A grocery store, a bell ringer, and some annoyance

Big Y World Class Market. Manchester, CT. Today. Normal supermarket commotion.

A dinner bell-style bell hangs unassumingly on the wall by the automatic exit doors. On her way out, a woman pushing a cart swings the rope inside the bell, which produces an enormous ding ding ding, as if a trolley was making its way through.

The bell silences the store’s front end. Heads turn. Murmurs. Cashiers, baggers, customers stop and peer. The bell-ringing woman exits without fanfare, small child in tow.

With business at a stand-still, everyone wants to know why the mysterious and previously silent bell is even there and why the hell the woman rang it. With the disruption fresh in our ears, people frown curiously. Some grimace in annoyance.

Bagger 1: What was THAT all about?
Bagger 2: I have no idea.
Customer ahead of me in line: I think that woman just had a meltdown.
Cashier: What was her PROBLEM?

On my way out, I read the sign that hangs beside the bell.
“Ring bell if you received excellent customer service today.”

The nerve.

A toilet metaphor

The toilet seemed to work fine one day.

Then, we both leave the house. Off doing our own things.

Separate heartbreaking vacations.

During this time, it breaks. Tank cracks. Somehow.

Nobody sees it happen. It just does. We aren’t there.

Water runs. To the floor. To the basement. Things are ruined.

It seems salvageable. Repair the crack. Or replace the tank.

But no. They tell me it is too old. Whole thing must go.

“But it’s just the tank.”

“Nothing we can do.”

A plumber comes and switches the old for the new.

We carry the old to his truck. Leftover water sloshes. A drop jumps out onto my bare foot and I recoil.

Neighbors peer out their windows.

They only see what seems perfectly good being sent off to the dump.

Latin Night

We saw the Denver Nuggets take on the New Jersey Nets last night in East Rutherford, in what turned out to be the Nuggets' worst loss in 12 years. The game was over four minutes into the third quarter.
Luckily we were still entertained as it was "Latin Night" at the IZOD Center.
Sponsored by Goya, makers of All-Things-Latin Food, the promotion's purpose was simple: To "honor the Latin community."
So how did they honor the Latin community? One horrifying way after the next.
1. Featured Latin-flavored dishes (seasoned with Goya products!) throughout the concession stands.
2. Had the white and black (and uno or dos Latina calientes) Nets dancers wearing Latin dress and dancing Latin dances to Latin music between timeouts.
3. Gave away a vacation to the Dominican Republic to a slim high school kid who made more baskets in 30 seconds than a portly high school kid, sponsored by Republica Dominica department of tourism.
4. Had Nets forward Eduardo Najera, conveniently the league's only Mexican player (and my personal favorite player, especially when he was with the Nuggets) come on the jumbotron arriba-aribba-ing something in Spanish every five minutes.
5. Shot Goya-themed T-shirts from a T-shirt cannon.

But my personal favorite:
6. Having the Nets dancers throwing Chipotle burritos into the audience.

We were cringing throughout. Can you imagine what they would have done for Asian night or how they would have honored the black community? What foods would they have thrown into the audience then?

I found a better way

He rides my bumper like a jackass in some special hurry (to get where - his job that he certainly hates but is late for?) Unsatisfied with my speed, he jumps to the next lane to drive inches from the bumper of an old lady's car.

Now in a turn-only lane, I pass the old lady and the other driver. I beep my horn and point and glare at him to acknowledge his fine display of jackassiness. He then whips back into my lane to tail me, I thought, to retaliate for my beep and glare. My mind flashes forward to him tailgating me to my house -- just .2 miles away -- and the confrontation that follows. As my future self confronts him, nobly exclaiming "There's no need for any of this," he butts back into the right lane.

All fine until he is right beside me stopping for the red light. As he pulls up he is leaning on his horn, and has his middle finger ready hanging out his window. We make awkward eye contact, seperated only by six feet and the glass of my passenger window. He looks about 24.

Seeing my nemesis' portruding middle finger along with a bothered wtf face makes something unexpected shoot from my mouth: an outburst of laughter. I just put my hands in the air, laughing hard, and shrug my shoulders.

What I presume to be an unexpected reaction breaks his glare and he puts his middle finger away. And then he smiles, as if to say "You're right. This is silly, this game we play where you honk at me and then I honk at you and flip you off, the game where our blood pressures rise and we get really mad at each other but can't do anything about it because we're in separate moving vehicles, the game where we drive off in a huff and then when we get home or to work we retell the story, saying 'Oh you should have seen this idiot on the road'".

His guard collapses and we laugh at each other, suddenly just two guys, former strangers, former enemies, chuckling about old times. The light turns green and the cars ahead of him begin to move. As he drives away, with his hand still out the window, he waves.

I keep laughing all the way home, thinking that now if he followed me to my house, we'd probably end up being buddies and we'd have this really funny story about how we met.

New stories

I'm pleased to have my story "Things to Consider Before Waking a Sleeping Bear" published at Johnny America. It went up today. Here's an excerpt:

The color of a bear’s fur is meaningless. Some brown bears are black and some black bears are brown. Some black bears (who are black) identify more with brown bears. Regardless, a bear will use its fur to trick you. And then maul you to death.

I am also happy to have another piece accepted at monkeybicycle called "A Modern Wedding." It should be up sometime soon.

Another "Bout" with Unconsciousness

It started so innocent and blissful: At IHOP downing cakes and eggs and coffee with C.G., talking poetry (of all things . . .christ help us). Few places I’d rather be. But the cakes and eggs and coffee were just a precursor to the main event (heh, heh): “The Wrestler,” starring the ever trashy Mickey Rourke.

We took one car to the movie, which later proved to my benefit. All is well about 45 minutes in when the movie went from a little graphic and bloody to mind-wrenchingly graphic and bloody. Rourke’s character, Randy “The Ram” Ramdeeslamdeedam (or something like that) is a washed up, decrepit, hard scrabble pro wrestler forced to compete in low budget wrestling events in high school gymnasiums. The scene is a match between The Ram and some scrawny Hillbilly Jim-esque feller whose schtick is giving and taking sadistic punishment, using staple guns on one another, body slamming onto piles of barbed wire and smashing windows over heads. The fact that these cartoonish matches occur in real life (with real staples, windows and barbed wire . . .and real pain and real blood) coupled with the film’s gritty realism became too much for me. I don’t know exactly what triggered it, but I went unconscious (I seem to recall an especially graphic gash over an eye). It was sudden but I felt it coming for about three seconds before nodding off.

I have a history of this sort of thing (as documented here), so I’m sadly accustomed to it. But each time it happens, I get a little more aware in the midst of unconsciousness. In the moments before passing out, my eyes are still open but I can’t see anything, like a nighttime power outage where you are suddenly sitting in the dark. And then I shut down, asleep against my will. I had my head planted on my hand, which was supported by my arm and elbow, which was supported by the arm rest. I don’t know how long I was out – estimates put it at 5-10 minutes.

When approaching the surface of consciousness, I remember posing myself a series of questions. Not the “Who are you?” or “Where are you?” types, but more like disjointed forms of questions like “Is there truth in friendship?” and “Do dogs smell in color?” I would dwell on the question for a half second, decide it was too difficult and then pose another. I remember my eyes darting around frantically for information. When I regained semi-consciousness, I had tears in my eyes, sweat on my forehead, drool on my chin, which I tried to wipe away about four times. I also began choking on saliva that had inadvisably run down my throat, to which C.G. would later say “I was wondering what all that coughing was about.”

Gripped with vomitous nausea, I wobbled out of the theater, thinking a bit of fresh air would make things right. About 20 minutes later, C.G. found me sitting woozily on a lobby bench with my head in my hands, eyes the color the blood that got me into this mess.

He admitted that he could take or leave the movie at this point and we left. I needed a milkshake, something of a routine for me now after fits of unconsciousness or particularly nasty roller coasters.

I was still a bit punch drunk and C.G. drove my car home, having taken one of my spells, as C.G. put it, for me to finally let him drive my car.

How do you lie about your age?

I always wondered why people who lie about their age always lie younger. Shouldn't they lie older, so that when people look at you, they say "wow, you look terrific for 58". Instead people are fixated on how terrible you look for 38 and how you must have spent 20 years as a carny/roustabout during the day and a waitress/cashier at a bowling alley at night.

Most people can lie older and five years older usually does the trick. When I was 29, I asked someone to guess how old I was. "38," was his response. I wept internally. Now, I've found I have to lie at least 15 years older before people think I look good for my age. Eighteen years if I've just awoken.

I think I'm back

Not that you care or are even out there. But I think I'm going to start posting stuff here again. Sorry for the absence. It's just this whole MFA thing. You know.
Anyway, I added links to most of my stories and stuff that have been published on ye olde internet.
I also have another story coming soon at the ultra cool monkeybicycle.
Check in soon for a story about my latest trip to the dentist.

New essay in the Christian Science Monitor

My essay on what it's like being a Shoe Guy came out in the Christian Science Monitor last weekend. Read it here.

Another Heart Attack

About a conversation I overheard in the grocery store yesterday:

Two men in their late 60s or early 70s bump into each other in the dairy section. It appears to have been some time since they last saw one another. I hear snippets of greetings and something about finally being retired as I pass them on the way to the egg case. I pick up a carton of brown, organic, cage-frees and check to see if any are broken. As I make my way back toward the two men, I hear this treasure of an exchange:

Man No. 1: So what have you been up to?
Man No. 2: Not a whole lot. Had me another heart attack.
Man No. 1: Oh did you?
Man No. 2: Uh-huh.

The tone of this conversation was so casual, teetering on the verge of boredom. Man No. 2 could just as well have said he joined a bowling league. "Had me another heart attack" could have been substituted with "Got me a new riding mower" and nothing about the conversation -- the tone, the friend's response -- would have changed.

So that's what this old-timer's been up to? That's how he constitutes passing the days? He not only has had himself a heart attack, he's had himself another heart attack. By watching commercials for prescription medicine and retirement funds, you'd think all retired folk do is ride 3-speed bikes, play upper-class sports while wearing diapers and cherish their grandchildren between the preparation of home-cooked meals in sunshiny kitchens.

I would at least have expected a little more incredulousness from both men. I mean, this was not the first but at least the second time that no blood flowed anywhere near one of his four delicate, life-enabling chambers as the No. 1 worldwide cause of death for humans perhaps very nearly claimed another victim.

I should have eavesdropped a little longer to see how the conversation progressed. My guess is that it went something like so:

So what have you been up to?
Not a whole lot. Had me another heart attack.
Oh did you?
Uh-huh.
Was it serious?
Was what serious?
Your heart attack.
Oh. I suppose. [awkward pause] You see they have bacon and canned biscuits on special this week?
Is that right.
Uh-huh.

Monkey Dream

I often dream of bizarre things but this one last night I can't shake from my head: I was walking through the ancient ruins of some foreign land (Peru?). Perched in an old window bay was a small monkey, a macaque perhaps. The peculiar thing about this type of monkey was that it would find the skulls of larger animals and craft them into masks. It was the only species besides humans to comprehend the idea of a mask.

So I see this little monkey wearing this giant skull on its head. I tried to take a photo but it ran away. The photo turned out blurry anyway.

What does this mean? Does the mask theme have anything to do with Halloween? There were some other odd things going on in these ruins (actually the ruins turned into a dilapidated child-care center later in the dream), but the monkey was the oddest.

Avoiding real-life foreshadowing

I was walking up my hardwood stairs today wearing socks, cradling my open laptop in my left arm and clutching a full, hot cup of coffee in my right hand.

As I went up the stairs, my dog Tuffy was racing up with me under my feet.
Some background . . .

My laptop: Full of all my short stories, various other pieces of writing, school work, music downloads, photos.

The cup of joe: Coffee not important, but the mug it was in was hand-crafted pottery made by my wife Erin.

As I carefully made my way up the stairs I dreaded taking a fall. Not for fear of getting hurt or spilling coffee or even breaking the laptop. Rather, it was the metaphor of the fall that frightened me most.

Because if my life was fiction and my character simultaneously drops a) a machine equated to his creative expression and hard work, and b) a mug crafted by his wife's loving and caring hands, it could only be foreshadowing for the disaster and heartbreak looming around the corner.

Thankfully, I made it up the stairs unscathed.

A story about an elephant

I wrote a story a while back which was basically a monologue from a guy who thinks the best way for him to make his mark in life would be to become an elephant.
The story, called "Being," was published today at a place called
A Cautionary Tale.

It's really short so an excerpt would basically constitute the entire thing.

Read the story here

Reach For Your Dreams

Estimated reading time: 46 seconds

People are always saying that you should reach for your dreams.

But that’s not really practical for everyone. For instance, last night I dreamt I was a juggling donkey.

But, you reply, when they say “reach for your dreams,” they don’t mean your actual dreams, the crazy or bizarre things that run through your head when are sleeping. Everyone’s dreams are weird. You’re not special. What they mean is to set goals, however lofty they may seem, and go after them no matter the costs.

OK. Agreed. But when I set out to make a list of lofty goals, the first two items on the list were:

1) Buy donkey suit

2) Learn to juggle

Irrevria update

I'd like to trumpet a new story I had that was published. It's at Susurrus Magazine: The Literature of Madness. My story is called "Through the Monkey Glass." Here is a short excerpt:

Compelling the orangutan to return could be as easy as a banana, or perhaps four bananas or one giant fiberglass banana, approximately 60-65 feet high. (Note: Maybe the whole monkey-banana thing is just a stereotype. Example: Everyone thinks that bears eat honey and porridge when in actuality, the whole bear-honey-porridge thing originates in fables, cartoons and children's cereals. So it's probable that the concept of monkeys and bananas derived from some allegory, likely African. And because monkeys and bananas have been linked so seamlessly, perhaps now at zoos and in cartoons, monkeys eat bananas because "monkeys eat bananas." Or maybe monkeys eat bananas because they're readily available in their native habitat. If monkeys were introduced to different fruits and vegetables, perhaps they would prefer radishes, carrots or cherry tomatoes.)
On second thought, instead of bananas, I figured I should build a giant fiberglass vegetable tray.

I was also the featured writer for this issue of Susurrus, which basically consists of a short interview that goes deep on my inspiration and motives as a writer. Or something like that.

here's a link to the mag


Here's a link to the interview

New York Stories

New York Stories

Estimated reading time: 3 minutes, 17 seconds

A trip to New York City is never just a trip to New York City. You see things you never intended to see and the stories you tell when you return home are not the stories you planned to tell on the way there.

Erin and I made a trip to the city Monday, taking along Ryan, a copy editing intern from Kansas City staying with us for the summer. It was his first trip to New York, which made me think back to my first time.

I was 25 and New York was one of Erin and I's first ventures into a large city alone. I remember being half excited, half nervous for five days straight, it being the first trip where my wallet went from my back pocket to my front pocket while I was still at the airport.

I remember seeing Times Square, overwhelmed by the consumeristic cacophony dancing, flashing and buzzing to the point where it all becomes silent and you just can’t stop looking up or snapping photos, trying to fill your camera with the enormity of the city. To me, Times Square is everything a first trip to New York is about. You feel like you’re at the epicenter of the universe, and you are.

But on our way home Monday, riding the MetroNorth line back into New Haven, we weren’t discussing the Statue of Liberty and how much bigger or smaller Ryan thought it was going to be. We didn’t talk about the view from atop of the Brooklyn Bridge, and the panoramic line of skyscrapers long enough to fill dozens of large cities. And we didn’t talk about how this was the first time where “What is this, Grand Central Station?” was a legitimate question.

Rather, we talked about the things we never expected, like the father on the subway who had to nearly fight off the old man trying to feed a giant pretzel to his 3-year-old daughter.

“It’s OK. No thanks. Please. No,” the father said, his hand shielding the face of the child to prevent the man’s hand from forcing the pretzel into her mouth. At one point the seemingly-normal-but-probably-nuts old man tried to reach around the father’s head and feed the kid from behind. The old man just smiled the entire time, oblivious to the father's paternal sense of peril.

My concern grew when the force-feeding pretzel man ended his zealous attempt with the girl and sat next to me. I sat nervously for the remainder of the ride, knowing that a giant piece of pretzel could be stuffed into my face at any time if I let my guard down.

We rehashed our dinner, where we descended a flight of stairs in Chinatown to enter a tiny, no-frills, Zagat-rated restaurant where we shared a table with a man whose crusty yellow eye infection produced a cloudy blue glaze over his left eyeball. As he answered his pesky cell phone with god-knows-why statements like “Fat Sal’s Pizza!” I couldn’t help but stare at the pale discolored ring around his unsightly chapped lips.

Before his shaky hand and unsure grip spilled a glass of water all over the table, he ended his last cell phone conversation “Can’t a guy eat his last meal in peace?”

It’s a question I normally would assume is asked sarcastically, but judging on how this guy was literally oozing with sickness, we all thought there was an outside chance he was serious.

Central Park was, of course, brought up on the ride home as well. Not for its thrilling example of city planning genius or its calming, oasis-in-the-city lake views or the solace of its intricate trail system. It was the nearly nude sunbathers, the deformed horns on the goat at the petting zoo and the handful of couples making out so vigorously that they approached NC-17 territory as we strolled past.

In the short term, it was the crazies that dominated our New York stories. It was the proselytizing subway rider who pleaded that you “make peace with your maker before you meet your undertaker.” It wasn’t the jutting dominance of the Empire State Building, the reality of the World Trade Center site or the bedlam of Times Square at night.

I’ll never forget seeing and experiencing these landmarks for the first time. After six trips to New York, the first one is the one I remember most.

But after you’ve seen all the sights in New York, it’s the craziness, the unexpected, the unplanned that forces you to return. After a few trips, you leave your camera at home and return with nothing but a handful of stories you never imagined telling.

The Butt Of The Joke

Estimated reading time: 3 minutes, 12 seconds

Recently me and a friend of mine that I work with were discussing his home state of North Dakota. How cold does it get there? What do people from North Dakota do for fun? Why would anyone possibly have reason to visit North Dakota?

The conversation then gravitated toward who North Dakota's interstate rivals are and the states North Dakota looks down upon.

Namely, if a North Dakotan is telling a joke and needs a dumb character to jump out of an airplane without a parachute, screw in a light bulb in a haphazard fashion or outfit a submarine with insufficient windows, which state will this person reside?

The obvious answer to me would be South Dakota. I figured both Dakotas would claim to be the better Dakota, the real Dakota.

Rather, he said, the accepted states to utilize are Minnesota and Montana. (My first thought was what could be funny about Montana? Ranch hands? Mountaineers? Are there any glacier jokes floating around out there? A Google search produced this gem: Why is North Dakota so windy? Because Minnesota sucks and Montana blows.)

How North Dakotans feel toward Minnesota and Montana reinforces the notion that who the butt of the joke is changes by when and where you live and doesn't always make the most sense.

I was discussing this concept a few years ago with two friends of mine, one from Mexico, the other from Bolivia (An American, a Mexican and a Bolivian walk into a bar . . .). They said that when they need someone to be the butt of the joke, they use people from a place in Spain called Galicia. To me Galicia is a place I'd never heard of but presume is on a map. To them, it's where all the dumb people from jokes live. Who knew?

When I was in my golden joke-telling years (grade school, 1983-1989), the butt of the joke was always a Polack. Always. Sometimes the adjective "dumb" was added, just in case there was any confusion as this particular Polack's intelligence. As in, Did you hear about the dumb Polack that froze to death outside a theater? He was waiting to see the movie "Closed for the Winter." Ka-Blam! Whew that one was funny the first time I heard it.

Why a Polack? I have no idea. Probably something involving World War II. But to this day, I still see Polish people in a light that should probably be a tad brighter than it is.

Around this same time, a slew of Ethiopian jokes began to spring up, thanks to a historical famine in the African country from 1983-85. If there's one thing that makes for great laughs, it's famine. These jokes mainly had to do with hunger, starvation and the hilarity of being dangerously skinny.

Like this choice joke, which I might add, I learned from my brother in 3^rd grade: How many Ethiopians can you fit into a bathtub? None. They all slide down the drain.

Horrible, I know. And probably too soon.

Why other famished African nations never got the same treatment, I don't know. I'm still waiting to hear a Kenya joke or something that skewers those rascally Algerians.

But then something funny (not ha-ha) began to happen. Not only were Ethiopians targeted for famine-related humor, suddenly they got caught up being the dumb person in the joke. Take one joke for instance, also told to me in elementary school, likely at recess. The premise is three people walking through the dessert. Each has one item that will either keep them cool or nourish them in some fashion. The first guy has water, the second guy has food. And the third guy has a car door so that when it gets hot, he can roll the window down.

When that joke was told to me, the guy with the car door was an Ethiopian! That's not necessary!

I was also told a joke that consisted of people going down a skunk hole to see how long they could stand the smell. One by one they would go down the hole, each staying longer and longer before the smell forces them out. Well, when it was the butt of the joke's turn to go down the skunk hole, they waited and waited before the skunk finally came out complaining of the awful odor.

What type of person would smell so bad that even a skunk would abandon its home to flee the terrible stench? According to this joke in the form in which is was told to me, an Ethiopian.

So because of mass famine, Ethiopians wind up being made fun of for being skinny and ravenously hungry, which progressed into being made fun of for being dumb, which ballooned into flat-out, mean-spirited contempt.

Most of the time, the butt of the dumb joke is understandable. Not justified, but understandable, formulated from a regional rivalry, xenophobia or long-standing stereotype. Hippies, aggies, jocks, blondes, Polacks, Montanans.

But Ethiopians? They were starving, skinny and malnourished. And according to our jokes in the mid-80s, they were dumb too.

Getting Kids To Read

Would anyone argue that books don't command the attention of America's youth as much as they once did?

With TV, DVDS, video games, instant messaging, text messaging, social networking, virtual worlds, camera phones, organized sports, organized play groups, organized snack times, forced and unforced naps, theme restaurants and ADD epidemics, is there even time for anything else? And if there were time, what kid would spend that time reading?

Sixty years ago, kids read because the only other option was listening to plays that featured a bunch of bored foley artists and came from a radio the size of a professional wrestler.

Once TV came along, books took another hit. But teachers and parents told kids to read, and being children of past generations, they did as they were instructed.

If you want kids to read in today's climate, you need to embark on some serious strategy being that it takes a bit more attention, effort and focus to read a book than to space out while watching someone else's zany cat bat at the air on YouTube.

You tell your kid to read now, you'll be lucky if he pauses his game of Guitar Hero before he tells you to F-off. Imagine how teachers feel as their assigned reading is likely bring a slew of cease and desist letters from parents' attorneys citing cruel and unusual emotional distress thrust upon the too-busy-to read-are-you-kidding-me students.

Battling students who'd rather read some random hottie's MySpace profile, unsupportive and uninvolved parents, all but the best teachers would rather just show the kids the movie in class than have them read the book (and for Romeo and Juliet, they pass on the 1968 classic for 1996's ultra-hip, modern vernacular, Leo DiCaprio version.).

To get books into the lives of children, educators had to go a step further. Call it creative enticement.

They could bite the bullet and just trade reading for cash, but in addition to studies that point out that this doesn't really work, it also wouldn't suit today's ever-slim school budgets. They could reward kids with cheap prizes or go with the standby school-wide ice cream or pizza party for students who meet certain literary goals. But since contemporary children eat Chuck E. Cheese whenever they damn-well feel like it and demand and receive DQ each time they pass it in the car, those once sought-after foods have become a drab burden more than anything.

Eschewing unadulterated bribery, schools with principals willing to take one for the team have resorted to another mode of reading enticement: voluntary public humiliation.

This can come in many forms, but taking on an embarrassing hair style seems to be most popular: a shaved head, a mohawk or some variation of socially unacceptable hair dye.

Principals and teachers have been known to kiss pigs, allow themselves to be dunked in pools of water or slime, take pies in the face or ingest something so clearly disgusting it forces other adults in attendance into a bout of dry heaves.

Still waiting to emerge is the principal who takes the humiliation reward too far, like promising to take shots to the groin from every kid who meets their goal. After getting a solid moon boot to the testicular region, the red-faced and sweating principal is doubled-over in pain as he gathers the composure to force the words "Thanks for reading William!"

The reasoning as to why this approach seems to get kids to read when nothing else will is simple. As a reward for completing a task, children get to watch an authority figure stripped of his power, losing a bit of dignity and thus being brought closer to their level.

He is no longer Principal Wilson; he's that goofy guy with the mohawk who personally invited the giggles and scorn.

So this tactic will work for the time being, that is until someone produces a video game that, using uploaded images, creates an animated digital version of their own principal. Students will then be able to play games where they are free to assault the principal with pies, water torture, sleep deprivation and, of course, countless kicks to the crotch.

Ready For The Real World

Estimated reading time: 24 seconds

They sit through the entire commencement.
And with a final word,
Students are dismissed for the last time.
After sixteen years, school is over.
It is a fleeting moment so pure, so exuberant.
Graduates, accomplished and uncontained,
Send their caps blissfully into the air.
But one keeps his on
To protect himself from falling caps.

Cool Rabbits

Estimated Reading Time: 4.5 seconds

If I were a rabbit, I’d be one of those cool ones. One with the wristbands.