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There's no rules in politics. Rules for this forum room are the same as every forum room here. Please be respectful to all members - have a sense of decorum. Thanks.

Edit: So apparently, I do need to explicitly state a rule or two.

This forum room exists to foster honest discussion amongst the pmbug community. As long as folks are abiding that ethos, the forum will remain public. If folks start spamming the forum with 3rd party content and zero discussion, this forum will likely be changed back to private. This forum does not exist to promote 3rd party propaganda.

Please take care with your comments in this forum. It is not "thunderdome". If you have a difference of opinion with someone, the expectation is that you will engage with them respectfully and honestly.
 
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There's no rules in politics. Rules for this forum room are the same as every forum room here. Please be respectful to all members - have a sense of humor. Thanks.

Fixed it for ya! Things work better if you can have a laugh at yourself and what you think, we need to remember none of us have it all right no matter how certain we might be!
 
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Your house your rules. What is the problem? Boot anybody including me if you believe the rules have been broken.
 
How about happy thread drift just this once? You triggered me with Miss Demeanor. She was in one of the short humor articles I wrote for a magazine:

A Cup Of Sweetness…
c
Walt C. Snedeker

As The Fabled PC, my long-suffering Scottish spouse likes to point out, I have the mind of a child. It’s true; I keep it in a jar under the bed.

My sense of humor, she says, sometimes ought to have its license revoked. This last pronouncement came as a result of some small misbehavior on my part that took place in the local hospital.

Seems that I needed to have knee surgery. Ouch. And the deal was that since this was a scheduled affair, I was to give my own blood for the future operation. Side Note: I have since discovered by talking with Scooter (my-son-the-doctor) that they don’t need this blood for these operations. They use it for the beautiful rose bushes outside on the hospital grounds. But this information is to remain strictly between us folks. Back to the story.​

So I go on down to the hospital, and go through all the depositions, mortgages, interviews, and entrail divinings that hospital minions delight in inflicting upon us lowly civilians to prepare for this blood donation. Having been fingerprinted and DNA’d, retinal-scanned, and my genealogy confirmed for seven generations, they passed me to the Second Stage. That’s the one where they have ten chairs that were left over from a movie about Auschwitz and Dr. Mengele, all empty, with tubes and syringes and other scary things hanging from them. Of course, even though there is nobody else giving blood, there has to be a fifteen minute wait (to build up your blood pressure, I can only assume). Finally, in comes Dr. Quasimodo with a gasoline can and a razor to get some blood from my quivering alabaster bod.

A palsied gnome with thick, clumsy fingers began to probe various parts of my arm with a section of epoxied garden hose, eventually causing a serious flow to ensue. Kewl. Some minutes later, having donated my own gore, they gave me one of those apple juice containers with the foil lid.​

You know the kind: they hand them out in airplanes. No matter how carefully you attempt to peel back the foil, the pressurized juice is guaranteed to erupt, so that ALL the passengers can have the experience of dumping apple juice all over themselves.

I'm a fairly large and healthy guy, so I really don't need a sugar hit after giving a pint of blood... that’s why I decided to put the unopened container in my pocket, so I could open it later when I had my wetsuit on.

I got up to leave, when a particularly acerbic lady in a nurse’s outfit suddenly brayed at me: "Hey! You... if that's yer name! You ain't going nowhere."

It wasn’t easy, Gentle Reader, to withhold the entire series of comments that this straight line handed me, but I was noble. I looked over at her. Her nametag identified her as Miss Demeanor. I was obviously something that annoyed her (I was a patient, albeit only temporary, and ambulatory at that – a double annoyance to her.)

She sighed and snorted at the same instant – an accomplishment which I found impressive – and imperiously beckoned me to the foot of her throne.​

"Here, take this and go give me a sample."

“This” was one of those little plastic cups (you know the ones) and she pointed a peremptory finger at the potty door. Ever obedient as always. (Ah, an interruption – The Fabled PC is reading this as I relate it, and her comment on that “obedient” quote has just disproved the adage that two positives cannot make a negative: Regarding it, she says, “Yeah, right!”

Getting back to the story, I walked into the aforementioned potty… and the Devil bit me right on the butt.

I took out the container of apple juice, ripped off the top, and poured the contents into the specimen cup. The empty container went into the convenient wastebasket thoughtfully provided by the hospital housekeeping folks.

When I came out of the potty proudly waving my brimming specimen cup, Miss Demeanor got her PMS in high gear.

"You are supposed to leave it in there on the shelf, not bring it out here!" This, with a rolling of the eyes and a sigh that Hillary Rodham would die for.

Sooo... I sez very politely: "Dang, Miss Demeanor, ma'am, I'm powerful sorry I didn't read your mind, and therefore have apparently made it so this here sample is contaminated. Tell you what: I’ll just recycle it for you!”

With a nice flourish, I upended the specimen cup and drank it down.

Miss Demeanor went ballistic. Absolutely nuts.

She went echoing down the hallway, calling for Security, doctors, and probably the cotton-picking FBI.

A lot of folks immediately gathered round, so I quickly went into the potty, retrieved the empty apple juice container and showed it to them with my charming boyish smile. A couple of the doctors began laughing so hard they spotted.

When Miss Demeanor came back, EVERYBODY was laughing (and several were pointing at HER, with tears in their eyes).

She was the only one what didn't see the humor of the situation.​
 
She's back. She wants to point out she was there.

Herself sez: yes, the woman was irritable, and yes, I did drink the cup of my "pee" in front of her, shocking her badly, and yes, everybody but the irritable woman laughed. But the rest is hyperbole.

Jeez. She popped my fargin balloon... Mebbe I can tell you about the "Rekyavik Episode", and what I pulled on that night.

She says: "OK. That one was real... but we had to run for it."
 
Is she perhaps related to Miss Demenor?

No, I dated her once. She told me she was 18... I told her that was no misdemeanor. Her dad said different. I live in another state now. Miss Issippi. She is over 18.


No I am not drinking.
 
Hey man that BS is 60% pure! Glass half full! :D ;) :cool:
Oh dear... I got a half-ounce trigger, so this ole article is a straight-arrow "retelling of the tale". Herself says that I seem never to have lost my kidthinking when I got to my adultery.
The Devil Made Me Do It
© Walt C. Snedeker


The Fabled PC has often commented on our mixed marriage (she's Human -- I'm Klingon), wondering why I do some of the things I do.

I've thought on it long and long, also. I tried to use the excuse that I had a rough hometown. My home town (Baldwin) was the only place where they would call in dedications: "I'm sorry I stabbed you, Miss Crumpley." But that's not it, because the things I find myself doing are not necessarily that vicious/cruel/evil. Only moderately so. But upon careful rumination, I have to admit to being (occasionally) as weird as a fish’s underwear.

PC says I have the finest mind that the thirteenth century has produced. And that it seemingly leaps to the fore at whatever times it finds opportune. This can be somewhat awkward... the results of this schizophrenic behavior on my part have dictated that there are some places I dare not return to for fear of being recognized.

A case in point: The Fabled PC (who's rather attractive for a beautiful woman with a great body, by the way) and the again-out-of-shape brute (me) were going out for a nice quiet dinner.

I was feeling a little out of sorts, because for some crazy reason, I was wearing a seersucker blazer. Well, it would have looked stupid on James Bond, with its light blue and white stripes. Not only that, but since I was in my perennial again-out-of-shape condition -- which means "fat", the doofus blazer fit extremely awkwardly. I was in full red beard at the time. And I badly needed a haircut.

I looked like a dork.

It so happened that the place we were going to (note how coyly I will not identify it by name -- least said, soonest mended) is well known for hosting foreigners of all sorts in the hotel portion of the establishment who hail from multinational corporations.

So Beauty and Grumpy were walking through the lobby, past the Registrations-Arrivals counter when the Devil bit me in the bottom again. Without conscious volition, I swung left and headed right toward the counter. The Fabled PC didn't even notice that I suddenly was gone; she kept on walking for about five paces before realizing she was alone.

She must have turned and seen me just reaching the counter, for I distinctly heard her say, "Uh-oh!"

She knows me well, and was immediately aware that something strange was about to happen.

Sure enough, when I got to the desk, I looked at the guy there, and said loudly:

"Corpregson, Reykjavik!"

Naturally, the guy behind the counter just looked up and said, ""Hunh?"

"Corpregson, Reykjavik!" A little more loudly, as if speaking to an idiot.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know what you're saying."

"Corpregson, Reykjavik!" For the third and last time, screaming, angry. A glance around showed the Fabled PC hiding casually behind a tiny potted palm tree. The guy behind the desk was getting nervous: here was this great big guy in foreign-looking duds, obviously expecting him to do something or know something. The poor guy kind of waved his hands placatingly, making soothing noises.

So I grabbed the pen out of his hand, grabbed a handy sheet of paper, and drew a crude sketch of the North Atlantic, showing North America, Norway, England, and a little island in the top middle.

"Merka!" I thumped my finger on my scribbling. Then drew some more, under the intent stare of the hapless clerk.

"Ynglont!" I thumped again, and bent to the paper in sketching fury:

"Reykjavik!!" I screamed in triumph over witlessness, pointing and breaking his pen.

"Omigawd, the guy's from Iceland!" The clerk choked.

"Wait here! Wait here!" Panicky smile and placating gesture hung ghost-like in the air while the clerk ran off for somebody to help him with an obvious customer from afar.

The Fabled PC and Now Considerably Less Grumpy went back out of the lobby and had something excreted through the Golden Arches for dinner.

We both wonder what the folks in the hotel thought happened to their irate guest. I still say it wasn't me, though; the Devil made me do it.
 
I amended the OP to include:

Edit: So apparently, I do need to explicitly state a rule or two.

This forum room exists to foster honest discussion amongst the pmbug community. As long as folks are abiding that ethos, the forum will remain public. If folks start spamming the forum with 3rd party content and zero discussion, this forum will likely be changed back to private. This forum does not exist to promote 3rd party propaganda.

Please take care with your comments in this forum. It is not "thunderdome". If you have a difference of opinion with someone, the expectation is that you will engage with them respectfully and honestly.
 
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