My Wife's Period

Now, before you get all riled up and sweaty in places that only dictators and hula girls get wet, let me say something.

First off, Teesha and Eddie, if you're reading this (God help me if you are), your mother is a saint, and in no way is this article a slight against her. Your mother, from her bushy brows down to her hammer toes, to me, is a perfect, shrink wrapped gift from God. Don't let anyone tell you different, myself included.

Also, for those of you reading this, please do not think that this is some kind of exploration into the more graphic and lurid (and beautiful?) world of female menstruation. Rather, it's more a matter of timing than it is of some of the realities that come with a woman's natural egg expulsion. What I'm trying to say without sounding like a drunken frat boy who has roofied so many drinks at the party that he's managed to inadvertently poison his own drink and is only ten seconds away from a coma (and involuntary anal sex with the guy who everyone thought was TOTALLY straight ) -- is -- I don't care about the bleeding or the bloating or the fact that for five days my wife whispers to me while we sleep, vowing that she's going to murder and mount me with the help of her new lover who just so happens to be a taxidermist. I care about one thing: the ticking clock -- whew.

They say a man's sexual peak is roughly in his late teens, possibly up to his mid-twenties. And a woman's starts late-twenties, sometimes pushing into the late thirties.

I'm 54.

My wife is 58.

And yet I'm all but certain that she hasn't even hit her stride when it comes to these aforementioned figures. While there are some nights when I can just as easily crawl into a good Mccarthy novel, take a shot of Tylenol PM, and trundle into dreamland - not unlike the frat boy but without the tender tush - my wife consistently feels the need to tap me on the shoulder and let me know that it's time to tussle. On most nights of the week, I have no problems with this, at least not mentally. My body might have other thoughts on the matter.

But when it's a few days shy of the arrival of the crimson express, that's when things start to go downhill. Or uphill maybe. Not sure if that constitutes sexual innuendo or not...REGARDLESS...All I know is that on the twenty fourth of every month, my Palm Pilot sounds the alarm, alerting me of what's to come. An intensive, non-stop fuckfest - my wife's desperate attempt to get as much sex in before she retreats into the recesses of ladydom. Twenty-four hours before D-Day ( I suppose P-Day is more fitting) my wife becomes a stock car driver, bumping and grinding her way to the finish line. In these twenty-four hours, I am a skid mark on her path to pleasure.

She is not unlike a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter, or a bear stuffing its face with camo-clad NRA members before hibernation. She completely consumes me.

The reason for this coital bombardment is beyond me. That critical, selfish, sinister part of me assumes that she's trying her hardest to put me out of commission for the same length of time that she has her period. Which it actually does. I find myself hobbled and having to take handfuls of arthritic medication and consuming liter upon liter of any ginseng drink I can find just to get through the following week.

Once I have the time to sit down and enjoy a nice cup of oolong, the Times, I realize that this isn't the case. It can't be. Does she really want to punish me? Does she truly feel that God has placed this burden on her ovaries and she is going to impose an equally painful punishment upon me? (My apologies to the ladies reading this. I know what you go through is so much more painful than anything I could dream up). Not Melinda. It's not in her nature. And I know that.

This delicate yet virile spark plug would never, even in the darkest depths of her subconscious, want to hurt me. I know this. She's not doling out punishment, she's not trying to grind me into a fine powder. She simply knows that with every fleeting laugh, every passing smile, every bump, every bruise, every glass of spilled oolong, every one of Rusty's messy 'accidents', every racquetball lesson, every thunderstorm, every kiss, every touch, everything, it's going to come to an end sooner than later. And she simply wants to lap all of it up before it's too late. And for this, I can't blame her. I can only do one thing:

Pray for menopause.

And that's how it is,

Syd Pellegrino

Found Music

I found this behind a milf.
Upon loading into my computer, I discovered the artist is
DJ TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA, JR.
Track: Tinhorn Screw
http://chalicerecording.com/ninjas/tinhornscrew.mp3
Please read the full review and add your own.

After only listening to the first fifteen seconds of this track, I know
the artist made music its bitch.

Editorial: SPRING 2014 FASHION PREVIEW...

...j/k. It's still SOOOOO '08. But it's hard to tell when setting your pupil upon Leroi Jankowitz's frock (pictured). My crew and I were out and about this weekend, on the trail of some serious trend-setting, be it Emily Bissett's haute Nipple-Free BodySuit (a one-piece of latex and tar with no holes for anything but nipples) or the new baby-blue-and-sand tone stretchy waistbands of Chanel's OldWetty; a decidedly upscale take on the Depend adult diaper, lined with Swarovski crystals and the embryos of baby seals that have already been impregnated by other seals. Ravishing, dahhhling!

But it was none other than Mr. Jankowitz, thrice turned away from "Project Runway" (this season, he admittedly slept though the call after a heavy night of Rollos and poppers) that made our disposable Walgreen's cameras glitter the greatest...

Few could even pull off his look. At nearly 7 feet tall, 285 lbs, he, today, seems not incongruous with the neoclassicism of a young Audrey Hepburn--an unprecedented vision of strong lines, floor-length gowns with the cleanest silhouettes and a flawless, timeless sense of beauty that could transpose any fashion into the forefront. Hepburn herself, were she not dead from cancer, would truly feel that the 'torch' had been rightly passed should she have bumped into Mr. Jankowitz at 4:11 am this Saturday on Sunset Boulevard.

Alas, she couldn't, so we did our own investigating. Though it was dangerous work at first; I was nearly stabbed by Mr. Jankowitz's stately 'wife' 'Swingin' P' and it was only after I told them both that I wrote for TMA that they eased down...and asked for five dollars. I obliged.

When I asked Leroi what many in my situation would have asked--how he envisioned that the bejeweled-semi-zebra-print-gold-chain-knee-high boot would jive so utterly brilliantly with the rest of the ensemble without overwhelming it, his response was simple, confident, recalling a young Yves Saint Laurent: "One word: My ass. Do I have ham in between my teeth? Do I smell like dicks? Oh, nice, there's still some ham in my purse..."

Indeed there WAS ham in his purse! Literally and figuratively. The ham-colored purse was that 'special something' that made the line backer look-alike look more like a fashion maven than anything else. And the side of raw ham was fabulous--so bold, so...animalistic!

Our interview ended abruptly, as Leroi disappeared into the back of an alley and then momentarily reappeared to make take the gun. I still have it! Note to self: I must be returning that to him (hopefully every sequin is intact).

With a flourish, a light vomit, and then an unexpected burst into the early morning traffic, this week's trend-setter was sure to light the day on fire. With big, wavy flames of sequin, cheap metals, and flamable fabrics. Here's to you, Leroi Jankowitz--I know we'll some day meet again, perhaps in Milan, perhaps at Denny's.

Study our snapshot. See how he works it, right down to those meaty fingers with wildly terrifying press-on nails. Notice that he is unafraid of textures, like plastic, tin, or fake zebra, and that tying your shirt off into a knot is back--in a gargantuan way. See the tiny, useless belt-thing over his brazen short-shorts--go out, get one, NOW, or you'll be behind the times before Leroi's thrown up his breakfast and made his first fifteen dollars of the day. See that there is sensuality in the leg; we don't see much of it--he knows just how to be conservative and get us with how he 'holds back'; control is key in dressing yourself without looking trashy--but it does peek out from those tiny shorts, and over those menacing boots.

And, at last, look at that smile. Charm, wit, charisma. THAT will surely be the staple of fashion in 2014. Yes, Leroi, you may have ham between your teeth, but your star shines so bright that I only see your bacon--

Finger

German for finger.

And other one liners I have planned
regarding the contents of my apocalypse bag.

Like most Americans, you owe me two adderall.
And like most Americans, I often point to things. I do this with my finger. I don't go into much detail, but I state: that's why the terrorists hate us. I'm pretty good at this. I consider myself aware.
As a conspiracy buff, I also consider myself prepared. If not overly prepared. Some doubt this upon first viewing my apocalypse bag, fashioned by The North Face. I don't let this deter me from what my therapist knows to be true, which is that I am on the right cocktail, and shouldn't stray from my meds. Either way you're gonna be all over me and my adderall, and I rub your face in it.
I'll most likely be peaking. And hyper and anxious because I already know what I'm gonna say, every fucking time, I save your fucking life. Because I knew! I fucking knew it was gonna go down like this. I told you so.
I will point this out often.
And if I haven't told you how the worlds gonna end, then... get used to this kind of attitude, I put some in the bag, along with all the other things you thought were stupid.
And without further confusion, here's every one liner I have to say regarding the contents of my Apocalypse bag (fashioned by The North Face), in order of usage, to you and your dumb face.

1. Is this wall looking to get grappled? Let's not forgot about those two adderall you owe me.

2. Don't even ask me, it's a bottle of addys. I'll sell you some, but I'm only taking Canadian. Whatever they use, and however silly it seems.

3. This is my last machete?

4. Only one head fits in this gas mask. Flawed design.

5. Don't break those night vision goggles! They're Russian.

6. This Eton Grunding FR250 Silver AM/FM/Shortwave Radio, Flashlight, and... ain't gonna wind itself.

7. If the sun comes back, I honestly, scouts honor ( I say this out loud and hold my fingers up as well.. I went back and forth over the last four years and debated wether to actually pull the scouts honor crap, and then there's this bit about how I actually do have expired Tama-flu, because I lie about this for several days, until the bird flu is even more overwhelming than the radiation, but I don't know if we'll be up-wind, or what. Either way Its the same stunt I pull with the Thyroid capsules (they came with the mask). I'll be so wacked out on xanax and whatever else I traded that switchblade I promised you, that, like, you're the one who looks silly when Jihads start raining Koreans from the sky, and you thought I... I betray you a lot. You can have my spare compass, if you're still convinced it just didn't work that one time. Only. And not the fifteen other fucking times).

8. Mayan interrupting something?

9. This baton was an amazon.com purchase, and expands two feet, into the same thing. I threaten you with it, and force you to disrobe. If you're not bitten, I don't knife you with my switch blade, and WE MOVE ON. If bitten, stop here and never come back.

There were explosions I never mentioned. It's pivotal.
Terrible things are said and you're deaf. I think you're starting to turn.
It's my birthday. We play it off. I tongue you at midnight.
I will admit to something. It will sound genuine.
I want sex by 2013. It's not a promise or a threat.
I lie about my symptoms.
I enjoy none of this, and your cough improves.
Mayan anything, is worthless and heavy.
The NorthWest Territories, depending on the mood.
Tin Foil blankets suck. Kuru becomes seductive.
We don't always agree, but I don't care. Never did.
Lets not forget what's fashioned by The North Face, and strapped to my back.



Emoticons are a sign of weakness.

-Smokeland Mitch Gayler

P.S. The image above is the second result in a google query, under images, for images. The first was a hack job.

P.P.S. It only felt appropriate. After all, finger in German is finger. I could be wrong about that.

I smell sex and...can-day:

THE BLOG TO END ALL BLOGS

Just click. I was blown away.

That link below is my new homepage.
http://bayberyl.blogspot.com/

This is our anibortion. (Our abortion's aniversary.)

Dear Gaylord,
What must I do to make times so sweet once again?
Your very own,
Lidet.

addsense

jt, take it off. makes everything so ugly.

On Valentine's Day & RPC-II, Sightings Of...

CALL ME OLD-FASHIONED but I always thought that an elbow-macaroni encrusted heart cut from construction paper, still gooey with the always tempting edibility of Elmers, was considered The Bar for Valentine's Day gift-giving. After a hard day of getting it up the poop chute on Betamax for diet cracker endorsements and exercise, it had always been customary for me to come home to find said-Valentine sitting on the floor where our coffee table would be if we had one. This was OUR tradition and, really, it is the nature of tradition itself that so enriches these holidays, is it not? But I digress. It's the 90s now. Times are ticking and the clock is a-changing. And my husband, "Jamal" (he asked me not to use his real name and shit but he's only 13 and has to ask me for permission to use the stolen internet on our fake computer anyway, so I'm pretty sure he wouldn't ever find out if I told you that his name is really J'mall. Sidenote: He's still in 4th grade and his teacher says the window of opportunity for him to learn to read is closing faster than that raccoon's jaws around her left ankle. His strengths are in microbial diagnostics and egg hatching. Something tells me he's going to be a hugely successful famous world leader or money glutton like Donald Trump...or a really enthused volunteer pornstar like me. Shoot for the moon, I say. Even if your rocket crashes, you can get high off of the fumes.) Where was I?

NEVER PEE IN A PUBLIC RESTROOM BELOW THE MASON-DIXON LINE or you're libel to become infected with RPC-II (Redneck Peehole Critters, Second Strain). My neighbor and best friend, Black Velvet, went on a camping trip this past December, during a blizzard. (She claims it gives your body something to hate other than itself.) She went it all alone. I didn't think that was a good idea by any means. She tried to get me to go. I told her I'd rather die in the non-comfort of my barely-house. She spat on me. I tied her up and left her in my basement (*which is really somebody else's house's basement--that's the genius of it) for two nights. I meant to do it for just an hour but I fell asleep for those two days, and when I woke up, she had left for the wilderness. She's been alone her whole life. Legend has it that she was born without any parents and raised herself since she was a 0 year-old. Now, it's damn hard to believe THAT, but what I do believe is that she was raised by a pack of old Chinese ladies who made her watch the same Sesame Street tape four times every day. (It wasn't even a real Sesame Street; it was bootlegged look-alike puppets with fully developed pubic hair chatting about how to replace lost teeth in Vietnam.)

Here's a photo I've got of her (In this particular picture, she is watching the last member of the pack of Chinese ladies that raised her being burnt to death, as is tradition when you turn 101 in our neck of the woods. RIP Hester Chen. "Jamal" actually took this picture. He's a genius of light and shadow. Actually, I take that back. I took the picture.

So, this being Valentine's and all, I do miss Black Velvet and I hope if she made it to Antarctica, she'll at least eat some penguin for me. I got a postcard from her last Tuesday:She seems hunky dory despite the RPC-II; my degree in handwriting analysis tells me that she's found love with a fair-but-ill-tempered man (Sean Penn?)--as you can see she dots her "i's" with hearts. She remembered her cursive, which is important. And the postcard smelled like a Dunkin' Donuts dumpster, so she must be getting plenty to eat. But she also broke my heart, as she must still harbor a grudge against me for telling her I'd rather die than accompany her, and then locking her up in a well for two days, as she writes "we still (symbol for not equal to) friends."

Alright, so speaking of dotting one's "i's" with hearts and what-not, let's get back to the tricky business at hand--the changing tide of our nation's Valentine's Day. As mentioned, for the past six years, J'mall and I have exchanged homemade valentines (in his case, schoolmade--and graded), and then exchanged bodily fluids.(Last year, he told me that when we move somewhere big and fancy when we're super rich, he's gonna pork me in each room of the house. Right now, I told him I'd settle for each corner of the room we live in.) So, simplicity has been love's beacon of hope...

...until Jennifer Hudson came along and fucked it up. This year, you see, my husband wants not only my love and my thick diamond encrusted bosom to lay his head across. He doesn't want a card from Hallmark, candy, new shoelaces, chairs for the ping-pong dining room table, not even a cute gigantic stuffed animal. (I just had a major craving for penguin; man I hope Black Velvet comes around to seeing things my way and hauls some delicious Emperor penguin blubber back across the Mohabi for me...) NO. What does J'mall want to commemorate our years of love and semi-devotion and blackmail? A 'capelet,' that thing that J. Hud wore to the Count Chocula Festival. What really upsets me is that our love has never been about material things, because we have (a) never owned anything or (b) just stolen the things that we pretend to own. I know a shimmering metallic capelet is different than all that; he wants it to be HIS. It's not enough for me to make one out of tin foil, like fancy food, folded into a swan. And it's sure not gonna be right if I lift the item. It has to be new, store-bought. The designer's name has to end in a vowel, he says. Like a dumb-ass, I said 'If you wanna look like Elvira, why don't you just wear some fake vampire teeth?' (you know, the wax kind...). He stabbed my chest with a fork, and then ATE MY NIPPLE. We took pictures after we got high and made up and it was funny. It was actually taken by Hester Chen, right before her 101th birthday and live cremation:

I told J'mall I was going to tie him to the toilet and feed him Dran-o until he shat out my poor nipple. But the next morning, it hurt a whole lot again. And then, we hatched a Valentine's Plan! We are suing Jennifer Hudson, as well as the Count Chocula Festival, and with our winnings, we indeed plan to buy a wonderful capelet, and for me, something special. No one ever really thinks they're going to hit the jack-pot, make it big, sue the living capelet out of a celebrity for inflicting unprecedented damages upon undiscerning gradeschool husbands. But this is our day. It is our United States of America. Some people dream of driving a speedy Corvette should they ever have the dough. Or travel the world. Or space. Or bite the head off a living bat (that's Black Velvet's dream).

What do I want? Oh, I'm pretty modest, I suppose. But, with these supposed funds we may or may not receive, I am going to buy a beautiful magenta Taser, 11,000 volts of hot pink lady sex. I'm going to see if I can cook a pork chop with it. Or if I can get J'mall to hit puberty faster. But mostly, I think I'll just attack rich women with it and steal their purses, so that we may buy more and better capelets, bigger tasers, and tastier penguin blubber, should the chance arrive!!

In the end, Valentine's day isn't just about love. It's about loving what you want to get your hands on.

And, as of this posting, I'm still waiting on J'mall to shit out the remainder of my nipple. I've sort of given up on it...but I learned something about giving up--it's for the retarded. Real people will fight and take Jennifer Hudson's money and really make something of themselves. Never give up on your dreams. You never know when you'll be able to get the money to buy yours. Here's a picture of mine:



Love, Lidet.

ROBOTS ARE DOPE

Now, where are the two girls?  

HEATH LEDGER

This really affected me. Twelve year old girls are blogging about it everywhere. I don't even know if I can continue this post. It's turning all Elliot Smith in here... I don't want this to affect my afternoon pretzel. 

Cruises

A History of Griping

or

That Sad, Little Freak from 60 Minutes Ain't Got Nothing on Me

By Syd Pellegrino

Here's how I feel about cruises. Those ads you see on television, with middle-aged women rock climbing, eating crabs, and having sex with anonymous Italian men all while listening to a neutered version of Iggy Pop's 'Lust for Life' are pure ribble-rabble. It couldn't be further from the truth. This is what they don't tell you:

1. Your rooms are tiny. Guantanamo tiny. That guy from 'Arthur' tiny. They're small. Every time you get out of bed, you have to shift with your cabin mates like one of those block pieces in tetris just to get anywhere. And Teesha's thyroid condition didn't make that any easier. And the bathrooms. The bathrooms. Never did I ever think I'd have to shit standing up. And without even having to go to Japan (which I'd never fucking pay to do either).

2. The food. Is. Terrible. Who the hell are people kidding?!? I ate a porkchop that tasted like turkey. I don't even picture cooks in the back of those kitchens. I see men in white lab coats with beakers and ethers and atoms and science , trying to turn apricot-flavored baby food into prime rib. Alchemists and Heathens. I imagine Tom Cruise waving his magic dick at a seven-day-old chicken casserole, trying to morph it into a lemon tart. And not all of it's free. I couldn't even choose to eat my weight in lobster without being forced to mortgage my duplex.

3. Old people. They're still dying. And they're not happy about it.

4. The Nickling and the Diming. I paid $18 to send a fax to my mother (I had to remind her to mow my lawn – thanks, mom). An eighteen-dollar fax! They charged me PER MINUTE. Is this not insane? You give the girl one sheet of paper, she sends it through the machine, you wait for it to receive your confirmation, and all of a sudden that sixer of Mickey's you planned to purchase and down before breakfast, is out of the question. There was a rumor on board that the cruise line was going to start implementing a pee levy in the new year. You pee, you pay. And my bladder's so small. It just wouldn't be worth it. Not for me or my mother.

She's a total piss-tank. Thank God we didn't bring her.

5. The ocean - Okay, how overrated is that bullshit? Ninety percent of the people on this cruise were in bed for two days straight, completely sea-sick. I watched 'No Reservations' three times (which didn't help with the puking). That can't be good for morale. I picture this happening to pirates who don't have their sea legs, having to watch Catherine Zeta-Jones pretend to be a human being, and then mutiny erupting on the ship and everyone drinking pina coladas out of the captain and crew's skulls.

6. Roatoan, Belize, and Cozumel (which we didn't get to see because the weather was so bad) -- dumps. They didn't even have a Carls Jr. 'Nuff said.

7. The Service - Every time I ordered an extra item of food off of the dinner menu, the small, Filipino server's eyes would ignite with rage, and I could see the words written all over his face,

"You filthy, American pig. You're just going to waste it. You're going to order it, nibble at it, discard it, and then I'm going to have to come and clean it up. In my village, we're grateful for every mouthful of food...food…sweet succulent food…hey...wait...I think 'No Reservations' is on tonight. Sheesh. I completely forgot. Oi, did I ever love 'Mask of Zorro'. Catherine Zeta-Jones is so prolific. I wonder how tall that behemoth is? Michael Douglas is such a midget. It will never work out for them. It can't. He's too old."

All a man needs is an extra serving of macaroni without the 'tude or the third-world guilt. Is that too much to ask for?

8. Fat Americans (From the Mid-West) - They continue to get fatter and they're no less obnoxious. I think they're still bitter about "Everybody Loves Raymond" going off the air. Just an update.

9. Everybody's married. Everybody. Well, except the kids, OBVIOUSLY. It all feels so, stable (aside from the constant rocking). And the old people. Some of them are widows. But they're old. Really old. I don't even know how they climbed the stairs to get onto the boat. There's a chapel on the ship, but I'm pretty sure they only use it for funerals. I think I walked in on one without knowing it. Oh, and I swear to GOD, this one old lady looked at me right in the eye, RIGHT IN THE EYE, and she mouthed the words, "Kill me". And I thought about it, man. I'm not shitting you. I saw her soul and it winked the kiss of death at me. Burial at sea. When you're that old, you can't ask for much more than that. To be one with the water. That's something. Just floating, waiting for some whale to swallow you up. Or some squid to do whatever it is that squids actually do (is there ink involved?) Regardless, it's beautiful. Like a poem. Or a haiku. Your husband's already dead, your kids probably hate your guts because you're old and because every time you cough, a rainbow colored-loogie flies across your studio apartment and pastes itself to your collapsed Murphy Bed. What else is there left but to be hurled from the pool deck into the emerald depths?

Man…that old lady wanted to die so bad.

And so, that's how I feel about that. Will I ever go on a cruise again? Maybe. But certain things would have to change. A few easy fixes are as follows:

a) After the first two days of sailing, right before we reach our first port, a ship-wide vote will be taken in order to choose four of five of the most annoying and obnoxious travelers. Once docked, we are all armed with automatic rifles (save for the four or five douche bags) and we have two hours to hunt them down like rabid gophers. This would happen at every port, and not only would it help in sifting through the degenerates, but that sense of cruise camaraderie would increase ten fold and there would be so much more team spirit during the limbo competition.

b) No kids. I have yet to decide on the ages, but I'm willing to set the bar high, possibly at eighteen. Yes, I know young adults between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two are particularly loathsome, but I'd have nothing to stare and gawk at without feeling like Paul Reubens. Also, if that were the cut-off, Teesha would be excluded, and boy would she freak out. As I was saying, no kids, unless, UNLESS, they are treated as slaves. Yes I want my macadamia nut cookie delivered to me at two in the morning by someone who barely has their second set of teeth. Am I the only person that read Oliver Twist and thought it was a pleasant, utopian, wonderland?

c) More Chocolate. Chocolate moats. Chocolate covered lobster. Cocoa city.

d) One of the events should be a Catherine Zeta-Jones movie marathon. It would be great…because technically we could avoid the voting process for the annoying douches (which I fully admit is a bit over the top and has the potential to be prone to vote rigging) and simply nominate the assholes who show up to watch 'No Reservations'. They would immediately be hunted. It would be so much more efficient, and that, in a nutshell, is what cruising should be all about. Oh, and mom, if you're reading this, don't chintz out on the expensive lawn fertilizer. If you use the cheap stuff, the lawn will end up all blotchy and yellow like that birthmark on Mr. Barnaby's wife's face.

And that's how it is,

Syd Pellegrino

Syd Pellegrino (rhymes with rhino or wine-o) is a featured correspondent from Albany, New York. While he passed the bar exam in 1987, he remains resolute in his belief that "Law is just a shortcut to thinking" and has yet to join or start a practice. He is said to have been a 'writing enthusiast' since his late teens, and hopes to one day become a governor on a board of governors, as long as the corporation 'doesn't completely suck'. He lives with his wife and two children – none of whom share his blood – and appears to be very happy.

Publications where you might have read Syd's work include:

The Goose Island Enquirer, The Bacon Hill Squire, Gansevoort Mining and Knitting Magazine, The Saratoga Junior High Foreign Exchange Student Brochure, and the 'Northumberland Elders Unite!' ad campaign, both in print and on television.

If you'd like to contact Syd, he can be reached at:

ahistoryofgriping@gmail.com

BLACK METAL GARDENING

Camerin kelly and his bag of tricks.

Black Metal Gardening
Uploaded by camerinkelly

PINKBERRY : OVERPRICED CONDIMENTS

JUST LISTEN.

MAN VS. MINI HORSE

It's two minutes long. Two long, precious minutes of your life. You will gain nothing from this but enlightenment. 

AWESOME

There is nothing that is not awesome about this pic. 

AM I BALDING?