Costumes are wonderful. They let us express our inner selves, our sense of humor, our imagination.

2. THE TV HOLIDAY SPECIALS

The idea of holiday specials on mass media goes back at least as far as the days of radio, and didn’t end with the phasing out of broadcast television; our favorite shows all created holiday specials. Almost every show does its seasonal specialty, and because they know everyone will be watching, each show takes the holiday spirit and puts its own spin on things. Sometimes this leads to the best episodes; sometimes, to the amusingly worst episodes. But if I can watch just one episode of any show, it’ll either be the first episode, or the special for this amazing season.

THE ANCIENT TRADITIONAL ORIGINS

Let’s not forget the real reason for the season:

Whether you see it as literal or metaphorical, we will always remember how Gandalf was able to light his staff to lead the company out of slavery in Goblintown. Without that miracle, we might, even today, held captive in deep caverns beneath the Earth.

So I say: It’s time to carve those Yuletide Jack-O-Lanterns, put up the fake bats, and light huge bonfires to ward off evil spirits. Enjoy the holidays, and feel free to get out there and extort some candy canes from the neighbors!

It was a sunny day, but I suddenly saw smoke across the line. It was normal for the Tribes to camp and make fire, yet It was my duty to see through the telescope and report each and every change across the land. I went to the observation room and switched on our new improved telescope and camera in the direction of the smoke. This was the latest developed by our own engineers and the neighbors had no idea about it. It can show them to us perfectly even if they are camouflage. It can also show the difference in body temperature of the people hiding and their surroundings. I saw through the lense and was shocked of what was before me, it was no Tribes it was a group tanks. The troop may not know that I have seen them, yet they are dangerous. I took a copy of the image by our high quality camera and rushed to my seniors. My seniors was busy training some new cadets so they asked me to wait, but I showed them the emergency symbol and they announced a break. "Let it be important, or you might be punished if it were any animal stepping on the wire like last time", one of them told me. "Yes sir", saying it with a salute I handed over the images to them. They saw it and told,"it's clear China is declaring a war on Russia and they are having tanks", the person looked at me and asked,"how long it will take for them to know that they are being watched". "Approximately 4 hours sir", I replied. "Prepare the tanks available here and inform to bring the nearest within 2-3hrs. Also prepare long distant missiles and all the other weapons, China has no clue about", he ordered.

11.55

the dark and a moon shining in the sky...

It's the ending of the night

And you're waiting just for the midnight.

11.55 the time nobody misses the sky

I was born in darkness filled with lies

Nobody cares if the stars don't align

Even if they scream and cry

You wait for the midnight

Half sleepy and a half conscious mind

You call it a night

You are just waiting for the midnight

Chaoetic night, you want to skip the time.

Thats when I noticed

I was born on a little shy

Because with me its always

You want the time to fly

And sometimes it kinda makes me cry

911,What's your emergency?

It'S Mark Tucker.She made me laugh again.

Are you serious?

How bad is it this time?

It was deadpan.

One joke after another.

It really hurts.

I tried not to SMILE.

But she was relentless.

She had you in stitches eh?

That's not funny.

ok,I'LL send help right away.

Ow,that hurts.She's gonna PAY for this.

Were almost done here Mr Tucker.

There how does that feel?

Just Joking.

Ok,now were gonna run a few tests.

Knock knock?

I'm sorry,i couldn't help myself.

Mr Tucker.Here's an hour of deadpan jokes.

I'LL be in the next room.

If you feel any discomfort wave to me.

An hour passes by.

Everything looks good Mr Tucker.

We'll have you hooked back up to the iv in no time.

Meals on wheels,get it!

I guess in your case Mr Tucker laughters not the best medicine.

Although one time i had a patient with severe constipation.

I gave him an audio of dark comedy.

He laughed so hard he shit himself.

It gives a new meaning to comedy relief.

Before you go Mr Tucker,please sign here.

This is for the cost FOR ambulance,emergency room visit,and THE STITCHES...

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