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Eight years ago next month, Tom, Carey, and I loaded up Tom’s truck, my car, and Carey’s car with suitcases full of clothes; Rubbermaid containers full of bedding, power cords, school supplies, and toiletries; a computer; a stereo; a small refrigerator; and Carey’s bike before heading out to Lawrence to get her settled in the dorms for her freshman year at the University of Kansas. Like any other parent  moving his or her oldest off to college for the first time, I oscillated between feelings of elation and sadness. I was happy for Carey to be starting off on new adventures but sad because it felt very much like we were writing the first page of the last chapter of our lives with the kids as “kids.”

I distinctly remember noticing the Lawrence City Limit sign as we got to the edge of town that hot, muggy August afternoon and taking solace in the thought that we’d be making the trek to Lawrence for a long time to come. The way I figured it, Carey would be out there for at least four years and then Brian would be for at least another three or four after that. Geez. That would be nearly a decade by the time all was said and done. What was I being all gloomy about? It was going to be a long time before we would finish the chapter.

A long time, indeed. Last night, we wrote the final sentence when we moved the last load of Brian’s mountainous pile of stuff (I’m fighting the urge to use the word “crap” here) back home to Kansas City. I won’t lie. I did tear up a bit as we drove out of town. I reminisced about that hot August day eight years before and thought about all the fun times we’d had in Lawrence with both kids. Then I remembered what awaited me at home.

For the last three years, Brian has lived in a two-bedroom house with a two-car garage. During that time, he has amassed…well, he has amassed quite a collection of household goods, including–but not limited to–a queen-size bed, a large desk with an oversize desk chair, two TVs, stereo equipment, a washer and dryer, a side-by-side refrigerator, a small dorm-size refrigerator, a kitchen table with four chairs, an assortment of end tables, enough small appliances and kitchen paraphernalia to put any new bride to shame, a huge rolling tool chest, an air compressor, a shop vac, and enough neon signs to open his own bar. He also has lots of toys: a half dozen wakeboards and snowboards with bindings and boots, video games and accessories, boxes of DVDs, and a wakeboard boat. Oh, and then there are his clothes. Brian doesn’t like to do laundry, so he developed the habit of buying new socks, underwear, and t-shirts when the ones he had were too stinky to wear. I’m pretty sure he could go a whole semester without doing laundry. At least, he should be able to; we hauled home six huge plastic bags crammed full of mostly dirty socks, underwear… I tell you all this only because it’s NOW ALL IN OUR GARAGE! Well, not all of it. We did stack the bags of clothes in his bedroom and the boat is at the repair shop for a new part.

Before the weekend is over, Brian should have it all moved to the storage locker he’s rented, so our cars should only have to sit out on the driveway for a few more nights–and, if I’m lucky–I won’t need a shovel, or a hammer, or any of our other tools because there’s not a snowball’s chance that I COULD GET TO ANY OF IT. Okay, deep breath.

Brian called just a little bit ago to let me know he’d completed the check-out process with the leasing agent, and all had gone well. He also admitted to being more than a bit sad about saying good-bye to his home of three years. According to him, his years on 24th Street “were a blast.” In fact, he said, his entire college experience “couldn’t have been any better.” Well, what more could a mom ask for… except maybe to GET THAT CRAP OUTTA THE GARAGE!

When I set up this blog back in April, I wrote on my About Me page that I was doing the blog because I found myself “at a professional crossroads, needing/wanting to write every day, and hoping [the venue would provide] both the motivation and the personal gratification [necessary] to keep me in my chair typing away.” And to an extent, I suppose, it has. I certainly enjoy writing for the blog, and I most definitely enjoy getting feedback from those of you who are reading it. But I had really hoped I would be a bit more dedicated to the whole endeavor than I have been and had expected I would post on a much more regular basis than I have up to now.

The truth is I’ve allowed myself to be easily distracted by anything and everything: laundry, errands, naps, housework, golf outings, emails, lunch with friends…did I mention naps? Very unsatisfactory and very unsatisfying. Guilt producing even. So, with the encouragement and advice of friends–old and new (you know who you are)–I’m approaching the whole exercise a bit differently. Instead of schlepping down to my office at any ol’ time of the day with bed-head, no make-up, and in whatever grubby garment was lying on the bottom of the closet, I’m getting up, showering, putting on my make believe, doing my hair, and making sure my rear end is in my office chair by 9 am every morning–Monday through Thursday–and staying in my chair until 3 pm. Really. Please note, I will still be going to lunch with friends (you really didn’t think I was going to give that up, did you?), but the rest of the distractions will have to wait until I’m “off work.” Really.

Besides continuing to post to Mary’d With Children, I will be writing posts for a new blog I’ve created called P.S. Wish You Were Here. The new blog is dedicated entirely to my travel adventures–past, present, and future–giving me an opportunity to marry two of my greatest passions: travel and writing. Between now and early November, I’ll take you along with me to the southernmost tip of Texas, the Colorado Rockies, Hawaii, and many locales right here in my own Kansas City backyard. I hope you will join me. I also hope you will tell your friends about my blogs. One of my goals is to dramatically increase my readership in the coming months. And please, share your comments with me along the way: what you enjoy reading about, what you’d rather not read about, where you’d like for me to explore and report back to you about… With any luck at all, someday I’ll grow up to be a professional (translated: paid) travel writer. We’ve all got to dream.

In celebration of an upcoming milestone birthday, Tom and I decided to head to the cooler climes of the Colorado Rockies for a little R&R. We did a bit of research individually and, after putting our notes and our heads together, settled on a small riverfront resort called Shelly’s Cottages a few miles northwest of Boulder. Nine cottages situated along 900 feet of the North St. Vrain River, each cottage offering a king-size bed, full kitchen, private hot tub, and “tranquility.” Oh, and no guests under the age of 13. According to the website, this policy does not reflect a dislike of children, rather a belief that adults need “a little time away from the stress of everyday life.” Sounds good. Explains “tranquility.” I don’t have a problem with kids, but sign me up.

Tom called the resort early on Sunday afternoon to make the reservation, but no one answered. He left a message with our home phone number requesting a call back. A very pleasant lady from the resort finally returned his call early the next afternoon and was more than happy to take our reservation. Although the cabin we had hoped to rent was no longer available, several others, including one similar to our original choice, were still available on the dates we wanted; however, she informed me with a bit of an edge in her voice, before she could take my reservation, I needed to be clear about their booking policy. And here’s where the whole thing started getting a bit strange.

First, to book a cabin, you must put down 50% of the total cost of your stay. We’ve stayed at lot of places, both mom-and-pop and corporate properties, but rarely do I recall having to put 50% down. When we have, the deposit was fully refundable up to a day or two before the arrival date. Not at Shelly’s. If we cancel more than 30 days out, the deposit–minus a $50 cancellation fee–is refundable. However, if we need to cancel less than 30 days from the date of our scheduled arrival, tough. They keep the whole deposit. In our case, we’re only staying a few nights, so it won’t break the bank if we should happen to cancel, but I would guess the cancellation policy is a deal killer for many guests, particularly those making reservations for an extended stay.

Second, before the reservation is complete, the prospective guest must go online, read The Policy, the same Policy that he or she has just been told over the phone. Then the guest must enter his or her confirmation number and click on the submit button, indicating that he or she agrees to and will abide by The Policy. The Policy includes, and I quote:

  • No smoking (no problem)
  • No pets (bummer, Teddy)
  • No children under 13 (a fact established earlier)
  • No visitors (Huh? Seriously, the website says, “To preserve the quiet and intimate setting, we do not allow additional guests or visitors on the property. There are pleanty [sic] of parks in the area that you can meet your family/friends for BBQs or get-togethers.” When told about this particular policy, Tom wanted to know if we also have a curfew. Makes you wonder.)

Still the website is rife with complimentary comments and recommendations from previous guests. Plus, the setting looks really beautiful. Tranquil and beautiful. At minimum, our experiences there should be fodder for future postings. But, I must remember to leave my docking station and Tom’s squeaky tennis shoes at home. Shhhhhh. Seriously. Keep it down!

I’ve been thinking for the last several weeks that it’s time to do an update on Teddy, fill you in on how he’s doing. Problem is there’s so too much to tell in one posting. Several times, I’ve started writing, but I quickly become overwhelmed with the amount of information I want to share. Before long, I’m cutting, pasting, and erasing what I’ve written, staring at the screen in frustration. Then this afternoon, I got the bright idea of doing a bulleted list, just like I used to create in my old technical writing days. I’ll still not be able to tell you all the wonderful ways in which Teddy has brightened our lives in one posting, but it feels manageable this way, so here goes:

  • I’m confident saying Teddy loves Tom, me, and the rest of the regulars around here as much as we love him. He fits into our family and our lives like it was all meant to be. And it was, I have no doubt.
  • Teddy has the most expressive eyes and the sweetest little wrinkly face. He uses both to his full advantage. Knowingly. With no apologies. I’m toast.


    Teddy vogue-ing for the camera

  • After more x-rays, discussions with his vet, and a consultation with a physical therapist, the general consensus is that Teddy’s left front leg doesn’t work properly because of damage to the brachial plexus (the network of nerves that conducts signals from the spine to the shoulder, arm, and paw) in that limb. Possibly the result of falling from a vehicle or from a high place such as a porch. The physical therapist does not recommend professional physical therapy at this time, nor does she recommend–for multiple reasons–putting Teddy in a brace (much to Tom’s dismay), but she does hold out slim hope (since we don’t know how long ago the limb was hurt) that the damaged nerves may one day start firing again. She has also suggested that we try to get him to put weight on that paw when he is standing by pulling the paw to the ground. We know the poor little guy feels pain (or at least some discomfort) in that limb because he tucks it up tightly to his torso and licks it incessantly when he hasn’t had the daily dose of  his pain med–which we withheld a couple of times on purpose to see how he, and the limb, reacted. Otherwise, he lets his left paw hang freely to the ground and occasionally uses it as a kickstand. On a happy note, Tom is beginning to have a bit of success at getting Teddy to shake with that paw.
  • Our initial assumption that Teddy’s status as a three-wheeling pup would mean no need to have a fence was wrong, wrong, wrong. We have several companies coming next week to give us an estimate.
  • Teddy does have a voice. For the first three weeks he lived here, we heard little more than a whispery “woof” on the few occasions when someone new entered the house, but all that changed after he spent time with Carey and Austin’s dog, Otis. Otis taught Teddy to voice his opinions and concerns boldly to all within earshot. Teddy’s still not what you would call a “barker,” but he’s more than happy to let you know when someone is passing in front of the house or when he’s none too happy with you for leaving him behind when everyone else is getting in the car to leave.


    Teddy and Otis guarding the homestead

  • The ear infections Teddy had when he came to live with us are all cleared up. Finally. The vet says he’ll be prone to them thanks to the Shar Pei in his lineage. What that means for Teddy is he goes to the vet every two weeks for a bath and to have his ears irrigated. He doesn’t seem to mind either procedure all that much, but he’s none too happy about the scarf the groomer puts on him when it’s all over–especially the sissy-colored ones.
  • Probably as a result of a lifetime of untreated ear infections, Teddy is hard of hearing. Not stone deaf, but dang close. Of course, there are those occasions when I would swear his lack of response is more a matter of selective hearing than non-hearing (learned behavior from the other males in this house?), but I have no way to prove it, and he knows it.
  • Teddy loves to ride in the car, and he practically wets himself at the thought of getting to ride in the truck. His cruising stance of choice in the truck is to stand on the flat surface in the back–created when we fold down the back seats–and then to lie across the large console between the two front seats, gimpy paw in the cup holder for stability, ears flapping in the breeze created by the air conditioner. He can get into all three vehicles without help, but does need to be lifted down out of the truck. No worries, as long as the shapely, little lhaso apso across the street isn’t watching. When he rides in my car, he likes it when I keep the windows down, the stereo turned up, and my hand on the shifter, so he can use my wrist and forearm as a chin rest and drool catcher. He hates it when we come to a light and I have to shift.
  • Teddy is also quite happy to lie at my feet–actually on my feet–here in my office as I write. He’s there now, snoring and farting. Which brings me to…
  • Teddy has a very temperamental tummy. Again, because of the Shar Pei in his background, the vet warned us he would probably have a sensitive digestive tract, and he does. That would be no problem–we’re happy to feed him the salmon and rice dog food recommended by the vet–but, although Teddy ate the fish diet without complaining for the first several weeks, he grew tired of eating the same food every day and refused to eat even a nibble of the stuff after a while. He is both strong-willed and hard-headed, so, of course, I blinked first and got him some other food to eat. Oh, happy dog. A different dog food every other day. And then, because he wasn’t eating the sensitive formula dog food anymore and was doing just fine, we mistakenly reasoned that we might be able to give him…well…give him just a taste of…of bacon bits…of a little baloney and cheese…a nibble of leftover chicken…it can’t hurt. Right? Oh, man. Last night we came back after being gone for a couple of hours and knew immediately when we opened the door that something was wrong. Teddy was uncharacteristically curled up in the laundry room and the house smelled like something had died. Sure enough, the poor little guy had made a mess in our bathroom. An hour or so later, he began dancing again, and I raced him into the backyard. He was a man on a mission and went racing in front of me out into the darkness. When he got about 20 yards from the back of the house, I couldn’t see him, but I heard an explosive sound I typically associate with big burly guys who have been eating hot dogs and drinking beer all afternoon. All I could think as I raced toward him was, That poor little thing just blew his bottom off. It must have un-nerved Teddy, too, because he took off for the back of the yard as fast as his legs would carry him with me in high-speed pursuit, hoping every step of the way that I wouldn’t step in the aftermath of the explosion. After two additional middle-of-the-night excursions into the darkness (me looking lovely in my nightgown and flip flops), Teddy’s tummy seems to finally have settled and Tom and I are in complete agreement that Teddy will never again eat people food.
  • And finally, I must confirm something Marie, Teddy’s foster grandmother, told me the day I picked Teddy up from her house: Teddy is extremely modest. Given the opportunity, Teddy will go as far to the back of the yard to conduct his business as he possibly can–to the point of pooping on the neighbors fence out beyond the bog on the back property line. If he can get behind a bush or a tree, all the better. Whatever you do, don’t look. He hates that.

Seriously, put the camera down and come feed me!

And now, I must stop, but I will tell Teddy tales again soon. I’ve got a million of ’em.

“Hi, I’m calling to enroll in the Basic Cooking Skills classes—all four of them. I’d like to enroll my husband, too.”

“Great! Have either of you taken classes here before?”

“Well, my husband hasn’t, but I took a cookie baking class about a year ago.”

“So neither of you has taken the Basic Knife Skills class?”

I was afraid she was going to ask me this, “Ummm, No.”

“Well, we do recommend that you take the Basic Knife Skills class before starting the Basic Cooking Skills series.”

Nuts. I’d read this in the course catalog, but I really didn’t want to pay $120 for the two of us to take a class on how to use a knife. I mean, come on. A knife? Maybe a food processor, but a knife? So I opted to play dumb. “Really? Do we have to take the Basic Knife Skills class before we can enroll in the others?”

She wasn’t going to give me a break. “Truthfully, you don’t have to, but we strongly recommend it,” she said patiently and with great emphasis on the words “have to” and “strongly.”

Rats. Time to come clean. “Yes, I read that in the catalog, but I was hoping to just jump right into the cooking courses. You see, we’re both well over 40 and have been using knives for years. It seems a bit unnecessary.”

“Yes, ma’am. Most people feel that way. But I promise you won’t be sorry if you take the class.”

Big sigh. Not wanting to have a black mark next to my name before ever even starting the classes, I enrolled us in the stupid Basic Knife Skills class.

Crazy, but true, it’s one of the smartest things I ever did.

For years, my mother had been giving me the business about my dull knives. She lived on the other side of the continent by then and wasn’t in my kitchen often, but when she was, she’d mention the inadequacy of my knives every time she cooked with me. I couldn’t figure out what the big deal was. I managed to put meals—facile meals, but meals—on the table with those knives every single day of the year for twenty-some years. Why couldn’t she just suck it up and use them without giving me such a hard time?

Why, indeed. Once I took the Basic Knife Skills class, I understood why, and I marveled that Mom hadn’t been more militant about the whole thing than she was. Ye gods, she showed restraint!

The course description of the Basic Knife Skills class read, “Any chef or serious cook will tell you there is no substitute for proper knife skills as the foundation for all other cooking skills.” In hindsight, all I can say is, “Amen.” And after taking the class, I would go one step further and add, more specifically, there is no substitute for the right sharp knife, either. For me that knife is a Wüsthof 6½ inch Santuko knife, a knife I learned about in class that night. I seriously can’t cook without it or, at least, without something comparable.

Need an onion diced up? No sweat (and usually only a few tears). With my beloved Santuko and the techniques I learned in the class, I can dice up an onion—or any other veggie or piece of fruit, for that matter—without any drama whatsoever. That was not true BTC (before the class). BTC, it routinely took me way too much time to prepare the ingredients for something as simple as a stew or a salad. Not surprisingly, I often went to great lengths to avoid preparing certain dishes all together just because I didn’t want to go to the hassle of cutting up all the ingredients. Even worse, when I was truly desperate, I would resort to the more expensive and way-less-nutritious option of buying the already-cut-up-and-frozen versions of the ingredients. How silly.

Today, I can mince garlic, dice red peppers and tomatoes, chop carrots and fennel, slice avocados and mushrooms, and chiffonade basil without thinking very hard or spending much time doing it. I have found I truly enjoy the time I spend standing at my cutting board, mincing, dicing, chopping, and slicing. Even though I have since purchased a number of other kitchen gadgets designed to help me cut up ingredients, I still, more often than not, reach for my Santuko.

And I love using words like “chiffonade” and “Santuko.” Tossing the word “chiffonade” into a sentence makes me sound like I know what I doing in the kitchen, even when I don’t (which is often). It impresses my non-foodie friends and gives me the confidence to try new things with food that I would never have attempted BTC.

Today, I live in my kitchen and love experimenting with new recipes and new foods. I’m mortified to think I might not ever have expanded my vocabulary nor my culinary horizons had I insisted on skipping that one class or had I failed to treat myself to the one kitchen gadget I now know is essential to any serious cook.

The woman on the other end of the phone that day was right. The Basic Knife Skills class was a game changer for me. I will be forever grateful. But you must excuse me now. My roasted vegetable ragù is ready to come out of the oven.

My husband, son, and I recently drove across Minnesota from Fargo (why we were in Fargo is another story) to Duluth on our way to a wedding on the North Shore of Lake Superior. The North Shore is incredible—worthy of multiple postings—as was the wedding we attended, and, when I sat down, I initially intended to write about those experiences, but I keep being drawn back into childhood memories. Memories triggered by the sights and smells along the windy, two-lane highways we traveled that day.

When I was a kid, my family went up to Minnesota every summer to visit my grandparents who lived on Lake Osakis, a small lake roughly 120 miles northwest of the Twin Cities. Grandma and Grandpa’s house sat between a dirt road and the shore of the lake, facing the water. Behind them, on the other side of the road were farm fields and the loveliest dairy farm with a big white barn. The barn was the sign my little sister and I looked for to tell us when we were almost to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Unfortunately for us—and our parents—there were a lot of white barns between Kansas City and my grandparents’ place, and my sister made sure to ask, “Is that the barn?,” every time she saw one.

Mom and me on one of my first trips to Lake Osakis

Mom and me on one of my first trips to Lake Osakis

During those vacations, we’d typically spend early mornings and sometimes late afternoons out on the glass-like lake with Grandpa, fishing for crappie on the Rock Pile or for sunfish in the reeds near the outlet. It was a special treat when my sister and I got to go fishing with Grandpa by ourselves. No parents. Not as many rules. He would sing silly songs and teach us off-colored poems such as, “Mr. Martin went a fartin’…” He’d patiently bait our hooks and take fish off our lines, swat mosquitoes and endure our own feeble attempts at humor—all with a smile and a deep, raspy chuckle. He didn’t even yell at us when we’d hook him trying to get our lines back in the water.

After lunch—and the obligatory hour we were told was necessary to let our food digest—Grandpa and Dad would head off to work on some project while Grandma and Mom retired to the lawn furniture under the shade trees to watch my sister and me leap off the dock into the sandy-bottomed lake and thrash around in the water chasing minnows. When our skin was good and prune-y and/or our mom couldn’t stand to hear us yell, “Watch me!,” one more time, she would make us get out, and we’d start scavenging around in the sand for any treasures that might have washed up onto the beach since our last search. Grandma would go up to the house and bring back a tray of cookies and lemonade, and we’d all enjoy a snack.

Later, after we were dried off and dressed, my sister and I would grab a handful of the pennies Grandma would have stockpiled just for our visit, and we’d walk the quarter mile up the dirt road to the tiny grocery store at Wells Wood Resort to buy penny candy. Sometimes, Grandma would send quarters and dimes and ask us to bring back a loaf of bread or can of evaporated milk. While we were at the resort, we would check out the license plates of the cars parked around the cabins to see where the guests had come from. We were especially pleased when we’d find another car from Missouri.

In the evening, my parents, grandparents, sister, and I would sit down at the kitchen table to a meal that was, more often than not, caught and filleted earlier that day. My favorite meal was when Grandma fried crappie fillets in beer batter and served them with her made-from-scratch hush puppies and homemade applesauce sprinkled with red hots. As we ate, sunburned and exhausted from our busy day, we would look out through the huge picture window at the end of the table, watching the egrets settling along the shore and the sun setting across the lake. Grandpa always had a story or joke to tell.

Sunset over Lake Osakis

Sunset over Lake Osakis

If we had any energy left at all after the dishes were washed and put away, we would take our dessert out onto the patio and sit in the glider to gaze at the stars…at least, that is until the lake flies and bird-size mosquitoes drove us back indoors. Then it was off to the showers. Back then, neither my sister nor I understood why we had to take showers when we’d been in the water all afternoon, but in hindsight, I’m sure we smelled like the bottom of a bait bucket. We didn’t care.

After talking Grandma out of one more snack, my sister and I would finally fall into bed—totally spent—with the sounds of the grown-ups out at the kitchen table playing cards or dominos to lull us to sleep.

Bright and early the next morning, we would be up, ready to get back out on the lake and do it all over again. It was heavenly.

Tom, Brian, and I are on the road. Well, technically we’re not on the road at the moment. Brian is out with some of his buddies, and Tom and I are in a hotel…in Fargo, North Dakota. Why we’re here is irrelevant to this particular posting, so I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, Fargo is really a lovely city–really, it is–and we’re having a great time.

We rolled into town around 3:00 this afternoon. Brian wasn’t meeting up with his friends until 4:00, so we decided to use the time to run a couple of errands: fill the car with gas, fill Brian with food and drink, etc. Errands which required getting out of the car and walking around in public places. Places where lots of other people were also out walking around. Places where other people were possibly watching me out walking around.

After we finished our errands, we returned to the hotel so Brian could change his clothes. As I got out of the car, I noticed a raisin smashed on the seat of the car where I had been sitting. A raisin from the trail mix we’d been noshing on off and on since early that morning. Hmmm. This was bad. This was very bad. All day long, I’d been prancing around in my white capris, sequined turquoise sandals with matching purse, and kicky turquoise T-shirt, pleased with myself that for once I wasn’t dressed like a bag lady for our long car ride. But a raisin! A smashed raisin and white capris! It doesn’t take much imagination or many brain cells to picture the outcome of those two objects meeting under pressure.

My mind raced as I spun in circles in the parking lot trying to see my rear end: When did I drop the raisin? Was any of it still stuck to my keister? Did anyone see? Was it situated on the car seat so it was right under a butt cheek or –please, dear god– could it have possibly been between my legs? Maybe it didn’t leave a stain at all! Oh, please! Please, don’t let there be a stain!

Dizzy from chasing my tail, I finally bent over with my ass pointing directly at Brian and moaned, “Do I have raisin smashed on my butt?” The poor kid. That’s an image I’m sure he wasn’t anxious to have burned onto his retinas. Nor, I’m sure, was he anxious to tell me that, yes, in fact, I did have a rather ugly-looking splotch in the most inconvenient of places. ARGHHHHH!

That’s what I get for getting tarted up and being smug about it. Hubris. Gets you every time.

An hour or so later, after Brian was off on his adventure, Tom went down to the lobby to get us a copy of the local newspaper. Any embarrassment I was still feeling over the afternoon’s humbling was immediately vanquished (or at least overshadowed) when I scanned the front page of The Fargo-Morehead Forum he brought back upstairs with him.

Under the headline: “ARREST ENDS 9-HOUR S. FARGO STANDOFF” were two pictures. One showed a man, Leonard Ritter, waving a cigarette around in the air while pointing his finger at and defiantly back-talking members of the local SWAT team (after shooting at and flattening one of the tires on their law enforcement robot, I might add). I share the picture here:

Before Tazer

The second picture shows poor ol’ doodie-for-brains Leonard being tased into premature–albeit temporary–rigor mortis by the same SWAT team, a SWAT team that had clearly had enough of Leonard’s shit:


I doubt Leonard was having many coherent thoughts at the moment of his tasing, but one would hope that at some point after he gets over the shock of the whole affair (yuck, yuck) he thinks something along the lines of, “Holy crap. That didn’t turn out so well. Maybe I should reconsider my current policy of copping an attitude with police officers wearing military camoflauge and carrying automatic rifles.”

Okay, okay. He probably won’t, but…

My first thought after looking at the pictures was this: Leonard’s lucky he lives in Fargo, North Dakota, instead of a bigger city. Police officers in a larger, meaner metropolitan area probably would have shot Leonard and his cocky attitude with real bullets as soon as he fired at the robot. Like I said, Fargo’s a lovely city. You really should visit sometime.

In any case, I’ve learned my lesson. We can only hope Leonard has learned his.

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