Piell posted:

None, Rowling is a TERF, she would never allow a trans parent in her books

hyperhazard posted:

Lol that reminds me of when my sister met a bunch of her new inlaws for the first time. One of them put both hands on my sister's stomach and told her to hurry up. It was her goddamn wedding reception.

YeahTubaMike posted:

According to the tweet, this is supposed to be Bloodborne as NYC, not actual NYC.

Actual NYC is indeed not like this most of the time.

bike tory posted:

not much, what's upthread with you?

Mr Ice Cream Glove posted:

Skwirl posted:

Also "download instructions to rebuild itself" Who wrote these instructions?

Skwirl posted:

Why zebra fish?

Also I think they do a lot of some kind of testing on fruit flies, just because you are allowed to ship them through the mail and I work in a post office that services a hospital and those are labelled.

theironjef posted:

I got fired from a Target as a checkout lane manager for "not writing enough people up" and when I asked for examples of writeups I missed but should have performed they said "This isn't about concrete examples, your target writeups should be at 2-4 per week."

quote:

You shouldn’t be responsible if you have signed the back of the paperwork required.

The last time I sold a car, INSTANTLY this came into question, with almost deadly results …

See, I had never used Craig’s List before.

I typed up the ad and took some pictures of my freshly washed 2003 Toyota Corolla. It was a great car with a bazillion miles on it but it ran great and was spotless.


I priced it at only $2,500 to get rid of the old girl fast. I typed in my address and phone number and hit “enter”.

In just half an hour, I had an appointment with a heavily accented Mexican lady who sounded like she was somebody’s grandmother. She knew the address posted in the add and she said she’d be right over.

In five minutes, they were in my drive, looking through the windows.

I will not say I “had a funny feeling” but I did know that in dealing with Mexicans, they customarily like to trade in folding money … Yankee Dollar Bills.

I stopped off in my den then headed for the door, past the three baying herd dogs at my door.

“Shhhh! Stop barking, guys! It’s okay … “

I pulled on my long jeans jacket with the white collar and went out to meet them.

The nice couple was about what I expected.

She was round and about 4 feet tall, maybe 65 years old. (Same as me!) He was taller than I but skinny as a rail. His fine tooled brown face was weathered from years of hard work.

He shuffled in his spotless white cowboy hat and pointed boots as I approached. They had “dressed up” just to meet me. How nice.

I smiled and shook hands, knowing right away these people were a “good fit” for the great car they would be getting.

I had him get out his CA identification card (no driver’s license) and she showed me her CADL, explaining that she would be the driver.

Her “chob” was to “a-clean dee-people house”.

This was the couple’s first car I was told with obvious pride.

“Awwww. How nice,” I thought.

You can’t help respecting a successful marriage that has lasted so many decades. I knew they were getting a sound car for an excellent price. I felt good about the whole transaction.

I signed the back of the title, releasing interest in the vehicle. I had him fill out his address on the coloerd bit of paper that gets mailed to the DMV. I would mail it to them personally to see that it gets done.

Then I laid it all out on the trunk and photographed it all with my phone, including the stack of currency in the shot.

I had no sooner handed her the keys and stuffed the pile of bills into my jeans, when a white Nissan, blaring that “Boom-Chicka Boom!” music, full of Mexican “20 somethings” shot into the drive. All four piled out like they owned the place.

Right away, I could tell … they were gang members.

What’s more, they had just just blocked all the cars in my driveway.

“HEY! Jew sellin’ dat car to ME, Essay!” mister white tee shirt said as he sauntered up with a comical “Bantam Rooster Walk”.

“What? Was he crippled our something?” I almost laughed to myself. The “accent” was surely too fake to be real.

His right hand man beside him, held forth a cell phone. There was some guy’s tattooed FACE on it.

We were being filmed.

Someone was directing this transaction by phone!

“Sorry, Compadres! (What was I supposed to call this uninvited group in my driveway?)

“You’ll have to talk to this lady. The car is hers.”

“NONONONONO! Jew sellin’ it to ME! I geeve jew more MONEEEY!”

“I don’t need “Jore Money”, pal! The car is hers and is not mine anymore.”

A word was spoken to the image on the cell phone. Two of the punks moved behind each of the couple. One put hands on the nice lady’s shoulders.

She recoiled in fear. The old man balled up his fists but was frozen in place.

THAT got my gears grinding. I took a step back and made note of where “everybody stood”. My lips were drawn tight with this old habit I’d learned half a century ago.

“TELL him, Mano!” came from the face on the cell phone.

“Dee car ess OURS!” one said and shoved the old gentleman in the back.

“Maybe you have the money een your pockeeet?” the leader said, as he looked at me, slowly turning his head sideways like a dog examining some roadkill.

“Yeah. Two thousand’ fie hundredt,” another said, also steeping into the game.

“Alright! This is about DONE!” I said as I lifted my jacket.


Tucked into my pants was the 45 automatic that Uncle Kenny wore when he was blown out of a Sherman Tank in the Korean War. It is a huge, mean “rock thrower” that never, ever failed.

This did NOT stop them completely but it did give them pause.

One spoke into the phone in Spanish. The brittle exchange happened between them and their “boss” as I did some mental calculations for this little potential “throw down”.

“Too many nearby windows,” I thought.

I kept reminding myself the old soldier’s hand cannon only carried 7 shots and I’d need to keep count.

The phone conversation concluded with, “Jes. I theenk THEES old man would DO it!”

The “stances” they were taking made me realize that yes, they were probably all armed.

No help for it, I thought as the one grasping the grandmother by the shoulders pressed down on her.

She let out a yelp and I instantly had Uncle Kenny’s 45 in their leader’s face. I clicked off the safety.

Tweekers are sure brave.

I caught the look in his eye and, remembering my training from a war 50 years ago that few like to discuss, I pulled the pistol (still aimed at his center mass) back into my chest, holding it tight with both hands.

I took a quick step back, out of reach as his snatch for my gun grasped open air.

OHHHHHHHHHH! I came SOOOO close …

Instead, I screamed “You’re DEAD, Essay!”

My yell sounded like the gunshot I wanted it to.

“You want to get everybody out here KILLED, Hombre?”

“You - let - these - nice - people - a-LONE and get OFF my PROPERTY!” I said in a quiet, even tone.

They backed up with their hands in the air. The phone clattered to the ground with a cracked screen that winked out. One of the kids snatched it up and stumbled into the car.

Off they roared. One of them could not resist holding up his middle finger as they drove off.

Just for a second … JUST a SECOND, mind you, I KNEW Uncle Kenny’s 45 could have taken that finger clean off.

Pew!

I had the trembling couple wait in my driveway for a bit. My wife came out in her house robe and slippers with two bottles of Walmart ice water for them.

“What have you got for me?” I asked my best friend.

She blushed. The woman I married gave me that little sideways smile I’d come to love over all these years.

She reached into her house coat’s pocket and handed me … a spare magazine.

“Seven shots … “ I began.

“Hit it or not!” she responded.

Good girl!

The moral of the story … Sign the paperwork … Take pictures of everything …

And never, EVER put your address on Craig’s List!