Have you seen this idiot? This is just one of his interesting and thought-provoking articles, all about how the stereotypes of romantic comedies and sitcoms are real and how we can avoid them by just doing whatever he says. I decided to send this article to The Professor, along with a response from someone who thinks that men are not from Mars and women are not from Venus, and that we actually have a lot in common, and that stuff like this belongs in the dirt of a cattle ranch. And since I love sharing the personal and trivial with you all, you get a gander! Lucky you!

1) Done.
2) I have grilled, you know. Seriously, there are plans.
3) I am not big on fire in the house.
4) Check!
5) Took care of that bad boy earlier - I hope you got it!
6) Who's picking baby up?
7) No.
8) I do the laundry, and I do believe I have offered to iron your shirts; it's not my fault you like to look all sloppy.
9) If the bathroom is a wreck, it's not because of my stuff.
10) We don't, so check!
11) Not really big on the shared shower thing... Sorry.
12) I just want to point out the "her backrub" to "his backrub" ratio is easily ten to one here.
13) "We're going out tonight, honey, and you're driving!" Our relationship has a different dynamic that doesn't necessarily encourage my solo planning.
14) Our first date was in a bar, so we should go to bars one night a week? Our second date was watching TV at your place, so we're good there! Our third date involved Christmas...what the hell do we do with that?! Could the class you taught and that I took be considered one long date? Should I take a class you're teaching? This is getting impractical...
15) "Hello?"
"Hi, baby!"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm calling in the middle of the day to let you know that I am thinking about you!"
"I'm teaching my class, idiot!"
"Oh... So, I guess I shouldn't mention that I'm touching myself?"

Another little tidbit of note; did you notice on the bottom of the page, the first two articles?
# 10 Fatal Online Dating Errors That Men Make
# 14 Fatal Online Dating Errors That Women Make

First of all, fatal? These mistakes kill people?!? Listen to Douche Wingnut, folks! People are dying!

And notice the numbers. Our sensitive male claims that women make 40% more errors than men. Not that I'm arguing, but I would have expected a complementary list or something from Mr. Surrogate Period...

-Zeepdoggie

From Frankfurters to Fondue

Yeah yeah, I know, I haven’t written in forever; I felt that, since I now have this fancy diploma that I should get a job where I actually have to use it. More on that later. I want to talks about something that I keep telling myself is trivial, but it keeps popping up as not as trivial as I think.

Have you ever heard of ancestry.com? Fun fact: it turns out that the site is run by Mormons (try this for fun, kids: take out the second “m”!), with the purpose of potential converts converting their dead relatives. Apparently, there is a tenet in their religion that allows them to do this. That’s kinda scary. What if you’re there, enjoying oneness with the universe, or you’re in Valhalla fighting the eternal battle and looking forward to this evening’s fornicating with ale wenches, or maybe you’re in the Catholic Heaven with the saints and halos and crap like that, when all of a sudden you get whisked out of there and find yourself in the Mormon Heaven? What if that sucks? I imagine it involves special underwear…

Anyhoo, The Professor has the super-whammy-dyne subscription to it, which allows her to look up ancestors in other countries and stuff. So one Sunday, hanging out at her place, I decide to give it a shot. I had been told that my family was German all the way back, after some point emigrating from Denmark. There were all these cool stories that the Zeepcousins and Zeepdaddy told me; my favorite is about how we were involved in the Third Crusades, in a leadership role, not just fodder for the Muslims.

Well, it turns out that they are all wrong. I’m Swiss. There is a direct line, from father to father, going back to the early 1500’s. And it’s most likely correct, since my family tends to pick some pretty oddball first names for sons. I am Swiss.

I am the first person to tell people that I am American; I was born here, I will most likely die here; I was willing to die for her when I served in her Navy, and I have a passport from this country. I always identify with the USA, and I root for our teams in the Olympic and world championships of the various sports. But there is a part of me, which is wholly American, to want to know where I “came from;” not the neighborhood I grew up in, but beyond that. And since Zeepmomma is British (Irish, Welsh and Scottish, so you just know there is some English in there somewhere – I saw Braveheart; I know what prima nocta is!) the side I most readily identified with was the German. It explained my desire for efficiency, my love of beer and sausage, as well as the desire to conquer France and my extreme xenophobia (aHaHaH! That’s a joke, son…).

But now, there’s this feeling that, since I am not German, I have lost a bit of my identity. It’s weird. Instead of being the big, strong belligerent nation, I am now neutral. Instead of a xenophobic invader, I am a welcoming banker. With chocolate in there, somewhere.

In the end, I am still me; still a bit belligerent, still willing to conquer French women, still anal about being efficient and on time - hey! The Swiss make good watches! I guess I have embraced a substance of my new heritage already!

-Zeepdoggie

Art Geek Does Sports, Nation Applauds

I'm sitting in the stands, because who the hell stands if there are seats free right in front of them, thinking to myself: "a period is 20 minutes long? Wait, how many are there? Is hockey the one with three innings-sections-parts to it? Yeah, its gotta be.... Should I get a hot dog or an Italian beef?... Why do I know the name Tony Esposito?...Yeah I'll get the Italian beef."

It isn't that I hate hockey or don't like sports necessarily. I'm from Texas so hockey didn't come up as often in conversation as that golden calf we call "football." High school, college, professional, whatever level it was, if it was football, it was discussed. But not by me. I didn't play, didn't want to play, and didn't really care. I asked loudly "who's Tom Landry?" while in a grocery store, and I think about half the men there wanted to kick my ass on principle. I just went a different path in my interests is all. While my peers built up rosters and stats in their memories I pursued the subjects that interested me the most: academics, drawing, self love, reading and playing video games for example.

As I grew up I came to associate sports participants and fans with the moronic sacks of flesh that paraded around the halls of school to the confounding (to me anyways) adoration of the less imaginative. I just didn't get it. Until I moved to Chicago.

Something about this city is just infectious when it comes to sports. My first year here the Sox had their parade for winning the world series. I lived near Wrigley and witnessed the congestion caused by the mobs of blue clad fans. Memories of Michael Jordan commercials resurfaced to my mind. This is just a sports town. Despite my efforts to fight it, I was drawn in. I'll never remember the stats or the the full rosters but I recognize names. I actually knew most of the sports teams when the Hot Wheels (a die hard sports nut) quizzed me by city. I think I'm getting it. There is some kind of pride found in your team making it, some concerned support when they don't, and just the camaraderie of those who agree with you is surprisingly nice.

I've gone to baseball games, more every year. But I'd never, NEVER, been to a hockey game, and I took the chance to finally go to one. It was damn fun. I don't exactly understand why Tony Esposito was there since they retired his jersey in the early 80s, but I chanted with the rest. I may not have been as enthusiastic with the high fives and the ass patting going on around me (no means no Asshole), but any chance to make fun of funny sounding names and boo strangers from a safe distance (no throat slicing for me please) shouldn't be passed up.

CUBS!! Check. Sox. Check. Blackhawks. Check.

Next up: Bulls and Bears with maybe a smack of Fire added.

::GringO::

Working in some wrinkles

Thanks to Viagra and Cialis, old folks homes are becoming hotbeds of iniquity. Right now, someone's grandma and grandpa are hoping the kids will just get the hell out of their rooms so that they can get to some righteous boning.

I imagine that doggy-style is the most popular position in the old folks home, what with the old ladies already bent double and everything. The old men must be thinking, “Thank God for osteoporosis!”

-Zeepdoggie

A Proud Moment

The Whore, wait, no, THE FUCKING WHORE, contacted me via myspace. I was a ball of sinew, anxiety, rage, and indecisiveness. Should I talk to her and hear her out, like a big mature man? Should I unleash all the anger and pure black viscous hatred that has built up and congealed over the past two and a half years, tell her everthing I always wanted to? (see: I was hoping you were dead. You should lose your kids. You are a whore and a cunt. If I ever see you again I WILL spit in your face, and if I see your husband I will smash his face into a mass of pulp attached to a neck. You are evil....etc etc etc.)

But what would be the benefit of either exchange really? She wouldn't let me finish a rampage of hate, and I wouldn't be willing to hear a single damn apology she offered. If that makes me a bitter foolish man then so be it, and I feel the better for it. Instead this is the only exchange I allowed (read from bottom to top for correct order, but the first thing you read is the most important anyway):

I guessed as such but wanted to be certain. There are only three things I'm going to address:

1) I hope your kids are healthy and happy.

2) I have absolutely no interest in the well being of you or the rest of your family.

3) I have even less interest in hearing or reading what you have to say.

::The GringO::

I had movie popcorn with butter and now my hand smells like I finger-banged the Land O' Lakes squaw.


::GringO::

There is a name to my pain...and it is Bucky

Tell me if you heard this one: a student sits in class, and s/he is bored. The lesson is not challenging; it’s just more of the same rigmarole that s/he has heard time and again. So the student, bright, bored and frustrated, acts out: s/he makes rude comments; the student wanders from his/her seat; s/he challenges the teacher’s authority with verbal jabs and by ignoring the lesson.

Sound familiar? We’ve all seen these kids in our classrooms; hell, some of us were those kids. I know I was.

Now you know that kid? Well, I have that kid’s opposite.

There is a kid, whom I will call Bucky, who is just about as dumb a person as I have met. I pity the dumb as I also envy them; they may not know what’s going on around them, but they seem happy that way and that’s fine, at least for them. Bucky is so dumb that he fucks up spacing out. If they gave out grades for lunch, Bucky would have an incomplete. Bucky is one more piece of proof that intelligence and jaw muscularity are directly proportional. Bucky drives me insane with his inability to think beyond the seven seconds his brain is currently failing to cope with. Bucky is failing P. E. for the third straight year. Bucky is so frustratingly ignorant and rude that I feel that I deserve sainthood for not wearing his blood like sloppily fitted crimson gloves. I find myself hoping, daydreaming, that Bucky tries something violent after school, so I can throw him into a trashcan so that he can begin his work on the rest of his life.

But I can’t do that. I am Bucky’s teacher, and while everyone else has given up on him (I’m not saying they’re wrong for doing so, mind you), I cannot. So I told him to meet with me after school so that we can discuss this day’s outburst and try to find reason and peace in the class. He didn’t show, and that’s a good thing, because then I didn’t have to face a moral quandary.

Had Bucky shown up, I would have tried to tell him that he can still make something of himself, and that high school is the last chance he would have to do so. I would have said that college is still a possibility for him, that he could achieve what he wanted, but only if he put his nose to the grindstone and worked with me and his other teachers; he could graduate with a GPA worth remembering.

Since he didn’t show up, I didn’t have to worry about lying to the little moron. Except for the GPA bit. I doubt anyone would forget a student who could win the James Blutarsky Award for Academic Embarrassment.

I think that what bothers me so much about Bucky is that he is the contradiction to what I am taught about students. What I am taught as a teaching student is that, no matter what, you don’t give up. You keep trying, reaching, and someday you’ll get through once you apply the perfect pedagogy to the student that was nearly custom fit for her/him. What I am seeing is that, once the students give up, it is almost impossible to get them back. There is no real extrinsic motivation; it’s all internal, and it’s all self-generated. I didn’t put out that fire, so I have no idea how to rekindle it.

That, and I have little patience for undeserved arrogance.


-Zeepdoggie

Deja Vu

Happy Thanksgiving, bitches!

I had the same conversation with two very different people, The World's Biggest Asshole and my sister Pinky, in the last 48 hours. It went like this:

The World's Biggest Asshole/Pinky: “We know what Plan A stands for.”
Z: “Yup.”
“So what’s Plan B?”
“Boobs.”
“And Plan C?”
“Plan C stands for ‘crazy!’”

Enjoy today, for while we feast, it is genocide for the turkey.

-Zeepdoggie

Naughty Thoughts

After a long hiatus from thinking dirty, I recently had several epiphanies concerning my most favored of subjects.

I can think of a lot of good reasons to date a teacher; the first on my mind is the potential pillow talk.

• “The more you fool around, the longer we’ll be here.”
• “You’re not going anywhere until you finish your work!”
• “How does that make you feel?”
• “You’ll just have to keep doing that until you get it perfected.”
• “You’re behaving like an animal!”
• “You did a great job!”
• “Now, for extra credit…”

Well, it’s got to beat lawyers any day.

• “Were you injured in an accident?”
• “Prior bad acts are admissible in your case.”
• “Objection!”

A little FYI for the ladies & guys with a penchant to fellate: with a cock in your mouth, your dirty talk sounds like “aaaoowwww,” like you’re romancing a sexy puppy.

It’s a good thing I like pale skin, cuz if I didn’t then my masturbating in front of the mirror would be creepy.

-Zeepdoggie

The Plan B Pill is the "Oh shit!" handlebar of casual sex.

I Blew Out My Sequitr Sequencer

I have no problem with my source of food being ugly. I wouldn’t kiss a pig, but I’d slather it in applesauce.

The first person to eat shellfish was starving.

What the fuck is wrong with a man who leaves his love when she needs him most?

“You’ll find her when you’re not looking.” I have heard this several times from several, very different women. This statement alone just proves how little women know about men, and just how differently our brains have been programmed to function. We are always looking, ladies. Always; on the train, at work, after work, in bars, in cars, with green eggs and ham. We look, we hunt, we stalk, we seek, and we track you. I can think of only two periods in my life where I wasn’t looking, and that is quite a low number amongst my peers. And only women would think that passivity is the way to solve a problem. Advice to ladies: don’t say that to a guy; don’t sit around and wait for a goddamned thing, because the only thing that is sure to come is death.

One of the best things to see is a total stranger realize that s/he has just shit his/her pants.

A cure for my sporadic insomnia: I had a brief but good conversation with Professor Hottie after class, and I slept like a baby last night. She really is pretty.

The GringO and I are working on a book. Interested? Let us know and maybe we’ll put some of it up on the bloggy-blog-thing. We will be selling it, since it’s not free, and you can’t live off of what you can kill in Chicago.

A reason it is awesome to be a guy: the world is your urinal.

If you don’t know who Taylor Mali is, just know that every English teacher in America thinks of him as their Superman. Check him out.

Professional wrestling is as gay as three guys wearing chaps blowing four guys wearing fairy wings.

Speaking of gay: the coolest thing I saw this Halloween was a couple dressed as Quicksilver and The Flash. It is most definitely my favorite couple-themed costume set EVER.

I really like the shoes I wore yesterday. They’re comfy and they make my feet look like dinner rolls. My shoes look like the shoes Bill Watterson draws.

-Zeepdoggie

I think it might be good to date a woman who's about to die.

The Roulette Wheel of My Brain

Some of the thoughts I remember just before falling asleep last night:

I doubt the writer’s strike will affect “Smallville,” since it is written by retarded chimps kept on a perpetual high of marijuana and Pixie Stix, which as we all know are no longer afforded membership in the WGA unless they are working with, for, or are, Judd Apatow.

What’s funnier, a fart or a burp? I say a fart, until it is possible for people to shit themselves while burping.

The English word “army” has its root in a word similar to the German “Armen,” which means “the poor.”

Favorite “Futurama” quote I was able to sneak in while greeting in Hell: “If for any reason you're unhappy with our service, I hate you.”

The Blue Line, between Western and Austin stops, rocks and shakes like it’s being raped by Godzilla after a four-hour binge of Viagra and trucker speed.

-Zeepdoggie

Worst. Hero. Ever.

I have the lamest superpower. Well, maybe not the lamest. I'm not Squirrel Girl, after all. But my power sucks, nonetheless.

I have the ability to subconsciously detect and woo virgin women. This power can extend to women who have never been in a "serious" relationship before, but it mostly applies to physical virginity. We date, fall in love, take care of business, and then she leaves me.

My hero name could be StarterMan, the guy you use to get ready for the real world. Or the Deflowerer, but that doesn't roll off the tongue very well.

Seriously, how many folks do you know that have a 70% virgin-non virgin ratio? I found two over 24. It's gotten to the point where if I find someone cute and interesting, chances are that there's a hymen involved.

It's like I have a V-Chip, but not the device Republicans and lazy parents love.

Is there a BBS or chatroom, a bathroom stall maybe, out there with my face and contact info, saying, "For a first time, call..."?


I would have no problem with having this power if only the stereotype that I had believed in for so long was true. It is the one about how a woman wants to marry the guy she first falls in love and has sex with. Clearly, looking at my track record, it only happens once in seven tries. And she still leaves.

Sweet Jesus, I don't want to find out if it's one in eight. Or nine. If I get to ten, I'm becoming a priest.

-Zeepdoggie

Yes, they really did come up with Squirrel Girl. My faith in comics is more often challenged than my faith in God.

-Z.

Cheers, Geeks!

A few random tidbits while out at the bar with several of my classmates:

“Sweetheart, without cum, you wouldn’t be here.”

B: “J’s a good looking man! Lothario good!”
R: “Yeah. We made love on the tennis courts.”
JS: “Shit R, you said that with such conviction I won’t even think of doubting it!”

B: “Z, you are a son of a bitch, and I mean that with all due respect to the woman who raised you and could therefore kick my ass.”
J: “I fear Irish mothers.”

“I was a fourteen year old comic book geek, what the fuck did I know about the world outside of masturbation?”

Z: “What I love more than having my first impressions being wrong is having them proved right.”
S: “Someone like you totally gets off on being right, I can tell.”
Z, smiling contentedly: “Thanks, S.”

We will be teaching your children. You cannot hide.


-Zeepdoggie

Breaking 1 and 2

One month ago, I was in bad shape. The world was looking more than usually fucked up. I had no place in it, I had no love for it; I was seriously considering if I should even be in it. All the things that I loved and enjoyed, like writing and school, were turning from deep and challenging to hollow and difficult. I didn’t know who to talk to about it, so I kept my mouth shut about it.

To get out of this funk, I got a new job. It’s a great job, and I love it. I work with really cool, diverse people who I can see becoming my friends; the work itself is autistic-monkey easy; and I am finally interacting with the public in a way that that is not inrusive or rude, like in Hell. A great change happening at a great time.

But it wasn’t enough. I was still off.

Then I got punched.

I was at Lizzie McNeil’s, an Irish pub on the River, and I was hanging with a few of my new co-workers and friends of theirs. I had come initially because it was my first invite to an after-work thing, and I was excited to participate. I was also going because a woman I met on the boats asked what I was doing that night, and said she would meet me there. Smiles all around!

At the pub there is a birthday celebration going on. As per standard, I buy the birthday boy a drink and wish him many happy returns. He is gleeful and gives me a hug. He is very, very drunk.

I have my one drink, and decide to see what is on the jukebox. Since I have only four drinks a month, I have more money to spend on jukeboxes at bars, which is a benefit that I did not expect but enjoy greatly. The juke’s got the new Dropkick Murphy’s album (at this time, it was “The Warrior’s Code”), which I had not heard but wanted to. If you don’t know about the Murphys, you should. Boston Irish Celtic Punk; what could go wrong? So I select three songs, and wait for the wonderful noise.

The second song has barely begun before Birthday Boy screams, “What is that shit?” I yell back, “It’s the Dropkick Murphys!” And he says, “That music fuckin’ sucks, man!” And I say, “Well, it’s punk, so it’ll be over in two minutes. You got two minutes worth of ‘ignore the music’ in you, don’tcha?” He rumbles for five more minutes (three minutes after the songs are over, by the by) about how punk and Irish music both suck. Guess he didn’t read the signs on the walls, above the door, or in the bathroom. I ignore him and enjoy my tunes.

Three hours later, as I am talking to the woman who I spoke to on the boat (totally gonna nail her, it was obvious to everybody there), I see one of my coworkers arguing with Birthday Boy. Another coworker and I go over to break it up. It turns out that Birthday Boy was insulted by the way my buddy wanted to shake his hand, and called him a faggot and an idiot. So I said, “Look pal, clearly the party is over for you and us. So we’ll just go to our corner of the bar, you go to your corner, and never shall our paths meet, okay?” He looks at me in the eyes (by the way he was staring, I must’ve had, like, twenty-three of them) and yells, “Fuck you and your stupid fuckin’ Irish music!” drunk finger providing syllabic punctuation all the way. I say, “Dude, do you even know where you are right now? For your sake, I’d shut up with the Irish bashing.” As I turn away, it happens. Thank God for it.

He punches me in the back of my head.

If you have never been hit, allow me to let you in on a secret; it feels like the shittiest day you’ve ever had. All the rainy days you’ve been dumped just after getting fired from your job have nothing on getting punched. It really, really sucks.

But then, the cobwebs clear, and that euphoria you feel about that day being over and GODDAMMIT YOU ARE STILL HERE! just charges right through you, and it makes you more alive than you ever felt before, including the best fucking of your entire life.

I turn and punch him, and he falls just like a sack of shit should.

Of course, the bouncer grabs me and takes me outside. I don’t resist, I just go. We get outside, and I say, “I’m sorry, but he hit me twice. I know I shouldn’t have hit him back. If you have to call the cops, I understand. I f you want me to go, just let me go inside and get my stuff and say goodbye to my people.” The bouncer looks at me and says, “Dude, don’t worry. We got you out here so we can mop up that sloppy fuck and get him out of there. You can go back in as soon as he leaves.”

The second bouncer comes outside and says that the guy is out cold, and his buddies are saying that I hit him in the face. I am not bragging at this point, because it is nothing to brag about. What follows is a statement of fact and nothing more: I have hit a lot of faces. Punching a face has a distinctive feel to it, like how you can tell corduroy from velvet. It didn’t feel like a face when I hit him; felt more like a neck or upper chest.

The bouncers get the guy and his friends out of the bar, and let me back in. A cute waitress is wiping up his blood. Maybe I did hit him in the face. So I go and wipe up the rest. Hey it’s my mess.

They called me “Drop Punch Murphy” for the rest of the night. And that woman did totally want to sleep with me, but she had a big ring on her left third finger, and Zeepdoggie doesn’t wreck a home unless he lives in it, so I put her in a cab and sent her to her hotel.

But not getting laid didn’t even register. I got in a fight.

I got in a fight.


-Zeepdoggie

Update

A huge entry from The GringO is on the way. Seriously, it's worth the wait. Until then, enjoy his special, homey rage brought to you by alcohol and bureaucracy.

MGMT.


Monday I encountered one of the most ridiculous policies ever. EVER.

It was Crippy's birthday and we stopped at a liquor store to buy some Jack and diet coke (gotta watch the figure right?). Due to my general level of poverty I don't usually provide all of the booze for occasions, so when I get to its kind of a big deal. I grabbed my liquid refreshments and stepped up to the counter, and this gem of an exchange ensued:

Liquor Lady: "Could I see some I.D. please?"

Me: "Of course." I pull out my wallet with my state identification card in a laminated sleeve.

Liquor Lady: "I need a license please."
Me: I raise my right eyebrow and lower the left and say "...so, you need to see it outside of the wallet?"

Liquor Lady: "No I need an actual driver's license not a State I.D."

Me: "What?"

Liquor Lady: "Its on these little signs right here..." as she points to a 5"x3" card at the register.

Me: "But I'm 21. Actually, I'm 23 so...."

Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to you unless you have a license."

Me: "So I guess I'll just get my friend out of his car to buy it then."

Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to either of you because you both have to have a license."

Me: "Wait, so, I can't buy alcohol unless I can drive?"

Liquor Lady: "Uh...."

Me: "Well great, so you basically want me to drink and drive, nice." I walked away.

Liquor Lady: "I don't encourage drinking and driving...."

End scene

So I may come off a little prickish, a little short in the temper, but that is why I mentioned my rare opportunity for buying drinks. It is important to me. Then I sat there feeling embarrassed and stupid because I couldn't buy drinks. The thing is that in my mind if you have a valid photo I.D. proving you are of age, why does it matter if it is a driver's license or not? I really do think it is extremely idiotic that you can't buy alcohol there unless you can drive away with it. Its like saying you can't buy bullets unless you have a gun...or...yeah.

Maybe I should just get a license, but I'd have to go to the damned Thompson Center downtown and wait in line to take the written test and get my photo taken and I generally have other things I would rather do on my day off. Like staple my fingers together, shave with broken glass, eat rancid milk (you know, because its moved to a chewable form after a while) or smear myself in honey and kick grizzly bears in the nuts.


::The GringO::

Thinking Just Slows Down the Tongue

Some direct quotes from the past week:

"I can't stand it when people don't even bother to listen to you. I just want to smack them over the head with, like, a gopher. Becuase it would be ironic."

"I call this one "boa," this one 'constrictor,'" I said while pointing at my left then right bicep respectively.

"Its like a carnival in my pants and all the rides are broken."

Not only do I think a lot faster than I speak which results in my mumbling, even when I am intelligible, I still don't make any sense as the majority of my ramblings is merely word vomit. Meh.

::Gringo::

Oh. My. God.

Seriously, I got nothing.


-Zeepdoggie

Too Much?

Go fuck yourself. And you know what? Go beyond that and fist yourself, up to the elbow. No lube. Maybe a little spittle to get things moving; otherwise, just shit and blood.

Sorry, that was a little graphic.

::GringO::