When Life Gives You a Lemonade Stand, Make MONEY

Alan Jackson might turn to Jimmy Buffett for advice on what to do around 5 o’clock, but grandson Jack appears to lean more toward another Buffett for counsel. Indeed, I suspect that Jack might have uncovered a secret that The Oracle of Omaha himself has kept close to the vest as he has accumulated billions over the decades.
Make no mistake about it, 5-year-old Jack loves to have fun, and I fully expect him to take a trip to Margaritaville some day. And even though I might be long gone by then, I can envision his impish grin and mischievous shrug as he intones: “Well, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.”



Sooo, even though I’m positive that all work and no play could make Jack a dull boy, he took a serious entrepreneurial turn the other day when he decided to set up a lemonade stand. He took to the task resolutely, ignoring the intimidating element (Warren) Buffett’s Coca-Cola holdings might have offered to a one-stand man.
In that respect, Jack’s venture reminded me of one of (Warren) Buffett’s guiding principles: “Be fearful when others are greedy, and be greedy when others are fearful.”



Jack's version of the slogan: Be greedy when others fear that they might go thirsty.
Even though Jack’s was a solo venture, he had a firm business plan: 8-year-old brother Vincent made the sign, and Jack assigned him, as the taller of the two, to hold it aloft as a business magnet. Meanwhile, Jack the real business magnate, perched himself on a little stool, all the better to reach the money box he had decorated with lemons and dollar signs.
Although Jack allowed Mom to brew a mess of lemonade, he banished her to the sidelines thereafter. “If they see my mom,” he explained to her, “they’d think I’m a kid, and I want them to think I’m an adult.”
Ahhhhhh, deceptive advertising, banking on the fact that passersby wouldn’t guess that a lad a tad over 3 feet was a full-fledged adult, with arrested development, perhaps.
Times being what they are, and Mom being who she is, she didn’t want to leave her charges standing in the driveway with the potential of perfect strangers casing the juice joint. So she busied herself in the background, pretending to do yard work and such so she could keep an eye on them at the same time.
So there you have it: What would Warren Buffett do? The secret to success, the basic rule of Business 101, the capitalist mainstay: Don’t let your mom stand next to you if you want people to take you seriously as an adult and let you make scads of money.
And I bet — I just BET — that little Warren Buffett might have told his mommy, lo these many years ago, to go inside their humble Nebraska house so people would think he was an adult. Oh, I know, you’ve never heard that before, but you don’t expect him to reveal the real secret to his success do you?
Well, let me ask you this, then: Have you ever seen Warren Buffett’s mom lurking in the background around Berkshire Hathaway ventures?
I rest my case: The Sage of Omaha quite possibly dreamed up his slogan about greed and fear to hide the REAL secret behind his success: untying himself from mom’s apron strings.
Of course, Melissa rarely, if ever, wears an apron, but the gist is the same.
By the way, Jack and his assistant collected $6.95 in the lemon- and dollar-decorated money box.
Look out Warren Buffett; and move over, Jimmy Buffett. Jack, the Sage of Suburban Palm Beach County just might edge out W on the Forbes list and just might buy Margaritaville right out from under J.

Patrick's a Little Man of Few Words

As somebody who is absolutely LOUSY at metaphors and similes, I wish I could come up with one or the other for Patrick.
An original one, I mean. Not something like being the calm in a storm (or even BEFORE the storm), or the yin to the yang or, perhaps, a square peg for a round hole.
I suspect that the meaning of that paragraph is as muddy as my most mixed metaphors, so I'll start over.
If the boys' last name were Marx, Patrick Michael would be Harpo, known as the silent one.
And THAT's what keeps giving me a double take when I'm around Patrick.
At a tad over a year, the lad can speak but a few mumbled muffles that may not be words at all but rather, family members' imaginations. Oh, he laughs and giggles and makes guttural sounds, and he probably is saying mum-mum-mum and dada, after a fashion.
But usually, he just watches things and activities — for some reason, he watches me with the studied .007 golden eye of a secret agent assessing a suspect — although he's starting to join the boys' dogpiles on Dad.
The reason I need a metaphor for him, why he seems like he’s following a different drummer, is that he's growing up in a cacophony of chaos, a din of drummers. He’s the sounds of silence among the various renditions of songs entitled “SHOUT.”
I suppose the Isley Brothers kicked it off the shouts in 1959, when grandad was a wee lad:


I’ve been favoring Tears for Fears rendition of late (call me “groovy,” but I think some songs of the ’80s easily rivaled music’s breakout period of the ’60s):



And, lest we forget, The Beatles added a TWIST to the shout:



And that’s what Patrick’s brothers — Vincent at 8, Jack at damnear 6, and Luke at 3 — do much of the time twist and shout, and, to invoke Tears for fears, “let it all out.”
I swear, those lads are so noisy when they get to playin’ that I can’t hear myself think — and they can’t hear ME pleading with them to turn down their volume. Indeed, trying to talk to Melissa on the phone when they’re playing in the background is as impossible as scoring a hole-in-one on a 600-yard par 5 on a windy, rainy day.
At this point, Patrick is mostly a relatively quiet observer as the world goes by. Some days, it throws me off that he’s so quiet because the others can be so dadgum loud. I keep expecting noise to issue forth, but it’s mostly toned-down utterances wafting forth on the winds of baby’s breath.
Happily for all concerned (perhaps), Patrick won't be as tongue-tied as Harpo Marx. (And, truth be told, Harpo could speak; he just usually didn't for a couple of reasons, including the fact that it was a great schtick to get attention, according to the family biography at http://www.marx-brothers.org/biography/marxes.htm.)
OR, for all I know, he’s just a proverbial genius, as per Proverbs 10:19: He who holds his tongue is wise. (I wonder whether a politically correct Bible might say, “He or SHE who hold his or HER tongue is wise.” Probably just “People who hold their tongues are wise.)
On the other hand, things could get so noisy once Patrick quits holding his tongue that we'd wish we could put the toothpaste back in that tube, that the train hadn't left the station, that we could turn back time, etc.
Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.
Soooooooo, my keyboard will fall silent now, as I show a few pix of the lad and his fans:
With his godparents, my son, Brendan, and his wife, Erica, on his christening day:



In a more casual setting, with Brendan and Erica, at his brudders' soccer fields:


With mom, Melissa, on christening day:

Sometimes, everybody's got to get their mugs in a pic, such as the four boys' dad, Skip, Brendan, Erica (you can't even tell she's preggers, can you?), and Melissa, holding Patrick, whose eyes are wide shut, with the strangely silent crew in front, Vincent, Luke and Jack:
The boys just HAVE to clown around when their parents aren't in the pic:
Don't you just hate it when grandparents overdo the photos? Oh, well, one more:

Oh, WAIT, that’s not Patrick. That’s just me, hangin’ with Ernest Borgnine at the Emmys, when my daughter Annie was nominated for editing "Top Chef." How’d THAT get in this column? Can't figure out how to delete it.

In closing, as long as I’ve brought up the varied resurrections of songs with “Shout,” I present one of my favorites and no, I don’t mean its performance on “American Idol” in April 2008. To my mind, nobody does it better than Darlene Zschech:

Amelia Makes an, Uh, Shall We Say, Interesting First Impression

Some days, as the saying goes, you’re the windshield, and other days, you’re the bug.
Some days, you’re Miss Muffet, sitting on your tuffet; other days, you’re the tuffet, sat upon.
Some days, you feel put upon, and others, you get shat upon.
And NOW, the back story:
If Thomas the Tank Engine is around when my youngest grandchild, Amelia, is of the age to appreciate the series, I’m sure she’ll see the ninth episode of the fifth season of the wildly popular series. (It will be interesting to see whether she likes the series as much as her ultra-macho cousins do.)
The episode’s title is “Put Upon Percy,” and it recounts the misery of the little engine one day when he felt put upon.
All the other little engines teased him, taunting, “Percy's been put upon, put upon, put upon, put upon, Percy's been put upon. Poor old Percy — tee hee hee hee hee!"




They just can’t let up, as they continue the torment with this phrase: "Percy has been put upon. I am, I am, I am!"
Of course, the repetition of “I am” brings to mind Dr. Seuss’ “Green Eggs and Ham.” Well, it does for me, anyway, and this is my blog, it am.
And that, of course, brings me to the day Amelia used me like Miss Muffet’s tuffet, and sat upon me. Of course, I was thrilled, because it was my first visit with my first granddaughter. Until she decided to give me a REAL welcome, and shat upon me as well (looked a little like yellow curds and whey, by the way).
Of course, that reminds me of Dr. Seuss again, his famed “Cat in the Hat.” If you can’t keep track of my train of thought, that’s your tough luck. You must feel as put upon as poor Percy.
But that’s better than being shat upon. I know she doesn’t know anybody, and that’s what babies do, after all. But it was a brand-new T-shirt, and it looked as if I’d sprayed myself with mustard.
There was a cat in the house, but she could not have done her deed where the cat shat; indeed, she couldn’t have left her deposit in a hat.
At this point, I’ll just apologize to the spirit of Dr. Seuss, and offer this reflection:

The diaper did not hold,
It was too weak for the load.
So it squirted out
When the breast milk hit the road.

I stood there with Amelia.
We stood there, we two.
And I said to my daughter:
Annie, she just went doo-doo.

Too surprised to react
And reluctant to change a mess.
So I stood their stupidly,
’Til Annie grabbed the little lass.

Since all she had done was
Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!
Annie changed her diaper,
And she didn’t like it one bit.

I could go on. And on. And on,
But you wouldn’t like that.
Besides, I can’t beat the rhyme
And pentameter of the Cat in the Hat.

I would just cause you to groan
So this Grinch will go on the lam.
So you don’t wretch something
That looks like green eggs and ham.

Others have been creative with the concept, as well:



Other than being put upon that once, I had a great visit with Amelia and her parents. She charmed the sox off of this silver fox, although I should note that she can screech like a banshee on occasion.
We went to the zoo while I was there, but I’m grateful that we didn’t go to the beach. I HATE to get sand twixt my toes and in various other crevasses we’ll leave unmentioned.

It appears she shares my sentiments:


But she's a starlet in my skies with those shades on her eyes.


In closing, I’ll prevail upon Dr. Seuss just one more time with some final quotes from one of his 44 children’s books to welcome Amelia into the world:

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You're off to Great Places!
You're off and away! . . .

OH!
THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!

You'll be on your way up!
You'll be seeing great sights!
You'll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights. . . .

Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. There are games to be won.

Stay Outta MY Back Yard, U.N. Nimrods

One of the biggest United Nations controversies back when granddad was a lad was whether "Trick or Treat for UNICEF" uses kids to raise money to kill kids, i.e., to fund abortions.
The long-running debate has been polarizing, to the point that some people terrorized kids who simply were out on Halloween trying to do a good deed, filling charity coffers with coin instead of their bellies with candy.
The annual collection, which has raised about a bazillion dollars — well, about $120 million for sure — since a few Philadelphia children started it in 1950, probably will continue to spur debate long after granddad is flower fertilizer.

But I recently ran across another U.N. trick that's no trick, in my book. It’s such a head-shaker that it should spark plenty of debate.
If you haven’t heard about it already, you’d better sit down, kids, because it defies commons sense and, some might argue, decency as well.
It seems that the U.N.’s Economic, Social and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) doubts the effectiveness of sex ed centered around traditional family values, so it issued a report suggesting its own timeline and topics such education should cover.
Starting with masturbation. For 5-year-olds. Nope, that’s not a typo that should be 15 instead. A U.N. agency believes that 5-year-olds ought to learn to masturbate. No WONDER the full organization has trouble persuading countries to play nice with each other, when it’s so lame-brained as wanting kids to play nasty.
OK, perhaps that’s too hyperbolic, as if I’m hell-bent on being inflammatory, just to get your attention. Well, to be fair, then, I’ll nuance it: The report doesn’t out-and-out tell kindergartners about a fun new activity for recess.
Rather, the International Guidelines on Sexuality Education stipulate “age-appropriate” information. UNESCO cobbled together the guidelines with the U.N. Population Fund, an organization that CNSNews.com reported works for universal access to “reproductive health care.”
The report’s rationale for creating the guidelines is that it is “essential to recognize the need and entitlement of all young people to sexuality education.” An appendix backs that claim by pointing to a 2008 report from the International Planned Parenthood Federation that argued governments “are obligated to guarantee sexual rights,” and that “sexuality education is an integral component to human rights.”
The so-called “age-appropriate” guidelines break down the suggested curriculum into four age groups: 5- to 8-year-olds, 9- to 12-year-olds, 12- to 15-year-olds and 15- to 18-year-olds.
The curriculum for the 5- to 8-year-olds, a group I’m interested in because I’ve got two grandsons in that range, includes the following teaching moments, CNSNews reported:
* “Touching and rubbing one’s genitals is called masturbation.”
* “Girls and boys have private body parts that can feel pleasurable when touched by oneself.”
* “People receive messages about sex, gender, and sexuality from their cultures and religions.”
* “All people regardless of their health status, religion, origin, race or sexual status can raise a child and give it the love it deserves.”
* “Gender inequality,” “examples of gender stereotypes,” and “gender-based violence.”
* Description of fertilization, conception, pregnancy, and delivery.
I suppose one could argue the merits of the last four topics, although I would take the side arguing against the very idea that a 5-year-old needs to know about such things at this point in his life.
But my mind was too boggled about the first two topics to formulate the argument. I’m all for good-touch, bad-touch tutorials to warn kids not to fall victim to lechers, but this step is a little TMI at this point in their lives.
I judge age-appropriateness by what the grandkids are interested in.
All indications are that, at this juncture in their young lives, they are interested in playing with their Legos, which leads me to conclude that should be their focus, rather than what they can do with what’s between their legs. They are fixated, as they should be, on SpongeBob SquarePants rather than what’s in their own pants.
Problem is — and I’m amazed that the clowns who wrote the report don’t KNOW this — is that, if you tell kids about something, they want to experiment. In this case, one thing would lead to another and all of a sudden, a 5-year-old is involved in something that used to ensnare only pre-pubescents.
No thank you. Sooooooooo, when 5-year-old Jack, and often, 3-year-old Luke, ask me to help them put together Legos figures, that’s what we’ll do: Play with Legos (and make sure they pick them all up so I don’t step on them in my bare feet.
Call me Priscilla, but I think that’s the age-appropriate venture instead of, say, getting a naked Ken doll and showing them Ken’s pleasure palace.
Of course, it’s not my responsibility to give them “The Talk” anyway, so I’ll let their parents decide when to tell them what. I suspect that, knowing Melissa and Skip, it will be awhile before they go down that road.
There are plenty of age-appropriate “pleasures,” such as arts and crafts, fishing, camping, T-ball, soccer, etc., now without getting into sex ed.
Meanwhile, we’ll just be putting together Lego cities and cars and contraptions.
Maybe someday, we'll be goofy goobers and make videos like some people do.

DON'T DO THAT, or you'll go BLIND!!!

Jack knocked me for a loop down memory lane the other day with THIS question: "Papa Mike, how come we can touch YOUR TV screen but we can't at home?"
The loop was because it was a revelation to me that he thought touching MY television screen is not only an acceptable habit but also nigh onto a laudable endeavor.
I mean, I don't mind it, because it's an old model with the hard glass tube. But the fact that he assumed he could, and presumed to act on that assumption, touch the screen explained the mischievous fingerprints I had been attributing to leprechauns or, perhaps cockroaches wearing fake fingerprint gloves.
So I explained to the lad of 5 that modern-day TV screens are delicate and must not be handled, even with kid gloves. Back in the day, they were strong enough to fend off even a bouncing tennis ball, as I recall. The common ground: TV screens then and now could not tolerate, say, a bowling ball.
But the time warp to the first TV conjured up the memories I have related previously about watching the headdressed Indian test pattern, in black and white, for WEEKS on my granddad's TV. It was the first one in South Sioux City, Neb., but it and its rabbit ears were primed for the signal when the first Sioux City, Iowa, TV station went live.

It's hard to explain to kids these days that the only way to have an "entertainment center" back then was to put a record player on top of a console TV, and a radio on top of the record player, and make sure the wall socket could tolerate all the plugs. Each appliance had its own speakers, and none woofed or tweeted so much as scratched. Oh, if you wanted a phone, too, the best you could do was have a party-line, rotary-dialed one.
Even showing the grandkids the little battery-operated TV I bought for hurricanes doesn't convey the true barbarity of those days of yore. (Even that TV is obsolete, with the switch to digital, I think, if that's done, and I'm not sure.)
So they'll never see how far devices can morph, from big tubes and boxes, black and white, to consoles, to portables, etc., to screens so small you can hold 'em with two fingers.
Black and white, consoles, portables, etc.
Back to the screens It appears that one of the main admonitions from when granddad was a lad was the warning not to sit too close to the TV. These days, the boys sometimes stand just a few feet from the set.
Back then, parents forever were yelling, "Don't sit so close to the TV or you'll go BLIND."
Of course, blindness was a common consequence preached when guilting us didn't quite work. In the old days, it usually was an admonition not to touch THIS, THAT, or the OTHER thing.
Often, touching had those dire physical consequences of blindness:
* Don't play with that bow and arrow or you'll shoot somebody's eye out.
* Or, put that cork gun away before you blind somebody.
* Or, don't . . . or you'll go blind. (If you catch my drift. Surprising more of my generation isn’t blind.)
Actually, I don't mind the boys' leaving fingerprints around the house because I figure it reminds me that their spirits are lingering there even when they aren't visiting.
So there aren't many things I don't tell 'em not to touch. Well, except for the plant that Jack feels the need to whack every time he walks past it.
“Why, Papa Mike?” he’ll say every time. “It’s fake, isn’t it?”
“NO,” I remind him about my favorite orchid plant, every time. “It’s REAL, and it’s DELICATE.”
To conclude, I’ll add that ... Uh. ... OMG! I can’t see the screen!!!! Ye GADS! I think I’m going BLIND! But I didn’t ... I SWEAR!!!

Good Old Days Weren't Necessarily Smart Old Ways, Compared with THESE Daze

Here 'tis almost time for school to start again, and I haven't even mentioned Vincent's blue-ribbon performance in his school's science fair right before the summer break.
Actually, I mention it not so much to brag, AGAIN, as to point out the contrast between the "good old days" and now. I don't think our school even HAD a science fair when granddad was a lad. But if it had taken a pause from the hectic pace of the '50s for a scientific competition, I'm sure it would have been only for the upper grades.
When I was in first grade, the closest I came to anything blue was learning that it was one of the colors in my eight-color Crayon box.
All we were learning was colors and one-syllable words, such as red, blue, sun, etc. Some of us had trouble even nailing down the colors. One of my classmates had been held back the year before because he had covered everything brown his first time through.
As for learning the words, that was after we had spent hour after hour meticulously drawing the alphabet on those tablets with big spaces and dotted lines to divide small letters from caps. We didn't even start reading until well into the second grade, after our "phonics" books arrived. (I was sooooooooo disappointed when S'ter handed me mine. For MONTHS, she had been promising that great things would happen when those tomes came in. Unfortunately, I thought she was saying "comics," and I couldn't wait. Boy, THAT was a rude awakening.)
Of course, when we did start reading, it was basic Dick and Jane and Spot stuff.
"See Spot run."
"Run Spot, run."
"Dick, see Spot run."
"Spot, run to Jane."
"Jane, what is the vertical co-efficient of the cosign of the hypotenuse …"
Oh, for a minute there, I lapsed into my eighth-grade reading mode.
In short, when I was in first grade, there's no way I could have presented a science exhibit like Vincent did. Hell, all I had was a round scissors and the eight crayons because we couldn't afford the box of 24, which was the top of the line in those days, let alone the 16 pack.
Granted, his parents helped a tad, but he did MOST of the work himself. MUCH of Melissa's work was having her son write the narrative on his display cards, from scratch, when he made a mistake. None of the typewritten ones so many others featured. And none of the Run Spot Run stuff to explain the dynamics of the contents of a Lucky Charms box.
He calculated the number of each design of the charms, and chronicled them. And I daresay that his display rivaled anything I did even in the eighth grade.
The REAL clincher? He didn’t even have to do it. It was an optional assignment. The kid’s setting the bar high.
We’re lucky to have that charmer around, I’d say.

General Mills has added some snap, crackle and pop (to use a rival’s slogan) since this FIRST Lucky Charms commercial in black and white, eh?



I’ll close with my favorite song involving luck, Frank Sinatra’s “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.” I couldn’t find one with Old Blue Eyes himself singing it, so we’ll have to settle for the water fountain show at the Bellagio.

Amelia Was a Blot, But Now She's Not, and New Blot Won't Show What It's Got

It seems like only yesterday that Amelia was just splotches of black and white on an ultrasound, and here she is now, a month old and rushing headlong toward her first Christmas.
I've gotten used to recognizing her little face in its various moods and body in its varied positions in the photos my daughter and her mom, Annie, e-mails to me.
I have to say that none of the ultrasounds even hinted at what she'd really be like, her personality changes, her switching positions, indeed, even what appears to be a screen test for a movie that could be titled "When Ladybugs Attack."
Sometimes, she appears thoughtful; others, dead to the world. Sometimes, seriously sulky; other times, mischievously mirthful. Sometimes, tuned in to watching a mobile spin; other times, zoned out after bellying up to the trough. And, of course sometimes sassy, others gassy.
But she's come a long way, that baby, since she looked more like an inkblot test in the sonogram.
However, I dare say her first picture looked a wee bit better than the most recent sonogram I've been perusing. Oh, lest you think Annie and Kevin decided to morph into a quick-turnaround baby franchise, this isn't theirs.
Rather, it will be the firstborn blot of my son, Brendan, and his bride, Erica. Sorry, but I do have to call it a blot because Brendan doesn't want to know the gender 'til the infant pops into the glaring white and freezing temp of a delivery room or, perhaps, into the more gentrified scene of a modern delivery suite with more warmth and character.
Erica kinda-sorta-maybe-for-SURE would like to know the gender, but she is heeding his wishes, as far as I know. (Wimmin can be a wiley sort, you know, finding out such info and then trying like HELL to avoid the inevitable slip of the tongue that will hoist them on their own petards.)
So, the array of photos accompanying this column are to let you figure out which ones are Amelia and which one is Blot.
When Erica sent me Blot's photo, I replied that, no offense, but it looked much like a giant picture of a hookworm I recently ran across. I even included a pic of the parasite to prove my point. (Say THAT one 10 times as fast as you can.)
She took umbrage, even though I had TOLD her not to take offense. The graphic photo of the hookworm's maw was disconcerting, she said, adding that I had ruined her appetite. It didn't seem to discombobulate her for long, though, as she was Dairy Queening the next day.
I'm not including the photo of the hookworm here because, well, because you might be eating breakfast. Or lunch. Or supper. Or a snack.
Meanwhile, the sonogram set me to thinking about Christmas. Well, I mean The Christmas Carol and Ebeneezer Scrooge's protestations that the apparition was no more than, well, a ghost: "You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"
I guess that's a gentler description of Blot than a hookworm: perhaps a bit of undone potato. Oh, I know that Scrooge is suggesting that he's seeing things because of indigestion. And I think Blot looks a bit like an undone potato at this point.
I'm sure he or she will become more appealing as time goes on.
Of course, it took Brendan and Erica awhile to announce their bundle of Blot on Facebook, so I kept mum about it myself. But then I wasn't able to read the announcement because I refuse to join Facebook.
That refusal makes me the constant target of barbs from my kids.
Annie whines that I could see lots more photos of Amelia she posts daily instead of just the ones she e-mails to me. Allison whines that I would have known she was stranded in Europe without luggage and only the VERY casual clothes she was wearing because all the stores were closed for a holiday — IF I were on Facebook. (So what good would that have done, besides worry me? Or did she expect me to overnight her a bra and a thong?)
And Erica not only whines but also taunts me with missives such as this the day after she announced Blot: "I think you should join Facebook . . . you're just AFRAID you would like it too much and get addicted! If you woulda joined you coulda seen all the comments people made in response to my big announcement yesterday. Here are just a couple:

"What!?" — Brendan (My son is SUCH a joker.)
"Here's your chance to show your real Cubbie blue. Clark for a boy and Addison for a girl" — Aunt Dawn
"Congrats! Looks like it's time to get that Coach Diaper Bag" — Heidi (I don't know Heidi, but I would guess she's a shopper, with tastes leaning toward designer duds.)
"Oh great, the polluted gene pool moves on another generation . . . " — My Dad (That would be Larry, Erica's dad, and I haven't figured out which end of the gene pool he's in: shallow or deep. Even if I knew, I wouldn't malign a man of the cloth [or a woman of the cloth].)
Anyhooooooooooooooooooo, that's Erica's pitch: Join Facebook and have full access to such comments.
Sorry, but no thanks. I'd rather be waterboarded — maybe even with boiling oil — than be on Facebook.