April 2016

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Nobody knows.

Nobody knows.

I saw Ali at Harvard. He was impressive. We loved him.

I'm so,pretty. Didn't say that in his speech, you haters.

I’m so pretty. Didn’t say that in his speech, you haters. He said “Study. Make yourself great.”

Then he did this. For the benefit of all of you who consistently declared him a coward.

The guy who was the guy in the 14th round when they still went 15 rounds.

The guy who was the guy in the 14th round when they still went 15 rounds.

Life ain’t what it used to be.

I swear to whatever God you claim to believe in, I love Judy Garland more than any other white heterosexual male does. Or will. Or something like that anyway. What’s the new emphatic? I’m that.

Full disclosure. My mother and Judy Garland were exactly the same age. Born a month apart. Same height too. Don’t know what else to tell you.


Working so hard, working through the Mystery.

This is complicated. A guy I’ve dueled with here since the candidacy of Trump posted me into a spat he was having with some guy who took him down in the most obscene terms you could possibly imagine.

Whereupon I weighed in to let the guy know he’d offended a friend of mine and he should shut up. Then he called me a name and I threw down the gauntlet, promising he wouldn’t like what would happen next.


I warned the guy. He thought he could walk back into the saloon and survive unscathed. He made jokes about “hold the lettuce” and “hold the mayo.”

Before I could post this response, though, both he and the adversary I’d been drawn into the middle of were gone. Unfriended. Like a shot. What the hell. What part of “Hold!!!” do they not get?

So help me out here. I’m thinking I just got rid of two jerks in one throw, with barely a shot fired. Did I miss something?

I don’t usually miss something. Tell me if I did.

She is beautiful nod a gifted singer. But sliding into dementia.

She is beautiful and a gifted singer. But sliding into darkest dementia.

Just saw the picture tonight. Profoundly moving.

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Sad to see him go. Be gracious and remember what you liked about him and his music.

Rikki and Samuel. Two peas in a pod.

Rikki and Samuel. Two peas in a pod.

For us this is a golden moment. We don’t know how long it will last. Why it’s so life intensifying. We have to relish it one day at a time. Despite a quarter century of experience with sighthounds, these guys are new to us. Different. Let us count the ways.

1. They look like each other. Few greys do. They’re every color and often differ markedly in size. These guys are almost a Xerox of one another.

Samuel was skinnier when he got here. We.ve been feeding him up. Now we differentiate them by collar design.

Samuel was skinnier when he got here. We.ve been feeding him up. Now we differentiate them by collar design.

2. They don’t get on the couch. We have three to four couches ruined by greyhounds and deerhounds named Sonny, Patrick, Andrew, Molly, Psmith, and Raebert. These guys have no interest in couches.

3. They don’t do stairs. Greyhound literature full,of advice about how to teach them stairs. None of it works if they simply won’t.

4. They’re both twelve years old. Hardly any greyhounds achieve that age. These guys are still bouncy.

5. They are so much alike in every respect, but their personalities are nevertheless different. Both are individuals. Ultimate proof of canine consciousness.

6. Since we have the two of them, all the above reasons need to be multiplied by two. Which gives us twelve anodynes to the twelve plagues of the Old Testament. Provided by two twelve year olds. Rejoice with us in our golden moment.

That's Rikki on the left and Samuel on the right. Right, honey?

That’s Rikki on the left and Samuel on the right. Right, honey?

As I said, a golden moment.

“And so we end the Passover seder according to law.
We have conducted it according to tradition, according to statute…

“Next year in Jerusalem.”

And so we pray that the Lord will pass over our greyhound sons for one more year.

Winter awaits us all.

Since they’ve been showing promos for Season 2 of the “cult hit” Mr. Robot, we decided to look at the pilot. It was, to be honest, a mixed bag. The lead actor, Rami Malek, is magnetic as a functioning autistic hacker who lives somewhere between real life and morphine-induced paranoia. He works for a computer security firm whose business comes mainly from E-Corp, a conglomerate conflation of Apple and Microsoft. He is recruited by an entity or an hallucination named Mr. Robot (Christian Slater) to assist in the cyber destruction of the entire global economic system. The emotions seem real enough and understandable in the millennial context, but the politics are warmed over borrowings from Occupy Wall Street graffiti. The general hatred of corporations seems to make no distinction between the capitalism that has raised entire populations out of subsistence living to general comfort and the corruption of the current parasitic government-bank cartel. It is, in this nightmare, all equally evil, which we are repeatedly meant to understand the E in E-Corporation stands for.

My wife kind of liked it, I kind of didn’t. I looked up the IMDB user reviews for episode 2:

Like Occupy Wall Street, an idea-less performance act falls quickly off a cliff.

Like Occupy Wall Street, an idea-less performance act falls quickly off a cliff.

For all you Bernie fans who know no history and have no idea of the difference between capitalism — i.e., creating value and therefore wealth — and crony capitalism — i.e., merely creating the appearance of value to no one’s benefit but your own, I give you…

The Boomer Bible’s Book of Adam.

Today is April 19, the 35th anniversary of The Boomer Bible‘s dedication on South Street in Philadelphia.

For the Snowflake Generation. Safe spaces music, complete with trigger warnings just in case the safe spaces aren't safe enough enough or boringly banal enough.

For the Snowflake Generation. Safe spaces music, complete with trigger warnings just in case the safe spaces aren’t safe enough or boringly treacly banal enough.

For Nth wave feminists who want the government to buy their tampons but don’t necessarily want to wear them because bloody pant crotches are so cool.

[Trigger Warnings. Metro guys might be micro-aggressed because their periods aren’t very, you know, red.]

For all the college kids who’d really rather die than live. Farewell is a cool thing to say.

[Trigger Warnings. Guy has a voice like a doomy foghorn. But dying is what you’re really after, right? Right?]

Kenny G. For every tone deaf college kid who thinks jazz is about playing scales in a melancholic way.

[Trigger Warnings. He is, after all, a White. Man. No matter how soothing and friendly his lazy saxophone sounds, he is guilty of cultural appropriation. Maybe we should shoot him.]

Lack of content, passion, and sex appeal are prime ingredients of safe spaces. Karen Carpenter had all of these until she died not so suddenly from not eating anything. Bask with her in the nirvana of no microaggressions.

[Trigger Warnings. Well, look at that dress. Yes, she defeated the rape culture, but what part of no slut-shaming did she miss? You’re supposed to be completely naked and still impervious to the patriarchal rape culture, even if she can sing you into a kind of stupid female trance.]

Joni Mitchell. Once a feminist icon. Used to hear her echoing through the corridors of Josselyn Hall at Vassar, where all the drab feminists were studying themselves. It should be a safe place for the college students who were once decidedly female, with breasts and vaginas and such. The, you know, neo-reactionary feminists who think vaginas matter.

[Trigger Warnings. This Mitchell bitch has to be put down, dontcha know. She thinks gender is about “both sides now,”not the multitudinumerareous sides there so obviously are these days. If I want to put on a skirt and watch you pee, who are you to stop me? Death to Mitchell and her bilateral sexuality.]

No Trigger Warnings for this one. It has absolutely no content, musical quality or intrinsic worth. It’s as much a piece of junk as a standard issue millennial brain.

No Trigger Warnings for this one either. It has absolutely no content, musical quality or intrinsic worth. It’s as much a piece of junk as a standard issue millennial brain.

Remember Lauren Bacall in Key Largo? “You know how to whistle don’t you? Just put your lips together and blow.” What Zampir knows how to do. Very easy listening.

[Trigger Warnings. Lauren Bacall. All that blowing. Reminds us of rape culture. Unless it reminds us of bad infomercials wanting $19.95 for Zampir cassettes. Whatever.]

Pure dreck of the sort that makes safe spaces safe. Zone out and pretend that YOUR life matters. (It doesn’t.)

[Trigger Warnings. If I have to tell you, you don’t even know a trigger from a dewy multi-petaled flower. You’re porn sick and you know it from the first rose on. Rapist.]

Scourge yourself from the taint of sexual desire, evil males. It this doesn’t make your space safe, there is no hope for you.

Your last, best, safe place. The dead zone of the human mind. Go here and you will never have to return.

Unless there be life and a heart in you, you damaged babies. You hide and cringe and carry on like infants. Here’s what WE were doing half a century ago. So get the hell off our tits and go to work.

Going back in time from Dogs of the Rings

The Supreme Council of Wizards decides. It's time to bring on the confrontation with evil. We can start by making the hobbitses start carrying their own weight. For the first time ever.

The Supreme Council of Wizards decides. It’s time to bring on the confrontation with evil. We can start by making the hobbitses start carrying their own weight. For the first time ever. We’re going to need gold, frankincense, and magic.

Bilbo lived in the Shire.

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In a hobbit house.

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Which is when Gandalf the Grey shows up.

image

The idea is an adventure. With a bunch of dwarves.

Got to get to where the gold is. Dragon. Named Smaug.

Got to get to where the gold is. Guarded by a dragon. Named Smaug.

Bilbo was all for it. Where, when, and how high he asked.

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The dwarves provided Bilbo with his own war steed. “This is all going to be so great,” Bilbo said.

Name of Happy.

Name of Happy.

On the way out of the Shire, though, the dwarves and Bilbo encountered an obstruction.

"We are the mothers of the Shire. We beg you not to venture into the cruel cruel outside world of Mother Earth."

“We are the mothers of the Shire. We beg you not to venture into the cruel cruel outside world of Middle Earth.”

“Hmmmm,” thought Bilbo. And sat down to think about it. Then, with hobbitses-esque logic, he said, “Gotta go. Big guy said so.”

Whereupon the image of the Mothers of the Shire transformed.

"We are the wolves of the high spirit. We are warning you to save you. Ignore us at your peril."

“We are the wolves of the high spirit. We are warning you to save you. Ignore us at your peril.”

Stay tuned for Chapter 2.

It seems that a lot of young women in Ystaad Sweden are suddenly dead. Who will remember? Wallander.

It seems that a lot of young women in Ystaad Sweden are suddenly dead. Who will remember? Wallander.

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Has anybody seen my dog Jussi? He was just here.

Has anybody seen my dog Jussi? He was just here.

Oh my Gott. Jussi?

Oh my Gott. Jussi?

Sorry Chef. We think it's Jussi.

Sorry Chef. We think it’s Jussi.

I need some coffee.

I need some coffee.

Thinking that's not a dog. Do you want some coffee?

Thinking that’s not a dog. Do you want some coffee?

Looks more like a girl or a woman or something.

Looks more like a girl or a woman or something.

This coffee's good. Isn't it? Ja. Tack.

This coffee’s good. Isn’t it? Ja. Tack.

Is it possible we were wrong about Jussi? Something more sinister might have done.

Is it possible we were wrong about Jussi? Something more sinister might have been.

I am from Iceland. I come here for the sport.

I am from Iceland. I come here for the sport.

That was good sport. Almost like the goal in futbol.

That was good sport. Almost like the goal in futbol.

Boss this is Svartman. Another girl,or woman has been killed. Shot in the head this time.

Boss this is Svartman. Another woman has been killed. Shot in the head this time. I think I can see his car though. It’s a Volvo.

So Jussi is okay?

So Jussi is okay?

This is an extreme emergency, Wallander. Are your officers up to it? Is there any more cream and sugar?

This is an extreme emergency, Wallander. Are your officers up to it? Is there any more cream and sugar? Are you up to the task, Svartman?

Yes, ma'am. You have my word.

Yes, ma’am. You have my word. But I think he just killed another woman. I’m following him though. On him like stink.

I don't always use a gun. I'm from Iceland. sometimes I use an icicle.

I don’t always use a gun. I’m from Iceland. sometimes I use an icicle. And now I’m coming for that prosecutor babe.

I have to go pee. Excuse me.

I have to go pee. Excuse me.

Uh oh.

Uh oh.

Svartman. Did I just some Volco  lutefisking it out of here?

Svartman. Did I just see some Volvo taillights go lutefisking it out of here?

Maybe.

Maybe.

were you on your mobile again to your wife?

Were you on your mobile again to your wife?

Maybe. Sorry, boss. The baby has colic.

Maybe. Sorry, boss. The baby has colic.

you do know they'll very likely kill her.

You do know they’ll very likely kill her.

She also had the lottery numbers. What'm I supposed to do?

She also had the lottery numbers. What’m I supposed to do?

get back here as soon as you can manage. We'll have some coffee then we'll rescue Arnstrod or whatever the hell her name is.

Get back here as soon as you can manage. We’ll have some coffee, then we’ll rescue Arnstrod or whatever the hell her name is.

i thought you were in love with her.

i thought you were in love with her.

You've sure got-funny way of showing it.

You’ve sure got a funny way of showing it.

I can't help saying I've a mind to stop drinking coffee and pull out my gun. And maybe go get her in an while. What do you think, Svartman?

I can’t help saying I’ve a mind to stop drinking coffee and pull out my gun. And maybe go get her in a while. What do you think, Svartman?

Are you all fucking nuts? I'm going to kill you right now. Screw the prosecutor. You never cared about her and she never cared about you. I'm going back home to Cleveland, where we know hot to settle our differences.

Are you all fucking nuts? I’m going to kill you right now. Screw the prosecutor. You never cared about her and she never cared about you. I’m going back home to Cleveland, where we know how to settle our differences.

Oh yeah. The guy from Iceland. Won’t ever be visiting Cleveland. He’ll be friends with other guys, in another world.

So Jussi is okay?

As long as Jussi is okay.

Word to Iceland. Don’t ever mess with Cleveland.

Word to Iceland.  Don't ever mess with Cleveland.

Tnis is now it ends. Every time.

You and the Swedes like Wallander go down in the first five minutes.

But in honor of Wallander and Jussi and all of Wallander’s languid, slow moving, slow responding, emotionless cohort, here’s the best we can do.

Go ahead. Be all dead and everything.

I have to go pee. Excuse me.

I have to go pee. Excuse me.

Robert Laird. The first one was inspired. The second was dutiful and brave. The third was just me. I know longer affect the numeral.

Robert Laird. The first one was inspired. The second was dutiful and brave. The third was just me. I no longer affect the numeral.

Yeah, okay. My education. Latin and French from fifth grade on. Entered Mercersburg Academy at 13, offered the option of enrolling as a sophomore, turned it down due to tender age, which would have graduated me at 15, then I was first in my class for four years and got AP credit in English, European History, American History, French, and Latin. And an Independent study in the French symbolist poets. A year of Greek. Editor of the school newspaper, editor of the literary magazine, member of a newly organized School Council I had helped design (the Sixties, you know), and just barely a varsity letter in fencing. Offered a Yale National Scholarship. Turned it down for a Harvard Freshman Scholarship because… No money in either case what with White Privilege and all, and, of course, Harvard, who offered me sophomore standing. Big bucks saved there, except for the emotional toll of being younger than everyone at everything, especially girls. Until they zip you out of the place before you even know what happened to you.

I was a double major in English literature and history. In my three years there, I studied the whole of English lit in a one year immersion course, a full year of Shakespeare, modern poetry, Samuel Johnson, American lit, as well as Art History, the Impressionists, and Chinese, Japanese, German, and Roman history. And physics. And one more Latin course, lyric poets, three years after I’d stopped studying Latin. Graduated at 19. Cum laude General Studies because my English thesis offended the rising feminist wave. I dared to compare my own two favorite novelists of the 20th century, Virginia Woolf and F. Scott Fitzgerald, for the purpose of demonstrating a profound if not unequal difference in consciousness between the sexes. Wasn’t popular with the three female graders.

Took a year off to intern as a paralegal (for a Harvard lawyer who thought it was a typo I’d written 80 word essays in my applications to law school at Columbia, Georgetown, and somewhere else, maybe Virginia), and then decided to go to graduate business school at Cornell. Studied statistics, quantitative operations methods, computer programming, matrix algebra (i.e., linear programming), micro and macro economics, business policy in the Harvard B-school case study format, business law, personnel management, securities management, accounting, intermediate accounting, and advanced accounting.

In my last semester I decided not to get my MBA because I very much feared I would wind up a CPA. At the time I was in the top third of my class. I just didn’t want to do it.

So I took some time to think about it. Still wanted to be a writer. Signed up with a hometown newspaper during the bicentennial year and edited and wrote for a monthly publication about my County’s history in the Revolution, The Way It Used to Be. Then they wanted a reenactment of the epochal 1778 Skirmish at Quinton’s Bridge. Wrote all the copy, took all the photos (with a very nice camera btw) for a special edition of The Way It Used to Be, and arranged both for the creation of text road signs demarking the routes of colonials and Brits (still standing btw), and signed up and orchestrated the roles of the reenactment groups. Also did a full 2-page spread in the paper filling in the bits of the history, like the uniforms, weapons, soldier profiles, and legendary tales of the events. Which were exciting. Think Mad Anthony Wayne. We saved his ass from an elite Brit unit, the Queen’s Rangers. Salem boy with an axe chopped down the bridge under continuous enemy fire.

Even took a shot at investigative reporting when I realized state bureaucrats had effectively vandalized an important historic site by installing air conditioning units in the attic where British soldiers had massacred Quakers hiding from their vengeance. Saw it as a kid. Bloodstains on the floor. Then I saw those big Carrier units. Bloodstains obliterated. Never got any answers. Never got fired or praised either. They ran it on the front page. My only reward.

Then the Bicentennial went away and I found myself putting out a lame publication with nothing much left to say. Why I went kind of nuts. Had an old Underwood Standard typewriter. Told myself it was finally time to learn how to write. Gave up all pretense of doing my actual job and spent ten hours a day typing and retyping and retyping the same fictional paragraphs with the most minor of changes. [Committed a grievous sin the midst of all this. A local professor had written a not very good paperback book about the founding of the colony in the 17th century. I was supposed to process orders. I was egregiously negligent about doing so. He complained. I blew him off. Because I was learning how to write the right way.]

Lessons in all of this. Education in all of this. Organizing Bicentennial events taught me how to make things happen, even in a sleepy town where people think someone else is always going to do the work. Learning how to write was also the process of learning how to work, hard, which doesn’t come as easily to people for whom so much has come so easily on the intellectual front. I went through a period where I looked up every single word I wrote in the dictionary. Every single one.

Finally, I learned the hardest lesson of all. Screwing up, disappointing people who are only tangentially dependent on you, is a sin. I decided it was time for me to grow up.

Took a job as a proofreader at a nuclear engineering firm.

Another key nugget or two of education. Learned how to rewrite technical letters by Russian, Indian, and clumsy Americans so that they came in and asked, “How did you know what I was trying to say?” I had an intuitive knack for it.

Why, I suppose, my boss at the time got tired of proofreaders changing each other’s comma choices back and forth. She directed me to prepare a “Comma Seminar,” explaining once and for all what the rules of commas were.

Sometimes, you see, being asked to teach is its own process of education. That single assignment completed my education in the most important basics of writing.

I moved on again. Joined Datapro Research Corporation as an associate editor of the Word Processing and Office Information Systems services. The hiring editor scoffed at my business school programming course and said, “We always have two paths in the road here. We can hire computer jocks who can be taught how to write. Or we can hire liberal arts majors who can be taught about computers.” She grinned. “I know which one you are.”

Didn’t take long before I was packed off to weeklong seminars called, creatively, Data Communications I and Data Communications II, where we learned some nuts and bolts about packet switching, and what modems do, and how it results in characters on somebody’s screen.

That wasn’t the end of it, though. Two more key parts of the process. In those days, IBM was almost the entire landscape of the computer industry. Each week they published about 200 pages of product updates, which we had to read for about two hours a day, from beginning to end. It was analogous to going to law school. You’d get grilled about the meaning of an IBM statement: “What are they saying here?” You’d look at it again and say, “They’re saying it can do this.” Knuckles rapped. “They’re saying we’re not saying it can’t do that, which is completely different.”

We also had to use, uh, play with the products, which we got for free to test. I wrote the first Datapro product review of the Apple MacIntosh. What do you say about something so new and different? Time to man up, be honest, have confidence in what you’ve learned. I said it was great.

Serendipitously, it was the Datapro fun and games with new computers that finally set me free as a writer. I discovered — all of a sudden — that whereas I had been slow and plodding as a writer on my Underwood, I was able to write at lightning speed on a microprocessor-powered CRT. Bingo.

Very very quick postgraduate course at Datapro. And then it was off to the Fortune 100 corporate world for the next phase of my education.

You think you’re finally starting your real career. All you’re doing is acquiring the next phase of your education

Going back in time from Dogs of the Rings…

The Supreme Council of Wizards decides. It's time to bring on the confrontation with evil. We can start by making the hobbitses start carrying their own weight. For the first time ever.

The Supreme Council of Wizards decides. It’s time to bring on the confrontation with evil. We can start by making the hobbitses start carrying their own weight. For the first time ever. We’re going to need gold, frankincense, and magic.

Bilbo lived in the Shire.

image

In a hobbit house.

image

Which is when Gandalf the Grey shows up.

image

The idea is an adventure. With a bunch of dwarves.

Got to get to where the gold is. Dragon. Named Smaug.

Got to get to where the gold is. Guarded by a dragon. Named Smaug.

Bilbo was all for it. Where, when, and how high he asked.

image

The dwarves provided Bilbo with his own war steed. “This is all going to be so great,” Bilbo said.

Name of Happy.

Name of Happy.

On the way out of the Shire, though, the dwarves and Bilbo encountered an obstruction.

"We are the mothers of the Shire. We beg you not to venture into the cruel cruel outside world of Mother Earth."

“We are the mothers of the Shire. We beg you not to venture into the cruel cruel outside world of Middle Earth.”

“Hmmmm,” thought Bilbo. And sat down to think about it. Then, with hobbits-esque logic, he said, “Gotta go. Big guy said so.”

Whereupon the image of the Mothers of the Shire transformed.

"We are the wolves of the high spirit. We are warning you to save you. Ignore us at your peril."

“We are the wolves of the high spirit. We are warning you to save you. Ignore us at your peril.”

QED.

QED.

We were talking about jazz. My wife doesn’t like jazz. She likes the blues, she thinks. I’ve been blues before she knew who Robert Johnson was. She’s mad I said that. But I live for everything people know nothing about. Honest to God.

Stones did it too.

We’re going to live till Keith dies.

Yeah. It is. Over.

You know about the boys.

Rikki and Samuel

Rikki and Samuel

And the girls.

Iris and Raven.

Iris and Raven.

Did you know about the fraternal boys? Bigshots on the bed?

Elliott and Raebert. Cut from the same exact cloth.

Elliott and Raebert. Cut from the same exact cloth.

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We’ll get by.


“It is better to look good than to feel good.”

I’m thinking they’re going to understand this post.

I’m thinking they understand the term bulletheads. Old, bald, muscular, and active. Whereas I am still this.

I'm older and younger than most of you. Mostly, people my age look like insurance executives. They might outlive me, but they've paid a heavy price.

I’m older and younger than most of you. Mostly, people my age look like insurance executives. They might outlive me, but they’ve paid a heavy price.


But the irony is that I seem to have paid a heavier price than the bulletheads. My knees don’t work. How did that happen? They weigh somewhere between 180 and 220. I weigh 141 pounds. Their pictures show them para-sailing, water skiing, playing rugby, and tussling with grandkids. I’ve done all those things and a bunch more, but I guess I used it all up.

I still have hair. But now I’m wishing I was a bullethead.

God bless you all. Love talking with you guys. My Harley is cloaked in cobwebs. So is my Yamaha 250. I can just barely get into my Toyota MR2. Talking with you guys is the only way I stay alive.

Turns out that Strider is really Aragorn, King of Gondor.

Turns out that Strider is really Aragorn, King of Gondor.

Where were we?

So King Theoden was under the thumb of Wormtongue.

King Theoden in a bad way.

King Theoden in a bad way.

Then Gandalf shows up, renewed and Christ-like, to save the day by, what, effulging or something in glowing white.

Gandalf the White

Gandalf the White

Wherewith, Theoden is restored…

I am newly committed to kicking ass.

I am newly committed to kicking ass.

So we win the battle of Helm’s Deep, and then we go to Gondor with our new version of Strider, meaning Aragorn (see pic above), and when it looks like we’re just about to lose, he brings out the ghost army.

We win. Hooray.

We win. Hooray.

Rohan safe. Gondor safe. Meanwhile…

Remember these guys?

Frodo

Frodo

Samwise

Samwise

Gollum

Gollum

And the Ring.

There’s a close call with a giant black widow called Shelob-Bra. Really really nasty nasty one.

She grabs Frodo and then she starts shrieking. She will definitely kill him.

She grabs Frodo and then she starts shrieking. She will definitely kill him.


But Samwise tells her she’s just an annoying bitch and tells her to STFU. Which works. Road to Mordor ensured.

Samwise

Samwise

Which is how how Samwise basically saved the entire universe from Mordor, Sauron, and the usual idiots who think they know better than garden variety garden varieties.

The Ring.

The Ring.

Totally destroyed. To-tall-ee. In the Cracks of Doom.

The Cracks of Doom.

The Cracks of Doom.

And then there’s Aragorn to take credit for all of it. Why they call the last 300 pages “Return of the King.”

Okay. He's a king.

Okay. He’s a king.

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The Harvard Glee Club. Saw them blow away the Princeton Diversity Chorus a few years ago. Some things men do better.

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