Archive for November, 2010

After Breakfast, Off to Happily Ever After

Posted in Bad Pulp Fiction, NaBloPoMo on November 30, 2010 by tom

Madame Teal beeped The Facility’s activity van unlocked. Ginger Sister climbed into the passenger seat; The Stranger and Lindsay got into the middle bench seat, and Kelly Vision made her way to the back, where Tabitha was curled up, apparently asleep.

“Tabby?” Kelly asked softly, as Madame Teal started the engine and pulled out of the Denny’s parking lot.

Tabitha looked up with tear tracks down her cheeks. 

“I was so scared back there.  When you and Ginger shot the Cheneymonster, and it was just paintballs. And we thought Tom Arnold was a bad guy.  And he had Lindsay, then Steve Hitler was there.”

“Steve Hitler?” Kelly asked.

“Yeah.. He was in my year at Minion School.”

“Just in the equivalent of Slytherin?”

Tabitha smiled.  “Yup.”

Kelly pulled her minion into a tender hug. “You don’t have to worry about me, Tabby.  I’m not going anywhere.”

“If anything happened to you…” Tabitha cried.

Kelly gently kissed her minion’s head.

“I’m going to have to resign, Ms Vision.”


“I’m just not cut out to be a minion,” she replied.  “I’m supposed to stop with minionly adoration and obedience, but…”

“But what?” Kelly looked down at her minion’s lovely brown eyes.  “Tabby?”

“But I love you, Kelly Vision.  I’m not satisfied just being—“

Kelly stopped Tabitha’s words with a kiss.  “You’re fired.” Kelly gently brushed the hair back from her former minion’s face.  “However, there’s another position that might interest you.”

In the middle seat, Lindsay was asleep with her head resting upon The Stranger’s shoulder.  He stared out the windshield, a mischievous smile on his face, but that’s just the mask.  Beneath the mask, he had a look that said, “Holy crap, there’s a hot, troubled, 20-something redhead asleep on my shoulder, and holding my hand.  And I’m no longer talking in rhymes, not since Babe Ruth smited the whining hippie, which was before he, Keith Richards, Elvis, and Bob Ross took Tom Arnold off to Valhalla with a Seraphim named Burt.”

A beep came from Madame Teal’s leather jacket.  She touched her Tealtooth Headset.

“Go…Okay…Great! Thanks Parsley.”

Ginger Sister looked over wearily.  “Everything okay?”

“Yep.  Parsley said my new minion arrived.  Mr Del Fuego lacked durability, so I had him removed.  When I get home, I’ll be test-driving Razhul.  Should be interesting.”

Ginger looked out the window.  She scratched Sam behind the ears, as he lay asleep in her lap. “And I’m minionless,” she lamented to herself.  “Poor sculpted Dmitri.  Who knew he’d be such a wuss?”

Sam opened one eye, and replied in Sinatra’s voice. “Hell, toots. I did.”

Ginger laughed ruefully.  “Well, thanks for telling me.”

Madame Teal signaled and turned into The Facility.  “We’re here. Kel, Ginger, Tabitha, Sam? You all say your goodbyes, then get into the Lamborghini.  I’ll take care of the memory modifications and meet you there.”

She parked next to the big Italian SUV.  “Let’s wrap this up.”

The team climbed out of the activity van.  Kelly walked up and hugged Lindsay.  “I’m so proud of you, honey.  Keep up the good work, keep getting better.  We love you!”

Lindsay hugged her back. “Love you too, Kel.”

Kelly hugged The Stranger, “Thank you for your help, whoever you are.”

Ginger handed Sam to Kelly, then hugged The Stranger as well.  “You helped save my best-friend’s life, and I’ll be forever grateful.”

The Stranger smiled for real beneath the mask. “It was a pleasure to meet you.  I hope this won’t be the last time.”

Ginger and Lindsay fell into a wet, sobby hug. 

“I love you so much, Linds.  Get better soon.”

“I will, Gingie.  Thanks for coming for me.”

“Always, honey.  You know that.”

Lindsay took The Stranger’s hand, and they walked through the broken glass of the French doors.  The Stranger stopped and looked out at the hovering Kzinti Mark Two Desert Cruiser.  Standing behind it was a small woman in a yellow shirt.  The woman was watching intently, and had intelligent eyes behind her glasses, like she knew exactly what had been happening the whole time, through all the madness.  The Stranger pulled out his keys and tossed them to the woman lurking in the shadows.  “Keep it,” he said.  The woman climbed into the Mark Two, fired up the core reactor, and drove off into the night without a word.

 Having finished her work inside, Madame Teal walked out.  She smacked The Stranger and Lindsay on the ass as she passed.  “You two keep each other safe.  Godspeed.”

Madame Teal climbed into the Lamborghini.  Kelly and Tabitha, her former minion, were entangled in the back seat.  Ginger sat in the passenger seat holding Sam, who had his paw over his eyes.  “I’m sorry about your minion.  I fried one’s brain before I came.” She blushed.  “I mean, before I apparated and appeared at the hangar.  You’ll find someone.”

Ginger smiled.

The Lamborghini SUV roared into the night, and quickly returned the team to their private hangar. 

“Everybody out,” Madame Teal commanded.  Sam bounded out to make another adorable mess on the tarmac.  Ginger stretched as she got out.  Kelly and Tabitha were blushy as they got out of the back seat. 

“It has been so nice working with you ladies again,” said Madame Teal.  She hugged Ginger Sister, then Kelly Vision, and then Tabitha.  Sam was still outside ensuring the crap minion’s job security.  “It was fun, Sam,” she called.  “See you soon! Parsley says hi.”

The Reverend Jim from Taxi replied, “Thank you Madame.  Uhhhh, tell Parsley I said hello.”

Madame Teal laughed, waved good-bye, turned on the spot, and was gone. 

Sam came back in, a pound or two of bacon lighter. 

“Well, girls? It’s been fun,” said Cary Grant.  “We managed to save Lindsay, temporarily get rid of Cheneymonster, and just generally kick-ass.  Plus, Elvis paid for breakfast.  I can’t wait to get home.  I have a month’s worth of Criminal Minds and Lie to Me on the lair’s DVR.”  He looked at Kelly Vision and Tabitha, blushingly holding hands.  “It looks like I’ll finally be left alone to watch my shows in peace.”

“SAM!” said Kelly.

Ginger Sister’s face was a difficult emotions combo platter: happy for Kelly finding love, relieved that Lindsay is safe, sad that Dmitri turned out to be made of well-sculpted wussiness. 

Kelly sensed her friend’s pain, came up and hugged her.  “I’m sorry, Gingie.  Let’s go home.  You’ll find someone.  I promise.”  Ginger smiled, and started up the Vision Jet stairway.  “But when,” she asked herself.

 She was almost to the top, when there came a rumble from the hangar below.  There was a loud pop, and a sudden influx of mist surrounding a blue box.  The door to the box opened, and an odd man peered out.

“THERE you are, Ginger Sister,” said the man in a slightly Scottish UK accent.  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere and everywhen.  Let’s go, already! We have missions to accomplish, but for tonight, there’s a jacuzzi and champagne!!”

Ginger looked at the man in the blue box.  She smiled, turned around, smacked Tabitha and Kelly on the ass, and laughed.  “Later, my lovely bitches!”  She bounded down the stairs, and headed off to happily ever after.



More NASA Awesomeness, Less Dumb Crap

Posted in NaBloPoMo on November 29, 2010 by tom


I love this photograph (taken from It brings to mind Boston’s eponymous debut, with the giant guitar spaceships. Except these lack necks. And these are real. 

To me, the galaxies look like they’re captured in some sort of motion, giant star frisbees waiting for some 25,000 light-year tall border collie to fetch.

Ah well. Just my idea. Happy Monday.

Au Revoir Beloved Immortals

Posted in Bad Pulp Fiction, NaBloPoMo on November 28, 2010 by tom

The Sultan of Swat took a bite of his ham the same way a normal mortal would tuck into a chicken wing, the “drummette” part that looks like a miniature drumstick, only without the tendons.

“Tasty!” opined the Babe, shaking a big glurp of mayonnaise onto the ham.

At the end of the table, Lindsay started crying softly.  Ginger Sister went over and put her arms around her friend. 

“Linds? Honey? What’s wrong?”

“It’s all just hitting me.  Cheneymonster tracking me down, Frankenberry, then seeing you and Kel and Sam.  I guess I realize how much bad there is in the world, but good too.”

The Stranger peeled off  his left glove, and took Lindsay’s hand.  She squeezed it, like she’d never let go.

There was a flash of fire, and a Seraphim named Burt appeared, handing a folded note to Bob Ross. 

“Well, friends,  it looks like we need to get back.  You too, Tom Arnold.” 

Elvis reached into the pocket of his jeweled jumpsuit and pulled out a Valhalla Express Zyprygnian Card, which he handed to the waitress.  She ran the card and returned with his receipt.  The King added a $1000 tip to the check and signed his name.

The King winked at the Maven. “That was some good gravy.  The Afterworld banned trans-fats, so I take ’em where I can get ’em.”

A young drunk couple was edging warily around the 7ft tall glowing angel.  Burt was everso tired of humans and their weak constitutions for the metaphysical.

“Buck up, humans.  I mean you no harm.” Burt gave his most reassuring angelic smile.  Somehow, this disconcerted Beth and Bradley even more.

“You’re…glowing,” Beth observed icily.  “That’s so weird.”

Burt’s divine patience was at an end–he’d been goggled-at in 306 different worlds and dimensions as he delivered his messages for the day.  (Being a Seraphim sucks some days)

“Fine, I might be glowing, but you’re pregnant, and he’s riddled with herpes, and lying about being divorced.  Now get out of my sight.” Burt smacked Beth on the ass.  There was an explosion of green sparks, and she  turned into an armadillo. 

Bradley looked at the armadillo he’d infected with herpes earlier, then looked up at Burt.  “Please don’t turn me into an armadillo.  Please! I beg you!”

The angel smiled down at Bradley beatifically.  “No, Bradley.  I promise not to turn you into an armadillo.”  Bradley sighed, grateful.  In one smooth motion, Burt grabbed Babe Ruth’s 52 oz hickory bat, pirouetted, and swatted Bradley in the ass.  He burst into non-being.

“Jesus, Joseph, Mary and the ass, kid!” said the Babe.  “That guy was a punk, but did you have to un-do him?”

Burt handed the bat back to the Sultan of Swat.  “That was actually an authorized smiting.  The Committee determined that Bradley Jones needed to be dispatched.”

“What’d he do?”

“He forwarded all manner of stupid e-mails, and didn’t hide or remove his friends’ addresses, causing them to be spammed, phished, et cetera.  Also, he parked in handicapped spots without authorization, and undertipped waitresses.”

“Dasdfj hanrawee mamwhae dasdf.”

“Yeah, me too, English guy.”.

Tom Arnold walked over to Lindsay.  “I guess this is so-long, Linds.”

Lindsay stood up and buried her face in Tom Arnold’s shoulder.  He held her, tenderly rubbing her back. 

“Look, honey.  We’ll still be friends.  We can still hang out.  The important thing is that you’re safe now.”  He kissed her head.  “And that you get better.”

She looked up into Tom Arnold’s face and smiled through her tears.

“Thank you so much, Tom.”

“I love you, kiddo,” he said.  “Take care of yourself.”

Lindsay turned to The Stranger, and buried her face in his shoulder.  He smiled mischievously, but that’s just because the mask is locked in that smile.  Beneath the mask, The Stranger’s face showed concern.

“I’ll go back there with you.  We’ll just tell them I’m Tom Arnold in a Guy Fawkes costume.”

Lindsay smiled and took The Stranger’s hand.

The Immortals came over to say their goodbyes.  They hugged Lindsay, Ginger, Kelly, and Madame Teal.  Keith Richards picked up Sam and kissed his nose.

“Baerrm aheenadkl ihuafhhjjkm lato kdk, Sammy. hahaha”

Sam barked excitedly.  “Mearbe pahd oewrh affdahbeon owerh.”

Keith Richards laughed.  “So long, mate.”

Burt touched each of the girls on her forehead.  They felt a shock of icy heat jolt through their bodies, down to their feet, then back to the forehead.

“Blessings be upon you,” Burt said solemnly. “Hey, Babe–leave the ham, okay?”

“Bah.  All right, you angel bastard.  Good night tootses and Sam and guy in a mask. See ya soon.”

Tom Arnold stood next to Burt, and The Immortals crowded around.  Bob Ross waved.  There was a swirling flash of fire, and they were gone.

The Stranger and Ginger Sister had their arms around Lindsay’s shoulders.  Madame Teal was busy modifying the other patrons’ memories, and Kelly picked-up Sam.  Any adrenaline the girls had was spent.

With her non-Sam hand, Kelly picked up Keith Richards’ near-empty Rebel Yell bottle and took a weary swallow. 

“Well, that was an interesting breakfast.”

Ginger took the bottle and drained it.  “You said it, Maven.  Let’s head home.”

The friends walked outside, leaving  Dmitri behind, curled in a fetal position beneath the table.

“Nice one, Gingie.  You broke another minion,” Kelly Vision laughed.

They piled into The Facility’s activities van, and drove off into the night, their mission of mercy almost complete.

The Tom Zone Mailbag

Posted in NaBloPoMo on November 27, 2010 by tom

Dear tom,

You read an awful lot. What’s the oddest thing you’ve read today?

Literately Yours,

Bookworm in Boise

Dear Worm,

The oddest thing would be from, talking about “The Piano”: The last movie Nirvana Frontman Kurt Cobain watched before he died. I mean, is that a good recommendation? “Kurt Cobain watched this movie, and then was compelled to eat a shotgun?” Just a vaguely disturbing thought.


 Dear tom,

I noticed from your ongoing NaBloPoMo serial that you have The Immortals as Elvis, Babe Ruth, Keith Richards, and Bob Ross, the hippie painter guy. Um, are you demented? Do you really put Bob Ross in the same class as Elvis and the Sultan of Swat?

What’s the truth?

Skeptical in Skokie

Dear Skeptic,

I’ll put it this way: I didn’t spend half of my sophomore year of college getting high and listening to Elvis.

Bob Ross rules!


Dear tom,

I have this friend who’s always trying to convince me to, ahem, “show off my assets.” Any suggestions as to how to convince him to stop?


Tempest in an F-Cup

Dear Tempest,

Well, you could share your assets already, and that would make me stop asking.

I mean “him” stop.



Dear tom,

You were walking a little funny when you came out of the bathroom. What did you do in there?


Scandaljunkie in Bethesda

Dear Perez Hilton,

I know it’s you, so don’t even try to hide behind an alias. Yes, I was weaving a bit. It’s because the stupid Stank-B-Gone automatic toxic air-freshener-spraying device ONCE AGAIN sprayed me in the face as I washed my hands. Seriously, I’m going back to something safer, like being catheterized.


Dear Tom,

Did you hear? Black Eyed Peas will be playing the Super Bowl halftime show! Isn’t that great??


Some Football Fan’s Girlfriend


What, were the Fugees already booked elsewhere?


Dear tom,

I get the impression that these “Tom Zone Mailbag” posts are just an easy way for you to post something, without having anything legitimate to say.  Is this true?

Disappointed in Delaware

Dear Double-D,



Dear t,

Just to make you aware, we are considering legal action against you.  Your stupid “ABC’s of Thanksgiving” post is the second time you have ridiculed the letter “W” in verse.  We demand a retraction.


Wiggins, Willis, Wormtail, & Wussi, Esq.

Legal Counsel for The Society for the Prevention of  W Defamation

Dear Lawyers,

Two words: wetwact this!

Seriously: you represent a letter? Are your offices on Sesame St? Your client is egomaniacal, and can’t even decide whether it’s a vowel or a consonant.  Try and find a more stable client.  Like Charlie Sheen.

Best Wegawds,


That makes  a dent in the e-mail for now.  Have a great Saturday. 😀

ABC’s of Thanksgiving

Posted in NaBloPoMo on November 26, 2010 by tom

A is for ass, as in “Lord, mine got fat!

I guess there’s no question where all that food’s at!”

B is for Butterball, basted and browned,

Don’t dare grab a drumstick if grandma’s around.

C is for carbs and for calories galore.

“Anymore stuffing?” “Oh sure! Have some more!”

D is for dressing, so dense and delicious.

You eat all the dressing, I will become vicious.

E is for eggplant, nutritious and bland.

The eggplant’s quite safe when Thanksgiving’s at hand.

F is for football, traditionally lame.

Unbuckle your belt! Sit down, watch the game!

G is for “Good God Almighty, I’m full!”

Bright Aldebaran is in Taurus, The Bull.

H is for ham, but we’ll save ham for Christmas.

A thin strip of land ‘twixt two seas is an isthmus.

I is for “I’m indigestive and burpy!

What really might help is a Tagamet Slurpee!”

J is for Jell-O and cranberry salad,

Old Dan Fogelburg had a way with a ballad.

K’s blissfully silent in knowledge and knee.

I’m trying to nap! So please belch silently!

L is for ladle, conveyor of gravy.

My hair is quite straight, but my Punkin’s is wavy.

M is for mashing, potatoes and yams.

And mass mastication. “More turkey? Yes ma’am!”

N is for nitrogen, the biggest part

Of your loud satisfying Thanksgiving feast fart

O is for orange, the color of autumn.

Looking for sale ads? Today’s paper’s got ‘em.

P is for pies! Hooray, pumpkin, pecan!

And Peach! And—oh bees balls, the Patriots won.

Quality food, quintessentially starchy,

This feast! Young Veronica’s boycrush is Archie.

R is for roughage, so absent this day.

We’ll once more eat fiber some time Boxing Day.

S is for squash casserole, a big reason

I visit my parents this time of the season.

T’s for sweet tryptophan, post-turkey slumber,

The Ranger’s right-fielder swung MVP lumber.

U’s for unbuttoning pants way too tight,

We all should wear sweatpants on Thanksgiving Night.

V is for victory! Something so rare

For Detroit when another team visits their lair.

W is obnoxious and doesn’t fit into my rhyme, and thus it shall be ostracized and excluded.

X is for 2 XL pants all around!

The feast of Thanksgiving is worth a few pounds.

Y is for yams under marshmallow lava.

The odd Dr Lecter liked liver and fava.

Z is for zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

(Sweet tryptophanny dreams, and Happy Thanksgiving!)

Who Ordered the 8 Foot Tall Cereal Demon?

Posted in Bad Pulp Fiction, NaBloPoMo on November 25, 2010 by tom

The 8 foot Frankenberry demon saw Tom Arnold and snarled. 

“Arnold! You think you and St Michael are any match for me?”

Tom Arnold shook his head with a smile.  “Oh, Frank,” he lamented.  “You stupid, arrogant,  pink sonofabitch.”

The Frankenberry demon moved toward the table and roared.  Tom Arnold calmly scooped a handful of oatmeal from another table, walked up, and smacked the cereal monster on the ass with it. 

“Oh, CURSE YOU TOM ARNOLD! And curse you all!! My strawberry-flavored evil will not lie dormant forever!”

The garish, scary, vaguely gay entity floated into a green cloud and was absorbed back into Lindsay’s bowl.  The lights un-dimmed, and their fellow Denny’s patrons started to come out of their stupor.

Kelly Vision spoke, “Madame Teal?”

Madame Teal stood up, fired up her eyes, and modified the memories of the bewildered, somewhat frightened masses. 

Everybody went back to eating, except for Lindsay, whose bowl of cereal was in charcoaly ruins. 

Tom Arnold consoled Lindsay. “Yeah, anything with fiber is like pure antimatter to Frankenberry.  If you learned anything from rehab, it’s that you shouldn’t mix.”

Kelly Vision shook her head.  “You mean, we needed Holy Water and sacred fart-fire to smite Cheneymonster and his minions, and you just smack Frankenberry demon on the ass with some oatmeal and he’s done?”

Tom Arnold looked at Kelly quizically.  “Well, duh! Frankenberry is a kids cereal cartoon character gone bad.   The other is the very embodiment of all that’s creepy and offensive to Heaven.  You don’t have to resort to Michaelean fart-fire for every little cereal monster.  Would you call Max von Sydow to take out Boo Berry?”

He took a long swallow of coffee. All at once, the lights re-dimmed, fog swirled on the gravy-stained carpet, and the sounds of “Also Sprach Zarathustra” came through the Denny’s Muzak speakers.

Tom Arnold did a spit take with his coffee. “Oh, SHIT! Who summoned The Immortals??”

Everyone looked around, before their eyes finally settled on The Stranger, who was trying to be inconspicuous as he chewed up a Pez.

There was a flash of light and blue smoke, and there they were, The Immortals: Elvis Presley, Babe Ruth, Bob “The Hippie Painter Guy” Ross, and Keith Richards.

Babe Ruth spoke: “Hello, kid.  Where’s the fire? Please tell me you had a good reason to drag me away from the Afterworld! I had a hot dame, a bottle of good hooch, and a black Cuban cigar the size of a baby’s leg.  What gives?”

The Stranger made a face of contrition.

“I regret that I ruined your fun after death.

I chewed up the Pez to fight onion breath.”

Elvis spoke up: “Well, while we’re here, may as well eat.”  He looked toward the formerly persnickety, currently memory-modified and very confused waitress.  “Darlin’? Bring me a country-fried steak, with four eggs scrambled with cheese and Demerol, hash browns, biscuits, and three big bowls of country gravy.”  He paused.  “Oh, and that bacon the Gucci handbag is eating looks good, so wrangle me up a couple sides of bacon too, and a Pepsi.”

The glassy-eyed waitress wrote down The King’s order. “Anyone else?”

Bob “The Hippie Painter Guy” Ross ordered a bowl of granola with almond milk, and a green tea with honey.  Babe Ruth ordered a whole ham, a jar of mayonaise, a red velvet cake, and coffee.  The waitress turned to Keith Richards.  “Sir?”

“Kl;ajsf woeij eakljjasddwbb,mbg heh-heh-heh. Msmane abdbab.  *cough-cough-cough* black.”

Babe Ruth spoke up. “English kid can’t talk right.  He just wants a Hershey bar with almonds, a quart of ginger ale, and a fifth of Rebel Yell.”

“And black coffee?”

“No, lady.  Just what I told you.”

“I heard him say `black?'”

“Yeah, apparently that’s wasted British guy for `with Almonds.'”

The waitress withdrew with her notepad.

Babe Ruth lit a giant black Cuban cigar, and exhaled a giant plume into the rarified Denny’s air. 

“So, you kids got rid of Cheneymonster?”

Ginger Sister looked at The Babe.  “Yes.  May I ask a question?”

“Go right ahead toots.”

“Okay, I get that you’re Babe Ruth, and I get that the guy dumping butter pats and sugar packets into his Pepsi is Elvis.  But Keith Richards is still alive, so why is he here?”

“Ah, hell, honey.  That weird English kid has died at least 400 times since I croaked back in ’48,” the Babe said. “He’s died so many times, he just slips back and forth.  He must not be playin’ tonight, since he’s here.”

“Um.  Okay.  And the Hippie Painter Guy?”

Bob Ross looked up, sipped his green tea, and smiled.

“I don’t know, baby,” Elvis started.  “When you get to the Afterworld, they give you a coolness aptitude test.  The little hippie scored off the charts. When The Lord gets stressed, He watches `The Joy of Painting’ reruns on PBS.”

“I’m just delighted to be here,” Bob Ross added.  “The trees outside are so lovely, and this tea is just perfect.”

Babe Ruth smacked Bob Ross on the back.  “The kid can paint.  The Boss gave him free rein over sunsets, and I gotta admit, he’s great.”

“Such colors! Cadmium red, and burnt umber, and lavender, and…”

“He goes on about the colors though.”

An anemic-looking, hemp-swaddled, Birkenstock-shod man arose from his seat and came over to the table.  “Do you MIND? This is a NO-SMOKING establishment, you fat cretin.”

“Oh, man,” Elvis said, “You shouldn’t have said that.”  Babe Ruth picked up his 52oz hickory bat and swatted the whiner into non-being.

“Heh-heh-heh! Medadpfm abda bewien vodadn nlwp Hahahaha,” observed Keith Richards.

“You said it, kid,” replied The Bambino, picking up his ham.

Thanksgiving Things on Tuesday (on Wednesday)

Posted in Uncategorized on November 24, 2010 by tom

*- The DorkFone knows what day it is, even if I don’t.
*- Friends, family, cats, job, all a-ok.
*- Punkin healing after losing grandfather
*- Had a wonderful Thanksgiving w/family & Team Punkin
*- I’m grateful to have a bunch of interesting, pleasantly demented friends here in the Interwebs.
*- Full tank of gas in the USS Nimitz
*- Ten fingers, ten toes, one belly button, one steady pulse.

*- I’ll boo next time. I have enough to be thankful for that it would be unconscionable to whine.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving (or a Happy Thursday)

Posted from WordPress for the DorkFone 9500 XLT

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