Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy interview.
Well, maybe not so much bumpy as meandering. Wayward? Erratic? Not your straightforward point A to point B, that’s for certain.

Greetings, Tild fans! I am an imaginary interviewer, a hypothetical composite of the typical readership of Tild’s blog, aka Tild~, or tildology.com to be exact. I’m a mashup of all the folks who tend to show up here:

…The woman in Georgia with a cold who’s looking for information about nose washing;
…The guy in Dubai who wants to read about bad girls who don’t keep their tape sticky;

…The She-Blogger fan in Toronto;

…The folks in the UK who can’t get enough of Laurel & Hardy’s “Way Out West” dance;

…One of the hapless clods who keep trying to hotlink to the wily strawman picture so that they can add it to their comments and thereby look totally super-bitchin’ in those endless flame war threads at FARK or the Something Awful forums; .

…The many admirers of Easter Jesus’ chocolatey goodness;

And the people who come here looking for Meerkat Manor family trees

or for a bit of Minnesota-specific political snark , be it about prominent local prig Katherine Kersten , Minuteman-wannabe Dick “Rambo” Day, or notorious now ex-MnDOT commissioner and fandancer Carol Molnau,

…or maybe just for a little cheesecake.

Whatever you’ve come here for, you’ve no doubt noticed that it’s been pretty quiet around here for quite a while now. We’re lucky to get one new post a week. What’s the deal with that?

Look! There’s Tild now. Let’s ask her.

Imaginary Typical Tildology Reader: Hey! Tild! It’s 4:30 in the morning. What are you doing up?

Tild: Oh, hi. Hey, if you’re one of those idiots looking for the strawman picture, goddammit will you PLEASE learn how to save images to your own server?! Use your own bandwidth for a change, asshole!

ITTR: Umm, excuse me Miz Tild, but I am most certainly not one of those idiots. What I am, in fact, is an Imaginary Typical Reader of your blog, come to interview you and find out what’s next in the exciting ongoing history of tildology.com.

Tild: You are? Hmm. Do you mean to tell me that the typical reader of my blog is the disembodied head of Agnes Moorhead’s even snider younger sister inexplicably floating in the stratosphere next to a “flying wing” airplane?

ITTR: You tell me. You picked this image to be the ITTR avatar.

Tild: Oh. Yeah. Well, alrighty then. Never mind! What was the question again? Why am I awake at 4:30 AM? Well, my youngest kid the high school senior is in the high school’s Concert Choir which is going to Washington DC for four days, and they needed to be at the high school at 4 this morning to board the buses to the airport. I’ll never get back to sleep now, so I guess I’m up for the duration.

ITTR: Aha. So then. Please tell us: What have you been up to lately? Sure hasn’t been blogging.

Tild: Well, you do know that I have a full time day job, right?

ITTR: Yes, I’ve gotten that impression over the years, but you’ve never really described what it is that you do. So, what exactly is it that you do?

Tild: I work for a large corporation; a big player in an industry that’s run for profit but really shouldn’t be. The mitigating factor for me is that the particular division that I work in is more or less a watchdog unit. We investigate the billing habits of the purveyors of our industry’s services. Our work is to keep those purveyors honest — or, you could say that in an ethically challenged industry we try to make sure that its practitioners adhere to the laws, such as they are, and to industry standards, imperfect tho they may be. That fact helps me sleep at night, I gotta admit. You know, because I feel like in my little corner of the industry I’m more a part of the solution and not so much a part of the problem.

ITTR: Wow, that’s quite discreetly phrased, I must say. Can you describe what you do there?

Tild: Sure. I gather data from various sources, convert the data into the formats used by several databases, and upload that data. One might say that I’m a data wrangler.
Yeehaw!

ITTR: Gosh! Sounds fascinating!

Tild: Uh huh. You said it, not me. I’ve also been working part time at a book store since last fall. The end result of all this toil and trouble is that I haven’t had huge amounts of free time to devote to blogging. Or when I do have some time, I often don’t have any energy for it.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]

Posted: March 10th, 2008 under Blogistan, Chez Tild, Meta, Personal History.
Comments: 1

Tild sez:  Hey, wait a minute — Don’t start thinking that this is some kind of homage to local hysteric Mitch Berg and those excruciatingly tedious (so I hear, I’ve never read any of them) ‘It Was Twenty Years Ago Today’ posts he’s so fond of doing.  No.  I’m pretty sure the only similarity between this post and one of Mitch’s is in the title.

About an hour ago I remembered that today is the anniversary of my mother’s death.
Twenty years ago.   I can’t believe I’ve lived twenty years without my mother.  Without my father too, for even longer — he died 9 years before my mom did.
It took me a long time to get used to being part of the oldest living generation in my immediate family. I finally got the knack of it, but after all these years do you know what I still miss?   Feeling like a daughter.

Anyway, to mark the occasion here’s an excerpt from “Grace”, a post I wrote about my mother a couple of Mother’s Days ago…

~~~

Grace was a 5′6″, bubbly, strawberry blonde Betty Grable look-alike. She was warm and funny and talked a blue streak and drew people to her like moths to flame; like bees to honey; like whatever to whatever [insert favorite simile of your choice here].  At 5′11″ I felt like King Kong standing next to her, and maybe because of that, whenever possible I preferred to step back into the shadows and let my mother shine. I don’t remember ever begrudging her the spotlight.  It’s possible I did at the time, but I don’t remember it now.

Mom had been a widow for 5 years when this photo was taken in 1984. She was 61 years old. My dad, Gunnar, died in 1979 at the age of 54. He died of congestive heart failure complicated by scar tissue on his aorta and an enlarged ‘athlete’s heart’, both consequences of having rheumatic fever when he was a child.

After my dad’s death Grace continued with the busy social schedule she and Dad maintained through all 33 years of their marriage.   I was envious; I  joked with her about having a social life that  people 40 years younger would kill for.
She did volunteer work at the Shriners’ Hospital; went out to dinner with her Eastern Star chapter, and her garden club, and her 500 club, and “the St. Mary’s gang”,  which was comprised of all the gals she’d roomed with at a boarding house downtown near the Basilica during WWII, when they were all flighty young singles working at Honeywell, assembling steering controls for bombers by day, and dancing the night away every night. She always said that in those days she wore out a pair of shoes a week from all the dancing.

This is Grace on Christmas Eve 1987. She looks tired, as well she might, considering she’d had a mastectomy three months before, and was undergoing a 6-month course of chemotherapy at this time. Her doctors were fairly confident they’d gotten all the cancer, so they said the chemo was really just a precaution, to make sure the cancer hadn’t metastasized into the lymph nodes. Grace was tolerating the chemo well, altho the steroids made her face look kind of puffy and she also said the steroids gave her manic bursts of energy when she couldn’t sit still or stop talking. Everybody who knew her wondered how she could tell the difference.

This turned out to be the last photo ever taken of my mother.

Less than two months later, on the morning of February 12, 1988, Grace called my sister and brother in law at 4:45 AM. She’d been out dancing until past 1 AM, then had come home and settled into bed but suddenly felt “kind of funny”. It was strange, she said; like she couldn’t catch her breath. My brother in law told her to hang up and call 911 right away. Grace lived only a few blocks away from Fairview Southdale Hospital in Edina, and the paramedics could reach her within minutes if necessary. She agreed to call 911, and hung up. My sister and her husband waited for a minute or two, then called 911 to confirm that Grace had called. Yes, the dispatcher said, and the paramedics were already on their way.

BIL then jumped in the car and headed for Grace’s house, about 15 miles away. When he got there he saw a policeman standing at the front door, which was all splintered and off its hinges. The paramedics had arrived within 3 minutes of receiving Grace’s call, yet she was already unable to get to the door, so the paramedics had to use a crowbar to break the door down. The policeman said that Grace had had a heart attack; she was alive but it was “very serious”. The EMTs had taken her to nearby Fairview Southdale, all the while frantically working to revive her.

My sister called at about 5:30 AM and told us what was happening. We then picked her up and drove to the hospital together. I was seven months pregnant with my first child at the time.
We arrived at the hospital within 20 minutes of getting the call. My BIL George met us at the entrance and said: “I don’t know how to say this, but Grace has passed away.”

The cause of death was found to be pulmonary embolism: a large blood clot had formed somewhere in her lower extremities and had travelled upwards through her system to ultimately become lodged in a spot near the juncture of her heart and lungs. Death came very quickly; within minutes.
Grace was 64 years old.

It’s been a long time now; 17 years; so the pain of loss has had time to get dull and familiar and I don’t feel it as sharply as I did then.  Still, not a day goes by that I don’t miss her and wish she could see my kids as they’re growing up. Well, maybe somehow she is seeing the kids.  Somehow.  I hope so. I guess what I want is to be able to *see her seeing* the kids.

After years of bitterness and anger (at what?  God?  Fate?)  that my mother was taken away from me so soon, and especially that my children never got a chance to know her,  I’ve begun to also be able to see the flip side of the coin; to appreciate that how she died was,  in its way,  rather a good way to go.  
Think about it:  Grace lived her life fully and actively and joyously right up to the very last moment.  No drawn out withering away for her.  And for me,  no pain of watching my mother slowly become unrecognizable as disease consumed her.

She went to a party on that last night. She went out dancing til past 1 in the morning. She went dancing.

Posted: February 12th, 2008 under Chez Tild, Loco Parent, Personal History.
Comments: 2

~~~ 

Weekend Brunch Eggbake

Spray inside bottom and sides of an 11×7 glass baking dish with cooking oil spray.

Put in 1 and 1/2 cups salad croutons or toasted breadcubes.
Add 1 can of cut asparagus spears, drained.
Add 1 and 1/2 cups shredded monterey jack or colby-jack cheese.
In a medium size bowl, beat 6 eggs.
Add 1 and 1/2 cups milk to the beaten eggs.
Whisk together eggs and milk.
Pour egg mixture over the croutons, asparagus and cheese. 
Slice 3-4 roma tomatoes and arrange slices in a layer on top of egg mixture.

Bake at 375 degrees for 35 minutes, or until eggbake is puffed up and golden brown on top.
Serves 6 fairly hungry people.
Serves 4 fairly hungry people if 2 of them are teenaged boys. 

~~~

 

Posted: October 15th, 2007 under Chez Tild, General, the Tild Test Kitchen.
Comments: 5

Oh thanks, Wege. Just what I was dreaming of : being tagged with this book meme thing which is oddly omnipresent  throughout every nook and cranny (and crook and nanny) of Blogistan, despite it being one of the most boring and tedious tasks ever devised.

How to liven it up? Alas, it can’t be done. Even if I try, I’ll most likely be competing for the gentle reader’s attention against totally unfair competition, such as ….oh, probably some shameless huckster pushing The Utterly Debauched and Oftentimes Icky Adventures of Santa Wege or something. Thanks, Wege.  Thank you very, very, very, very much indeed.

For those foolish enough to be playing along at home, here are the official rules of the book meme:

1. Grab the book closest to you.
2. Open to page 123, go down to the fifth sentence
3. Post the text of next 3 sentences on your blog
4. Name of the book and the author
5. Tag three people

Oh brother.  How can this be made to be even slightly interesting?  Well, how about some visual aids…
Luckily (your choice of adverb may vary) I have just the thing:   In order to finish off the remaining exposures on one of those disposable cameras, I recently took a series of photos of the fabulous wonderland that is Tildebunkport.

Here we have a view of the mysteriously lovely environs of Chéz Tild…  In the center of the frame we see the quaint little glass-topped desk on wheels that holds the ancient laptop that launched a thousand photoshopped pictures (every one of them asparkle with wit and subtlety).   What’s this?  Why, by happy chance there’s a bookshelf right next to my desk! And what is on that bookshelf? Why,  who’d a thunk it? — Books!  Let’s take a closer look at them shall we?

 The stack of books on the first shelf seem to be equidistant from my desk. How to choose? Hmmm.  Okay, let’s just go completely berserk and take page 123 of three of the books, from the top, middle, and bottom of the stack:

1)
“This is the time for thinking and answering. Ask whatever you like.”
“Do you feel that you’re guilty of murdering six million Jews?” I said.
MOTHER NIGHT
Kurt Vonnegut

2)
I went up the stairs, and my mother turned to go into the bathroom, where she sat on the rim of the tub. A fleeting impression of her inability to assume an ungraceful posture sped through my mind, along with my dread of what she would say.
“You have no right to speak to Paul about George Bernard Shaw,” she said , without raising her head.
BORROWED FINERY
Paula Fox

3)
Sra. Morán recalled that her father was less strict with her younger sisters, suggesting that Americanization may have been weakening parental controls.  Federico Saucedo recalled that during his youth in the 1930s and 1940s, “regardless of everything else we had, we always had the church.   That was all there was at that time, besides the Neighborhood House… Most of us didn’t know anything over the Robert Street Bridge or the Wabasha Street Bridge.”
BARRIOS NORTENOS
St. Paul and Midwestern Mexican Communities in the Twentieth Century
Dionicio Nodin Valdes

But, not to ignore the shelf below.  Page 123 of the book closest to me on that shelf reads:

As in rural Norway, immigrant candle making constituted “an enormous undertaking,” which, says Veblen, “occupied the entire family long into the evening”: “In addition to the two or three candles that were to stand in the middle of the table for the whole family, individual Christmas candles would be dipped or molded for each of the older children. When they were all lit on Christmas Eve the whole house fairly glowed.
KEEPING CHRISTMAS
Yuletide Traditions in Norway and the New Land
Kathleen Stokker

There. Done.  Did the visual aids help at all?  No, of course they didn’t.   OK,  yeah,  I know I’m supposed to now tag 3 people to do this, but I categorically refuse.   This tedious meme must stop somewhere;  it must not go endlessly on and on, being inflicted on one hapless blogger after another with no respite in sight. 
Oh, if you really want to do it, go ahead, but I will not be the instrument of furthering this vile little timewaster.   Basta! (as we say in Andalusia).   Enough!   This madness ends with me. 

You’re welcome.

 

Posted: December 27th, 2006 under Chez Tild, General, the Reading Room.
Comments: 1

Time for another hyperbolicious blurb from Mal Valour! This week’s fabulous movie stars Duane “The Johnson” Rock.

~~~~~

A wonderful travelogue of a holiday in Brittany, with lots of history and pictures, notably of several of those mysterious “standing stones” formations. And there’s a dog!

~~~~~

Let’s take another, closer look at those breasts, shall we?

(photo from Driftglass)

..who parses this “four teacup monsoon” with a bit o’ poesy.

As Tony Curtis was wont to say, in “Spartacus” and elsewhere: “Ahh. Da classics.”

~~~~~

Horror as the Beast-Man Stalks!

Via Cory Doctorow, the Warren Magazine collection of classic horror magazine covers. [Note to self: bookmark this baby now before I forget.]

~~~~~

Yikes. 8:30 already? Sunday breakfast doesn’t make itself you know, and in my household that can mean only one thing. Being endowed by my uterus with special cooking and baking abilities far beyond those of mortal men, I make breakfast.

Back later.

Posted: September 17th, 2006 under Being Female, Blurbtacular!, Chez Tild, General, Mal Valour.
Comments: none

Hmmm. What to make for breakfast/brunch when you don’t have a lot of things on hand and you don’t feel like going to the store?

Ahh. Here we go. I’ve got all the ingredients for this.

…I hope it’s good!

~~~~~

Cowboy Coffee Cake

2 1/2 cups flour

1/2 tsp salt

2 cups brown sugar

2/3 cup shortening

2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp soda

1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp nutmeg

1 cup sour milk

2 eggs, beaten well

“Measure the flour, brown sugar, salt and shortening into a mixing bowl and rub or work to fine crumbs. Remove 1/2 cup of the crumbly mixture and reserve to sprinkle over the top of the cake. To the remaining crumbs add the blended baking powder, spices and soda, mixing thoroughly. Add the beaten eggs to the sour milk, then stir this into the dry mixture until it is very smooth.

“Spread the batter in 2 greased pie pans or layer cake pans and sprinkle with the reserved crumbs. An additional teaspoon of cinnamon and a few chopped nutmeats may also be sprinkled over the crumbs. Bake in a moderately hot oven (375°) for about 20 minutes. Serve hot from the pan in which it was baked.”

Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook, 1935 edition

~~~~~

And while it’s baking, why don’t you stick with the cowboy theme and pass the time by watching this clip from the film “Way Out West”, circa 1940.

IMO if you can watch this and not smile even a little, I have to think y’all must be dead.  Enjoy.

Posted: September 4th, 2006 under Chez Tild, General, the Tild Test Kitchen.
Comments: 5

Well, that title alone oughta boost my searchstring keyword stats into truly Wegian levels of  disgustingness. Yay!  
So, what have I been reading about this morning?

~~~

A closer look at rightwing bully culture, from whytwolf in diary rescue at dKos.  

~~~

Speaking of  Der Wege:  Norwegianity on the Golden Era of Profitability.

~~~

See? I told you it was a good movie:  The HBO film The Girl In the Cafe draws attention to the problem of world hunger and, more importantly, how easily we in the wealthy, overfed First World could eliminate it if we ever chose to make it a priority.
Sunday night The Girl In the Cafe collected three well-deserved Emmys:  Richard Curtis for the screenplay,  Kelly MacDonald for best supporting actress in a miniseries, and the film itself was named Best Made-for TV Movie. 

~~~

REW documents the Friday night atrocities, to which I can only add my fervently held opinion that all cigar smokers should be strung up by their smug, microscopic-size testicles.

 ~~~ 

Last night I dreamed about a typical morning here at Tildebunkport:  the alarm went off at 5:15;  I was the first one up, as usual; came downstairs to be greeted by my beautiful old dog, who as usual stood in the front hallway grinning and wagging his feathered fluffy samoyed tail and oblivious to the turds plopping out onto the carpet behind him.   Ahh, good times.
It’s been a little over two weeks now that our beloved old canine curmudgeon has been gone, but I’m still hearing his ghost bark, and dreaming of ghost dog poop.   

And how’s your Monday morning?

 

Posted: August 28th, 2006 under Chez Tild, General.
Comments: 2

Nostalgia:

Remember the Brunching Shuttlecocks? Among the things we have them to thank for is this classic:

The Geek Hierarchy

~~~~~

YouTubing:

Hey, when you’re as fascinated by sugar beets as I am, you’ll watch anything that has beets in it:

We got the beets!

On the other hand, this has no beets in it at all, but somehow is even more fascinating:

Girl Takes Pic of Herself Every Day For Three Years

~~~~~

the Raphael Aloysius Lafferty Reading Room:

Finally, some quirky reading from a master of quirky SF and my cuba libré drinking enabler and lap-sitter from Worldcons past, R.A. Lafferty.

I always find reading a Lafferty story to be a mood-altering experience. I wish my all-time favorite Lafferty story, “Thus We Frustrate Charlemagne” was available to read online, but alas it ain’t. This one’s pretty damn fine, tho. Enjoy!

Read “Land of the Great Horses” by R. A. Lafferty

~~~~~

Well, the weekend’s almost over, and here at Tildebunkport our hearts have had some time to recuperate a bit from the loss on Friday morning of our beloved 13 1/2 year old dog, the Venerable Pup.

To everybody: Thank you for your kind words of sympathy, and for sharing your lovely stories about your own dogs.
Tomorrow it’s back to what I laughingly call blogging as usual.

Posted: August 13th, 2006 under Chez Tild, General, General, the Reading Room.
Comments: none

This weekend I’m going to post nothing but upbeat happy inconsequential links. No gloom ‘n doom. No sturm und drang.

Yesterday, here at the remote fortified compound known as Tildebunkport, we had to say goodbye to the Venerable Pup.

I’d been dreading yesterday for a long time. We had a dog who was 13 1/2 years old. We have children who are 16 and 18 years old. The boys can only barely remember a time when we didn’t have the VP.

The Venerable Pup

The VP was a border collie/Bernese mountain dog mix. At 75-80 lbs., he was bigger than either of those breeds, so we always figured he had some other things mixed in. At one time the hub put up a web page consisting of just a photo of the VP with the caption: “What’s My Dog?” Speculation about the ‘other’ portion of the mix most often ran to: labrador, golden retriever, Australian shepherd, samoyed, and German shepherd.

The white-socks-’n-sandals fashionplate is my older son, age 11

[The school bus has just arrived] Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy! Kids!

He was a powerful dog; deep-chested and strong and could run all day. When the boys were little and roamed the neighborhood in a pack of about a dozen kids, the VP would herd them; running circles around the kids and occasionally bodychecking the stray child to bump him/her back in line with the rest of the flock.

When I saw him running like that, I sometimes thought to myself: “There goes the living embodiment of vitality.” [Really. That's what I actually thought. Like it or not, that's really the way I think.] Sometimes I thought “There goes the living embodiment of beauty”, but most often I thought “There goes the living embodiment of joy.”

We’re all having a tough time of it right now. So - - let the happy upbeat weekend link-o-rama begin!

Posted: August 12th, 2006 under Chez Tild, General.
Comments: 6

 

The caller ID reads “US MARINE CORPS”.

I reach for the phone, and in the fraction of a second it takes for the words “US MARINE CORPS” to register in my brain, I become every mother who has ever existed. Or at least every mother who’s ever existed since that first fateful day when Moonwatcher showed up at the cave door, recruiting for the Great War Against the People Who Live On the Other Side of the Sand Dune From Us or whatever the hell it was.

 

CALLER: Hello, may I speak to [my eldest son; the one who graduated from high school last month]?

 

ME: Uhh, hello. Is this the Marine Corps?

 

CALLER: Yes, ma’am. I’m [whatever he said his name is]. I’m assigned to the High School. And, despite what you may have heard…

 

He sounds tired and a little bit defensive. How many times today has he launched into this little spiel?

 

CALLER: …we actually have spoken face to face with only a third of the seniors.

 

There were 801 students in the EPHS Class of 2006. One third of 801 would be 267.

 

CALLER: Still, by the end of this year I’m required to make contact by phone with everyone in the class I haven’t spoken to yet.

 

Required. He’s required to contact everyone. He’s just doing his job, after all. He’s just following orders. I wonder how much time this statement buys him before the mothers start slamming the phone down or start screaming NEVER! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?! NEVER! NEVER! NEVER! Or maybe I’m imagining that every mother in Eden Prairie would react to this call like I’m reacting.

 

CALLER: Is [Eldest Son] home?

 

ME: No. He’s at work right now.

 

Eldest Son is actually in the next room, simultaneously eating a bowl of Cheerios, playing Battlefield 1942 online with seven of his buds, text-messaging a (female) friend, and watching an mp4 of “Downfall” on his iPod. He doesn’t have to leave for work for another 45 minutes.

 

ME: I realize you still have to talk to him personally, but please let me just shorten this process. All you really need to know is: This is not going to happen.

 

I don’t know how to put it any more emphatically.

 

Bessie to the sexton: “Curfew must not ring tonight!”

Gandalf to the Balrog: “You. Shall. Not. Pass!”

 

ME: And I want you to know that I have all the respect in the world for the people in uniform; the people who are laying their lives on the line for all of us every day. You deserve better than what you’re getting. A LOT better. We owe you so very much… The least — the LEAST we can do now is to get you out of harm’s way as soon as possible. I stand with Jack Murtha on this: if I could bring you all home tomorrow I would. And that’s all I have to say about that.

 

I hope he liked the little Forrest Gump flourish at the end there.

 

CALLER: Ma’am, I understand what you’re saying, and I do appreciate it. I will ask you tho if you could please do one thing for us.

 

What? Bake them some cookies?  Send body armor?  Arrange for a soul transplant for Donald Rumsfeld?

ME: Sure.

 

CALLER: Ma’am, will you pray for us?

 

ME: Absolutely. Doing that already. Every day.

 

CALLER: Thank you. Well, I won’t keep you. I’ll have to catch [Eldest Son] another time then.

 

“Catch him” ? You’ll have to “catch him”? Hey buddy — I’m praying for you all, no question about it, but try “catching” any child of mine in any other way than by phone, and you might have to “catch” the bag containing your nuts which I will be throwing in your face. Trust me, you do not want to mess with me in this regard. Hoo-fucking-ya.

 

[End of phone call]

 

Yeah, I’m good at bluster — especially the internal, unspoken kind as just illustrated above.  But don’t think for a second that I don’t know just how empty all that tough talk is. We still have a volunteer army and he’s 18 and if he decides he wants to join, there’s not much I could do about it.

But, the chances of him or his brother wanting to enlist are roughly equivalent to the chances of Dick Cheney winning the Nobel Peace Prize, so I’m not too worried.

I’m also not terribly worried–yet– about the draft being reinstated. It won’t happen until the administration can figure out a way to include a loophole exclusively for wealthy Republicans so they can keep their own precious children out of it ; their kids being so much more valuable than ours and all.   Hoo-fucking-ya  indeed.

 

Posted: July 19th, 2006 under Chez Tild, Children, General, Military, War.
Comments: 4