Six
Adamstown mining station
Adam Bolin sat silently, staring at the blinking red light on the comm panel on his desk.
“That will be ‘Mr. K,’ Remy Brichot observed.
“No shit.”
“He’s wanting to know where his shipment is, Boss,” Brichot said. “We’ll have to tell him something.”
“Tell him what? That the Orlando just disappeared?”
“There’s nothing like the truth, Boss.”
“I can’t tell him that,” Bolin snapped. “All right. All right.”
There was nothing else to be done. Bolin picked up the handset and said, “All right, put him through.”
A moment later, the high-pitched rattle of ‘Mr. K’ came through the handset. “My diamonds, Mr. Bolin, are almost nine days overdue.”
Bolin translated quickly in his head; nine Grugell days was about seven Earth days. “I’m aware of that fact, Mr. K. We’ve heard from the freighter; she’s having some drive problems here in the Belt.”
There was a pensive silence from the other end. Damn, Bolin thought, but they’ve got to be close, to send a real-time radio signal like this. Where the hell are they? With a cloaked ship, they could be looking at me now.
“If you can give me the ship’s location,” the voice finally came back, “we could render assistance and conduct our business at the same time.”
“Ordinarily, Mr. K, I’d be happy to take you up on that,” Bolin evaded, “but we don’t have a good fix on their location, and navigating here in the Belt is tricky. If you can call me back in another few days, I should have more information for you.”
“I will not wait forever, Mr. Bolin,” the voice said.
“I do not intend for you to do so,” Bolin replied. “My miners are working double shifts now, to make up another shipment – if we can’t get this ship moving, we’ll get another load headed your way within ten Standard Days.”
“Far from ideal.” Mr. K said, “Let us see what you can do to get that ship moving, shall we?”
“I’m working on that,” Bolin assured him.
“See that you do.” There was the sharp hiss of static as the signal was cut off at the source.
“Oh, shit,” Bolin groaned. “He’s not happy at all – and he’s probably sitting out there looking down the barrel of a blaster at us. How did I get into this mess?”
“Can’t even call the Navy for support,” Brichot said. “Since we’re in violation of the Treaty of Honshu by selling them the stuff in the first place.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
***
The K-110
Group Commander Kestakrickell IV looked up from the frigate’s Signals panel at Commander Chiksteskattitk II and grinned. “I told you he would dodge,” the Group Commander gloated.
“You were right, Group Commander, as always, of course. The question, of course, is what are we going to do now?”
“That debris field we found – that is surely the remains of the freighter. Now we have confirmed that this renegade Bolin is lying to us. Therefore he has lost control of his shipment, and this other Confederate, Baxter, has somehow seized it.”
“So we will deal with Baxter?”
“Of course! At the time and place appointed. And then we will accept the second shipment from Bolin.”
“I will give orders,” Chiksteskattitk said, bowing to his superior, “to take us to the rendezvous as planned.”
***
The Fleet space dock at Tarbos
“Starship Shade Tree,” the voice boomed out from the Bridge main speaker, “This is the Confederate Navy frigate Reuben James. Cut your engine and hold your position. Do not approach the dock, say again do not approach the dock or you will be fired on.”
“All stop,” Jean Barrett ordered. “Hold position here. Patch me through to the frigate.”
“Ready,” Elliot Frye called from Signals.
“Reuben James, this is Captain Barrett of the Shade Tree. What’s going on?”
“Shade Tree,” the voice came back, “Hold this position and prepare to be boarded. You are a reported plague ship, and can not be allowed to dock until we verify your status.”
“Very well,” Barrett replied, grinning. “We can receive a shuttle at our main docking port. You’ll find we’re all quite well here.”
“We have a medical team boarding the shuttle now, Shade Tree; they’ll have to be the judge of that.”
“Fine. Shade Tree out.”
Eight minutes later, the Shade Tree shuddered slightly as a gray Navy shuttle clunked against the docking port. Jean Barrett and Indira Krishnavarna were at the port to meet the two space-suited figures that emerged from the shuttle into the docking ring.
“My,” Barrett said, “Aren’t we cautious. Exactly what kind of plague do you think we’re carrying?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, Captain,” the taller of the two figures said through his suit intercom. “I’m Lieutenant Finley, Confederate Navy Medical Corps. This is Chief Pharmacist’s Mate Simpson. Permission to come aboard?”
“Granted.”
Finley, then Simpson stepped out of the docking ring into the ship. “Ma’am, I’ll have to scan your ship and take blood samples from your crew.”
“Very well.”
Finley looked around, awkwardly; the suit helmet restricted his movement. “How many crew do you have?”
“Thirty officers and crew.”
“Anyone ill at the moment?”
“My Security Chief has a bit of a hangover, but that’s not anything unusual.”
“Chief Simpson will do the scanning, Captain, if that’s all right. I’d like you to detail someone to escort him; he’ll have to scan every compartment. I’ll draw blood samples. Is there a compartment we can cycle the crew through for that?”
“I’ll show you to our infirmary; Doctor Dodd can provide anything you might need. Indira, will you show the Chief around?”
“My pleasure, Captain.”
“Good. Lieutenant, this way.”
***
Six hours later
“Shade Tree,” the call came without preamble, “This is Reuben James. You are cleared to proceed.”
“Thank you, Reuben James,” Barrett said into the mike. “Shade Tree out.”
She turned to her Exec. “Don’t you just love the Navy? Not a word of explanation, never an apology for holding us out here in the middle of nowhere, just “go ahead,” and an implied “if you hadn’t been clean, we’d have blown you out of space.”
“Nice to get a confirmation that we’re clean, anyway.”
“Yeah. Helm, ahead one-third, steady on last course. Signals, call ahead to the Fleet dock, get us a berth.”
“Already on it, Captain. Ahead one-third, on course as before. We’re about ten minutes out.”
“Berthing assignment, Pier Five, level C,” Signals called.
“Good enough. Indira, will you handle docking? I’m going to get ready to see some people.”
“I’ve got it,” the Exec agreed.
Barrett headed for her cabin, where she exchanged shipboard fatigues for a respectable-looking white silk blouse and black slacks. She was sitting on her bunk pulling on polished black heeled boots when she felt the slight jolt of docking.
Reaching up, she tapped her cabin’s signals panel. “Bridge, Exec speaking,” the panel replied.
“Indira, I’m going to see the Fleet Admiral, if I can. Tell Gomp and Adams that they’re ‘go.’ I expect I’ll be back in an hour or two. Nobody else leaves the ship. I want to be underway again inside of two hours.”
“As you wish, Captain. We’re refilling water and oxygen now; tanks will be topped off in forty minutes or less. We’ve already emptied our carbon tanks for recyc credit. B.J. Smith wants to go to the station to look for a replacement for a number three drive ring anti-matter injector that’s going south on us.”
“Can it wait until Halifax? Four days, tops?”
Murmuring noises came from the speaker for a moment. “He says no, unless you want to end up dead in space twenty parsecs from nowhere.”
“Fine, tell him to go ahead; he’s got two hours. Nobody else goes off the ship for any reason. I’m on my way.”
“We’ll be here.”
Barrett left her cabin and walked quickly to the docking port, ignoring a covert stare or two from crew members used to seeing their Captain in shipboard gear. She strode through the docking umbilical, let the Marine at the station side scan her ident chip, and asked directions to the main Flag offices. Ten minutes later, she was standing in front of a bored-looking Master Chief Petty Officer.
The Chief has the glazed look of someone who had been stuck in a desk job for too long. When she looked up at Barrett, she moved her arm, and Barrett realized why; the faint whine of servos gave away the presence of a prosthetic arm. Under the Chief’s uniform collar, Barrett could see the faint tracing of scars. The woman was fifty at best, a little on the heavy side, with dark blonde hair beginning to gray. Barrett smiled at the veteran.
The Chief smiled faintly in return. “What can I do for you?”
Barrett handed over her ident chip. “I’m here to see the Fleet Admiral. Will you tell him it’s Captain Jean Barrett of the Shade Tree?”
“Your lucky day, Captain; the Admiral is actually in port. He’s not here very often, you know. One moment.” The Chief stood up, more whining revealing prosthetic legs to go with the arm. She disappeared through the door behind her desk.
Ten seconds later Fleet Admiral Isaac Gauss himself burst through the door, grinning widely. “Captain Barrett!” he exploded. “Now this is one hell of a way to brighten up a boring Goddamn day in port. It’s good to see you, Captain!”
The Admiral was a little grayer and a little thinner than Barrett remembered. “It’s good to see you, Admiral,” she smiled, responding to the Admiral’s enthusiasm.
“Isaac, please, Isaac,” he corrected her. “You’re not Navy, and I’m about to retire. Please, come in. Chief Wilken, will you call down to the galley for coffee, please?”
“Right away, Admiral.”
Fleet Admiral Gauss shepherded Jean into his somewhat Spartan office. Unlike most of the private offices Barrett had seen on this and other stations, the Fleet Admiral’s walls showed only the aluminum cladding of the bulkheads, with few decorations; an old, faded United States flag, a newer Confederate flag, a case of rank insignia and awards from the U.S. Air Force and the Confederate Navy, and a framed picture of a smiling, gray-haired woman that Jean assumed was the Admiral’s wife.
A young Crewman-First brought in a tray of dark, aromatic coffee. Admiral Gauss seated Jean in a thick leather chair and insisted on serving her coffee before pouring his own and seating himself at his old gray government-issue desk.
“I hadn’t heard you were planning to retire,” Jean said.
“Only just decided. My wife,” the Admiral gestured towards the picture, confirming Barrett’s guess, “She’s giving up her House seat at the end of this term. We’ll be going back to Earth; our daughter lives there, and we have three grandkids now. It’s time.” He sipped at his coffee. “In the meantime, I’m still fighting the damned Congress for a few pennies here and there for training, beans, bullets, and maybe a new ship now and then. ‘Peace dividend’ and all that, they keep saying. Damned few of them read any history; they don’t seem to understand that there won’t be any peace for long if we don’t keep our Navy up.”
“I know,” Barrett agreed, “how expensive it is to keep just one ship going. We’ve had a decent year; even managed to upgrade our drive to the new Mark XI workings.”
“It’s been tough times for a former privateer,” Gauss observed. “Most of your colleagues have gone into some other line of work. That old pirate Johann Hess, he sold his ship at Earth, bought a two-man yacht, and vanished – where, nobody knows. Mysterious old fart, he was. How have you been getting along?”
“Hauling a little cargo,” Barrett evaded with a smile, “mostly small, high-value stuff people want moved fast. Electronics, pharms, the odd passenger – things like that.”
“Found you a niche, then,” Gauss said. “That’s good.” He took another sip of coffee and carefully examined the cup. “I haven’t heard that you had your ship’s armament dismounted.”
“I haven’t,” Jean said.
“Interesting,” Gauss replied, his face carefully neutral. “Legal, of course; it’s your ship.”
“It is. We operate close to the frontier, Admiral. The Grugell are still out there.”
“That’s what I keep telling Congress. Well, forget all that. You don’t want to listen to an old man complain about politicians. What can I do for you today, Jean?”
“I have some information that may interest you, Admiral. There’s a mining station out along the frontier we stumbled across a while back; I have reason to believe they’re selling material across the border.”
“To the Grugell, you mean.”
“Exactly.”
The Admiral’s eyes turned to polished flint. He leaned across his desk. “Tell me.”
***
Three levels down
Every Fleet dock boasted an impressive library, with ample computer terminals tied into the stations intranet. The main Fleet base at Tarbos was no exception, and the intranet on the Tarbos base was massive, with the main database updated regularly from the capital and from Earth, where over half of the Confederacy’s human population still lived.
The main database contained a wealth of information accessible to anyone. It also contained most of the Navy’s operational data, plans, schematics, and operations details, from mission orders to menus. These were on a secure server on the penultimate level of the station, far from the privately operated lower levels where the Shade Tree was docked, and from the library.
To an experienced hacker like Kaelee Adams, the Shade Tree’s Second Watch Signals Tech, the Navy may as well have left the door standing open.
“Here,” she said as she and Hector Gomp walked through the library. “Here’s a good terminal – a bit out of the way.” She sat down, extracted a Phoebe datachip from her pocket, plugged it into a port on the terminal, and started tapping the screen.
Behind her, Hector Gomp fidgeted in an excess of nervousness. Knock-down fights were well within Gomp’s expertise; sneaking into a Navy base to hack the Navy’s computer files was not. “How long is this going to take?”
“Couple minutes.” She tapped the screen again; graphics spun on the screen, random numbers flashing. “This is my own program; I’m fairly sure that the Royal Palace on Corinthia has at least as good security protocols as the Navy, and I got through them like a warm knife through butter. Relax.”
“I hope you’re right. What if they detect you?”
“I’m already in,” Adams replied. “We’re at a randomly selected terminal in the public library. This program doesn’t have any traceable ident tags. We’ll be back on the ship before the Navy could get anyone down here, even if they do pick me up.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“There,” Adams breathed, “Fleet base plans. Here’s Tarbos; here’s Halifax. Earth, and even the new base at New Wichita; they haven’t even started building that one yet. Should I download them all?”
“Sure,” Gomp agreed. “Never know when it might come in handy.”
More tapping. “All right,” Adams said. “Got them.” She reached up, pulled the Phoebe out of the terminal. “Let’s go.”
“After you.”
They meandered towards the exit casually, stopping to look at framed artworks and shelves of electronic book disks along the way. When they finally left the quiet confines of the Library, the colorful bustle of the station’s privately operated Commercial levels swallowed the pair.
***
Four levels above – The Confederate Star Ship Toronto
Captain Angela Ramirez was just getting used to her assignment as commander of the Navy’s newest escort carrier; she hadn’t expected to end up with a larger command just yet, and so regarded the message pad with some disbelief.
“Captain?” her Executive Officer asked.
“It’s true enough, orders from the Fleet Admiral’s office. Himself wants us to leave port immediately, along with the frigates Kidd and Charles Buford, and to head immediately out to some dead system out along the Grugell frontier.”
“Why?”
Ramirez handed the pad to her Exec, who scanned it quickly.
“A treaty violation? Is that our job?”
“Technically it is,” Ramirez said, “as long as it involves material crossing the frontier. Smuggling inside the Confederacy is a law enforcement issue. Out there, it’s our problem.”
“All right. When do you want to leave port?”
“This says ‘expedite.’ If I know Fleet Admiral Gauss, that means ‘haul ass.’ Wake up the crew, recall anyone who’s ashore, we leave the pier in one hour.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
***
The Shade Tree
Hector Gomp and Kaelee Adams found Captain Barrett waiting for them when they entered the ship’s docking umbilical, wide grins on their faces.
“Get what we needed?” Barrett demanded.
“All that and then some,” Gomp agreed.
“Good. Get to your stations; we’re leaving as soon as I can get clearance.”
“Fine with me, Captain,” Gomp grinned. “I always liked Halifax.”
To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.
Links, in case you need them:
https://crimsondragonpublishing.com/anderson-gentry/
https://www.amazon.com/stores/Anderson-Gentry/author/B00CK1AWMI
Relating to both Animal and plagues:
https://nypost.com/2024/02/11/news/alaska-confirms-first-fatal-case-of-alaskapox/
As lest it’s not named “Poxy McPox.”
Is the first symptom of Alaskapox breaking out in Moosebumps?
I would assume that chills happened first.
That would be squirrelpox
Nonsense, that’s a separate comorbity.
Aren’t moosebumps spread by reaching into an unwashed hat?
You won’t fool me, That trick never works.
In Alaska?
I would have guessed cold sores.
Speaking of which….
This is Joe Bidenesque
Nice to see the black communities getting help.
It would be foolish to deny that the black subculture, at least where I am, is not at higher risk. I have worked with more than a few blacks and after they get to know me and let down their guard….my God, they are promiscuous as hell. Gays, same thing.
Mind you, it would be unfair to paint with too broad a brush. I have met quite a few in both groups that were the polar opposite.
Old folks? I very high percentage of nursing home patients develop STDs, as in approaching 100%. The current theory, which I subscribe to, is that many people have such infections that are suppressed all of their lives until they get old and their immune systems weaken. At that point they manifest.
As for Herpes, that one is easy to spot. If they are a human living on earth they have herpes. Usually it is contracted at birth from mom.
Immunologist jumps up and down, flailing arms frantically while declaring “OOOOOOGA BOOOOOOGA BOOOOOGA! I told you those melting glaciers…..” Blah blah blah you know the rest. Seven infections, one fatality of an immunocompromised person.
What to make of this? Panic? Lockdowns? Forced vaccines?
Wait, I thought geographic names for diseases were no longer acceptable…
Seems there is a chink in that theory.
Things are going too smoothly for our heroes.
Well, except for getting the plague…and hassled by the man.
Loving the story Animal
OT – The kiddie pool containing used motor oil hasn’t magically vanished from my property, and the person who left it there hasn’t grown a conscience.
What am I supposed to do with it?
Drag it off of your property then punch a hole in the bottom?
Fire department?
Light a match . . . . .
Is it where you can just drag it back over to the property of whoever left it?
(maybe y’all covered that in previous notes and I’m behind – sorry)
I don’t know where they live.
The problem is the area only has streetside parking for many residents (those few who get driveways and garages are lucky). The offender decided to change their own oil and drained the old into the kiddie pool. As they happened to be parked along my property at the time, they left the thing on my lot.
Remember that people can be assholes, find a more suitable (set) of containers and find out if your local Walmart or other oil change / landfill sites will take it if you put it in said proper containers and get it over with.
It doesn’t sound like whoever did it can be specified or will deal with it — so you’re just going to have to. Not your mess, shouldn’t be your problem — but unless you want to 3D print a small Exxon Valdez and turn it into a diorama for the street, I’d say that’s your only option at this point.
Agreed. Walmart even sells the containers and special kitty litter for soaking up the oil. It’s a horrible job, but you will have to do it. Now if this happens again, you have a case for soaking that person’s windows and AC intake with butyric acid.
More specifically, what should I be looking for? I’ve always had someone else handle my oil changes because the trade off in cash made sense to me.
Local mechanic or dealership? If your mechanic likes you enough, you could call them up and see if they would at least lend you a pump to get the oil in another container.
It’s been a dealership for this car.
Ok. Here is a step by step:
1. Call Wal Mart and if necessary, a Pep Boys and find out who takes used motor oil. With any luck they will take pity on you and get you a container at least, and will also point you in the direction of oil absorbing grit, like this:
https://www.amazon.com/Oil-Concentrate-Floor-Absorbent-Bagged/dp/B00NCR6CPK/
2. Bucket out as much as you can into a container with a tight lid. Screw on, if possible with a funnel. You don’t want that crap spilling in your nice car.
3. Lay down the absorbent stuff, let it soak up the rest as best as possible. Put all the absorbent stuff into a bag or box. It will be heavy.
4. Slash the pool, put it in your neighbor’s trash bin.
5. Put the big heavy bag of oil-soaked grit in there too, unless the Pep Boys takes that back also.
6. Drive up to the place you called earlier and let them have your oil.
And if your neighbor complains about his trash can, send him a bill for services rendered. Cost of your time plus expenses and disposal fee.
So, what do you get if you call up the local (county/town/whatever) road or waste management folks? Do you live in the kind of place where you can call them up and say “Hey, somebody left this thing and I sure don’t know what to do with it. Do y’all have someone that could come over and grab it?” Or would they make it YOUR problem?
NYS. They’d probably arrest him.
I get a voicemail box.
The Department of Public Works does not answer their phone (I’ve tried to get through to them before on other issues) I suspect they’d go “fill out a trach pickup request form from the website and pay the fee for collection”.
Drive over there and go into good-ol’-boy mode and make friends with somebody?
Whycome you hate me?
I’m an antisocial shut-in. It’d be easier to just figure out how to get the disposal litter.
OMG, don;t call the government. Call Wal Mart or Pep Boys, see above. Let private industry have this. Otherwise you’ll have people in clean suits all over the place billing you for the issue.
See my earlier inquiry about what kind of community it is. Believe it or not there are some places where somebody like the county road department would be perfectly happy to come over and take care of it without throwing a bunch of new burdens and costs on you. Ymmv.
Assholes have been dumping construction trash, flat screen tvs, and mattresses on our work lot. Sometimes it might make it into a dumpster.
Motherfuckers!
If you are inclined to clean it up yourself, head on down to AutoZone or O’Reilly’s and get a small transfer pump (I think they run about $12) a small funnel, a bag of oil dry (or if you already have Kitty litter, same difference), a roll of blue shop towels and see if they have a couple empty used 5qt oil containers hanging out in back that you can have. The 5qt containers actually hold almost 6qts. Unless it was a diesel, you probably have 6 or 7 quarts in the pool at most (maybe several gallons is it was a diesel). Use the transfer pump to pump what you can into the empty oil containers. Once it’s just a thin puddle, put the funnel in a container and lift the pool and drain the remainder into a container using the funnel. Once that’s reasonably empty, use the roll of blue shop towels to sop up the rest of the mess. You can take the oil in the containers back the auto parts store for recycling. Wrap the used shop towels in newspaper and bag them in plastic and discard. Throw the pool in the recycle bin.
What am I supposed to do with it?
Use it for quenching hot forged steel.
With which he will crush his enemies, see them driven before him, and hear the lamentations of their women?
What if nature doesn’t love you back?
The body of 22-year-old woman who went missing for more than a week while hiking at a mountainous beauty spot during heavy winter weather was found and recovered Sunday night, police said.
Lefei Huang, from El Monte, went missing Feb. 4 and was only found over the weekend after a member of the public flying a drone spotted her body Friday. Search operations were hindered by the snowstorms and high winds which have affected high-altitude parts of California for much of the winter.
Law enforcement agencies used the incident to warn the public not to set out alone in bad weather — Huang went hiking just before a “atmospheric river” storm was due to hit the West Coast, which brought historic levels of rain and flooding to towns and cities, and high levels of snow in the mountains.
She just wanted some peace and quiet.
Mother Nature is a bitch. She doesn’t care if you live or die.
It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.
You misspelled ‘Mean Ass Bitch’.
Ready and willing
Vice President Harris said she’s ready for the presidency in an interview last week, amid concerns about President Biden’s age.
“I am ready to serve. There’s no question about that,” Harris told the Wall Street Journal when asked about the challenge of convincing voters she’s up for the job.
Those who see her work are “fully aware” of her “capacity to lead,” Harris said in the interview, just days before a special counsel report stoked renewed questions about Biden’s age and mental aptitude.
She’ll save us.
She’d probably be equally effective as PPP, I’ll give her that.
Is there a movie clip like this?
Dems: We are in a bad spot. We need to replace Biden.
Harris: *jumps up and down waving hand*
Dems: Are there no takers? Is there no one willing to step forward.?
Harris: Me me me!
Dems: Then I suppose it is settled, we have no other options.
She is the best qualified for the job. If you dont believe her just as her.
Kamala Harris Says She Is Ready to Serve as Biden Faces Age Scrutiny
Vice President Kamala Harris was detailing her priorities for the campaign during a flight on Air Force Two early last week when she was asked a delicate question hanging over the Democratic ticket: Do voters’ concerns about President Biden’s age mean she must convince them she is ready to serve?
“I am ready to serve. There’s no question about that,” Harris responded bluntly. Everyone who sees her on the job, Harris said, “walks away fully aware of my capacity to lead.”
too late again, oh well
That’s right, “walk away.”. As quickly and as far as possible.”
Folks already talk about this crap?
Continues to feed my gut impression that taking people with mental issues (believing your natural body is inherently wrong qualifies to me… I don’t care how they reclassify things) and pumping them full of hormones is Not a Great Plan ™….
I’m sure it is already memory-holed outside of “extreme MAGA right-wing argle bargle media!”
Wow.
I really hope the Babylon Bee publishes something about “Shooter triggered by Joel Osteen’s Teeth” or something.
Shooter Fed Up with Osteen’s Made Up Stories.
Usual suspect Lina Hidalgo sez:
… that’s rich. The El Salvadorian native no less
The brown face of white supremacy.
NPR was on it this morning, will probably be back on it if security are the ones who shot the kid.
Off duty police. Is this not a certainty?
ISTR the guy who outshot the people peacefully trying to murder the “Everyone Draw Mohammed” event was a cop.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curtis_Culwell_Center_attack
I am not really following. ‘Trans’ as in dude dressed as a woman?
Eh. The “evidence” is she wanted to be called “Jeffrey.” She didn’t dress in dude’s clothes.
Ok, in possession of an actual pussy, not a surgically created fraud. A biological woman. And lunatic.
I think I got it now.
If the “trans” person is the “victim”, the press will refer to said person by their declared sex and avoid calling out the dead name.
If the “trans” person is the criminal, the press will refer to said person by the true sex and may eventually note that jane wanted to be called jack.
They’re dead now – we still can’t dead-name them? I need the rule book for all this shit. I can’t keep up.
Spot the Not: things found next to a box full of classified documents in Joe Biden’s garage
1. an empty bucket
2. a Zappos (potato chip) box
3. a broken lamp wrapped with duct tape
4. synthetic firewood
5. a heap of oily rags
6. a collapsed dog crate
Zappos box?
7.
5
^Winner!
See here for all the actual items:
https://platedlizard.blogspot.com/2024/02/res-ipsa-loquitur.html
Gotta love the “…distinctive misspelling of ‘Afganastan’…” element.
#5. That ain’t oil.
Not the Not: 8. Suitcase with nuclear launch codes (unless stolen by Sam Brinton)
9. a plastic bag containing the desiccated corpse of Cracky.
uh-oh
‘Free Palestine’ Written on Lakewood Shooter’s Gun
https://www2.cbn.com/news/us/shooter-joel-osteens-lakewood-church-wrote-free-palestine-gun
I don’t remember that option at PSA.
I think that is the least surprising bit of all.
None of it is surprising. Has this even hit regular media yet? That would be the only surprising thing.
Has this even hit regular media yet?
Headline story on the Google News feed. The Free Palestine motto is getting mainstream coverage.
Silly person, it’s “Joel Osteen,” not “Joel Ostien.”
I love how this plan is working out, Animal. Can’t wait for the next episode!
Space news:
https://skyandtelescope.org/astronomy-news/how-venus-ended-up-with-a-mini-moon-named-zoozve/