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^^^ This is a GIF...not a meme ^^^

I'm writing this to let men know that some of the care they may get is obsolete and, if possible, get to a hospital and doctors that are on top of all the latest medical treatments available.  

As most older guys know, you pee more frequently as you get older.   My doctor said it was Benign Prostate Enlargement.  He was wrong.  It was stage 4 prostate cancer.  

I monitor my blood pressure and in the winter it started to go up, then it skyrocketed and put me in the hospital with kidney failure.   The hospital was able to save my kidneys, but found my urine system was blocked and my PSA was 50 and climbing.  I had the pleasant experience of having a Foley Catheter for 3 months until surgery removed the blockage.

All the news through the spring was bad.  Biopsy, PSMA tests and CAT scans were all bad.  I was referred to the local hospital Cancer center by my Urologist.  They had all the brochures proclaiming how good they were at treating cancer.  That did not reflect reality.  I received a third rate doctor who prescribed a 30 year old medicine along with Hormone Deprivation Shots.   He said radiation was not an option.  I asked how long, and he said 2 years would be good.

I have Cowboy Friends who went through Prostate Cancer.  They all said you need a better Doctor and Hospital.   Duke and Dr. George came highly recommended and I was in to see him in less than 2 weeks after my wife called for an appointment.  I was too shook up to handle the phone.

Dr. George probably save my life.  He calmly talked about what I was going through and what he could do.  He put me on Nubeqa, which is the up to date medicine that shuts down the Prostate cancer cells. He modified my diet and got me started on weightlifting to preserve my bones which tend to weaken with Hormone therapy.  He also said if the Nubeqa knocks down the remote tumors, radiation could get the rest in my prostate.

In December, my PSA was non detectable, the remote tumors were inactive and there was some activity in my Prostate.  Dr.  George  referred me to Dr.  Koffer for radiation treatment which was successfully completed on March 6.  I am now in Remission.  I asked about what if it comes back.  They said there are two more radiation treatments they can use plus more pharmaceuticals coming on line.  Dr.  George says he sees 10 years.

I have so many people to thank that have helped me through, gave wonderful advice and helped me out at the shoots I was able to attend.  Most of all, Cindy, my wife, has been a minder and soulmate through this.  The prayers to the Guy upstairs helped also!

Don't believe the guidelines for Prostate Screening.   Get your Prostate checked.

I'm always here if you have questions.

Null N. Void

I want to see if I can write a short story.

(Try no to laugh -- me, brief? -- well, miracles do happen!)

When I wrote Willamina's original tale, she reached out of the screen, seized me by the shirt collar, jerked me up short and glared those pale eyes into mine and hissed, "WRITE!" -- and of course the only correct reply to a lady is to lift the skypiece and say "Yes, ma'am!"

I honestly don't know where these sawed off tales will be -- past, present or future -- good Lord, you have ridden patiently with me clear to the Red Planet, we have trotted across the deck of a carrier as a pale eyed Kentucky fiddler took off in a Super Stallion and did things with that flying truck that should only be tried in a fighter jet, and we've gone well back to the past, clear back to not long after the American Revolution.

So -- fair warning -- we'll likely be wandering some.

When the noon freight hit me this morning, it was of course in Firelands, but it was in the hospital lobby, and there were a couple boys there named Emil and Gottleib, sons of Sheriff Linn Keller:  ten years old they are, and ... well, I'll let you look 'em over yourself.

Here they are.

THE SHERIFF'S TWINS

The punch caught Linn's right cheekbone coming in and it shook the man to his boot heels.

Something bright detonated in the lean-waisted, pale-eyed Sheriff's field of vision and his left arm spun up to block the follow up punch he knew was coming, he bent a little and drove a haymaker just under the other guy's wish bone, an uppercut delivered with all the muscle that throwing hay bales, scraping barns and other affairs of bein' Sheriff had given him, and he punched his good right fist into the man's guts hard enough to bring him off the ground feeling like that upward bound ballistic missile started just above the belly button and came to final rest a half inch beneath his Adam's apple.

A stainless-steel bedpan spun past the Sheriff's left ear like an insane, gleaming Frisbee and the pale eyed lawman turned, left arm up and hand bladed, he drew his left knee back to his belt buckle and drove a kick into an advancing belly and doubled the would-be attacker, knocking him back against the receptionist's desk hard enough to crack it loose from its bolted down foundations.

Dr. John Greenlees shoved through the double doors with an immaculate white coat unbuttoned and flowing open in the wind of his passing, wearing a shirt and tie and a professionally irritated expression:  the man was a gifted surgeon and he was not going to risk his hands in a punch, but he had a handful of laser sighted .44 revolver, and when this quiet man roared "ENOUGH!" and nobody paid him the least bit of attention, he hauled back the hammer and turned loose 240 grains of handloaded lead slug that knocked a spall out of the cement beam overhead half the size of a man's fist and brought everything to a fast stop.

The glass double doors hauled open and half a dozen lawmen swarmed in, looking around, two in the lead with shotguns cocked, locked and ready to rock, and the Sheriff straightened, glared at them with hard and pale eyes, and put the back of his hand gingerly to his swelling right cheek bone.

"What took you so long?"  Linn muttered.  "Doc, you okay?"

Emil Keller – one of the Sheriff's twins – looked at his brother Gottleib.

When the fight started in the waiting area out front, just inside the big glass doors and around the receptionist's desk, the Sheriff swung around in front of his boys and said "Boys, get in back," and they turned and ran through the heavy wooden double doors, shoving through them in pious defiance of the "NO ADMITTANCE" in red letters across their equator.

There was the general sound of a full-blown, shouting riot, a uniformed policeman came out of an exam room and ran to the sound of battle, and the twin ten-year-old boys ran into the room he'd just run out of.

Gottleib stopped and looked at the man lying on the treatment table.

Emil looked at Gottleib and then at the patient.

The man's eyes were wide and wild, he was shivering, he was sweating, he was looking around as if seeing something darting about the room, something that terrified him.

His manacled wrists were secured to a belly chain, he was belted down, it was evident he was confined and probably under arrest, but the officer assigned to watch him was gone, and now it was just two scared little boys and what was probably a dangerous, if not violent, prisoner.

"Don't let it near me," he hissed between clenched teeth, shaking, struggling:  "DON'T LET IT TOUCH ME!"

Emil went up beside the man, reached up, gripped one of the man's hands:  "My name's Emil," he said, "you're safe here," and the man's head snapped around and he looked at the serious-faced little boy and gave a scream of sheer terror.

"It's all right," Emil said with all the firmness and confidence he could manufacture – he'd heard his pale-eyed Pa say those same words, and in the same way – "you are safe here and I will not let you come to harm."

The man whimpered, looked around, clearly terrified.

"They'll hurt you," he gasped.  "They'll hurt you!"

"They'll not dare," Emil said with all the confidence as if he held a loaded shotgun himself:  he gave the man's hand a reassuring squeeze.  "You're cold.  Let me get you a blanket."

Gottleib looked around the room.

The boys knew hospitals sometimes had warmed blankets – Emil broke an arm falling out of the hay loft once, and they put a warmed blanket on him and he remembered how good it felt – Gottleib was in the room when this happened, and he looked around, pointed.

"There."

The two boys – identical in flannel shirt, blue jeans, polished boots and wide, basket-stamped belts – scampered over to the blanket warmer, opened it, carefully brought out a warmed, fragrant blanket.

They ran over to the prisoner and carefully, quickly, unfolded the blanket over him, ran back, got another.

"They can't hurt you now," Emil said, drawing on a childhood memory of hiding from nightmares by huddling under a blanket:  "you're safe now," and the prisoner relaxed visibly, blinking.

Neither boy really knew what to say and so they said nothing:  one stood on the man's left, the other on his right:  youthful hands gripped his shoulders reassuringly, and when the officer finally came back in, he looked, surprised, at the quiet prisoner, at the two boys, and asked with honest surprise, "What are you two doing in here?"

The janitor squinted at the crater in the cement beam.

"Yeah, I can patch that," he said confidently.  "Gimme a day and you'll never know it was there."

Dr. John Greenlees looked at the Sheriff, frowned.

"You'd better let me look at that."

The Sheriff nodded.  "Yeah," he grunted, dabbed at his nose, frowned at the drop of blood that came away when he brushed an experimental knuckle across the front of his beak.

They went in back and into the first treatment room, the room with the officer, the prisoner, and two boys.

The local paper had the expected article, describing how a fight broke out in the hospital's lobby, how the Sheriff, who was there to interview what turned out to be a poisoning victim, became the first lawman on scene; there was mention of the number of casualties, of the Sheriff's broken cheekbone, of the charges filed:  there was a smaller, separate article on how a college student from out of town ended up in police custody after erratic behavior, and how it was finally determined he'd been slipped some drug cocktail that brought out every paranoid fear he'd known, causing him to be violent and combative, and how this was treated, with no charges against him, and the investigation turned over to the police in the jurisdiction where the chemical assault took place.

The newspaper had no mention of two little boys who helped break the man's paranoia.

Linn patiently endured his wife's attentions as she fussed over his face:  it was bruised, it was going to be spectacularly colored, Doc tended the cracked bone as best as could be done, gave his good professional advice, and turned the Sheriff loose:  as he and his boys left for the office and paperwork, and then home, they passed the janitor up on a ladder plastering the bullet crater full:  it would be ready to paint in a few hours, and Linn knew the man took pride in his work, and you wouldn't be able to tell the difference in twenty-four hours.

Emil and Gottleib waited patiently as their tall, pale-eyed Pa conferred with the police chief and a variety of officers, they stayed to one side and silent as lawmen came and went, as the prosecutor discussed what had transpired, and finally, when the Sheriff stood and stretched, he looked over at his sons and winked and said "Fellas, let me tell you a secret."

The twins came to their feet and with one voice said "Yes, sir?"

"Cheek bones heal better with ice cream."

"Yes, sir!" came the eager, juvenile-grin reply, and the three of them walked down to the chrome-and-glass drugstore with all the mirrors and polished metalwork, and sat down at a table with a chocolate sundae in front of each of them.

They waited until the Sheriff picked up his spoon, and hesitated when he hesitated.

"Boys," he said seriously, "your Mama would not be happy with us spoilin' our supper."

"No, sir," the boys said, looking sorrowfully at the bounty before them.

"There is a solution."

Hopeful eyes raised to their solemn-faced Pa.

"Since this is for medicinal purposes only," he continued, as solemn as the old judge, "we just don't tell her!"

Three pale-eyed Kellers in well polished boots and blue jeans, snatched up their spoons and happily consumed their chilly treats.

After they'd eaten, the Sheriff listened carefully to his boys' testimony.

It was not so much an interrogation as it was an interested father looking at a situation through the eyes of his sons.

He listened to their description of how they went into the back hall, and how they thought that general knock down drag out brawl might spill through the doors they'd just pushed through, and so they ducked into a room the policeman just came out of – they knew it wouldn't be locked, so they could get in – they described the appearance of the man on the ER gurney, and they gave a clear verbal picture of the terror on his face, how he was looking around at something and telling them how "IT" was going to get him, and how Emil tried to reassure him with touch – something he'd learned from his Pa, though he didn't say as much – and how he'd realized the fellow was cold.

Emil and Gottleib described remembering the warmed blankets and finding the blanket warmer, and how they covered him with one and then another, because Emil remembered how fast his first warmed blanket cooled off, and how this was a comfort to the man.

Linn listened patiently, carefully, to what his sons told him, and then he leaned across the small, cleared, glass-topped drugstore table, and took their hands in his.

"Fellas," he said quietly, looking into one son's eyes, and then the other, "you have done a good thing.  You brought comfort to one who needed comforted."  He squeezed their hands just a little and smiled, remembering at time when his own pale-eyed Mama told him the same thing, under rather different circumstances, but knowing it would be meaningful nonetheless:  "You did a very good thing an I am pretty damned proud of you both!"

It is a powerful thing when a father praises his sons, and Linn knew it was a lesson his sons would remember, and God willing, it would be a thing they would do with their own sons.

They won't go broke over the  loss of my $150.00, but if I can't buy that why would I ever buy ANYTHING from them in the future.  I haven't found what I want anywhere else for almost 15 years.

Suggestion: If  someone wants to buy it and resell it to me I'll happily pay 50% or whatever is  reasonable over the Ebay price before it's shipped to me

Thanks.

https://www.npr.org/2026/04/01/nx-s1-5768254/nasa-astronauts-about-to-launch-moon-artemis-ii

https://www.facebook.com/reel/2796973943997899?mibextid=9drbnH&s=yWDuG2&fs=e

So it's time to celebrate Ms Helen Brimstone's birthday.  And no, I will NOT state her age - but she is a mite younger than me.  

Anyway, I thought I'd give her something totally whimsical for her b'day.  And Ms Helen happens to really like faeries.  And, it also just so happens that I have a great-niece who does a bit of sculpting, when she's not busy with school or farm chores.  So, I contacted the young lady, and "commissioned" her to make a Faerie House.  Yesterday, the mail brought a package, which contained one faerie house - with faerie, seated on a mushroom!  

Below are pictures.  I think she did a wonderful job!  She started with a glass jar for an armature, and built it up with clay.  I'm impressed with the detail; even the roof mushrooms have gills on their undersides.  And an interesting feature is that it is not painted!  Rather, it is literally made with different colors of clay... if she does not have a desired color, she will mix clays to create the shade she wants.  Oh - and with an electric tea light inside, the windows magically glow!  I don't know if she could tell me how many hours she put into it, but I'm sure it was quite a few.

And here's a kicker:  The lass just turned fourteen!  

One Faerie House, With Faerie  

I was at Mule Camp, just north of Atlanta. I'm sitting in my motel room and I hear this siren go off. Later it went off again. Then somebody came knocked on the door. Wanted to make sure I was all right. Because when the tornado siren went off, we were supposed to go to the lobby of the hotel. Apparently that was stronger. And they took a count and I wasn't there.

We DON'T got tornado sirens where I live. I had never heard of them before.

I have heard them on television shows and in movies since then, but I've never even seen them on the boob tube before.

So I'm just wondering if there's any place else in the country, besides the panhandle of Florida, that does not have tornado sirens?

Added: Damn I hate when otto deletes words. Tends to change the entire meeting of the sentence, you know what I mean?

Given our current relations with Canada, I don't think they would look favorably at any who decided to go that route.

The new law signed by the president doesn't say anything (that I know of) about recalling officers. Not sure they would want an almost 84 year-old former O-3, unless desperate for Minuteman III maintenance types. I'd be willing to serve, and could probably push paper, as they don't target and align Minuteman III the way we did MMI. I can still fit into my Air Force fatigues, however. 

https://www.invaluable.com/auction-lot/a-well-engineered-approximately-1-4-scale-50-bmg--1099-c-4c80fa4c7b?objectID=202880518&algIndex=upcoming_lots_lotNumber_asc_prod&queryID=67b60ee420b40804ecfe7083826e801c

     October 17, 1989.  Five o’clock in the afternoon and life was good.  Most of my co-workers had vacated. But I was still in the office, and undoubtedly would be for some time.  The third game of the Best World Series in History was about to begin and I was going to miss it… but wasn’t worried one bit – I’d set my VCR, and it would just be starting.  My hometown Oakland A’s versus the San Francisco Giants!  I’d make a point of not listening to the game on the radio, and when I did finally make it home I’d settle back with a nice dinner and watch from the start.  It was going to be great!

     Well, as Bobbie Burns said,

“The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!”

     Five o’clock.  I puttered about, seeing the backs of the last stragglers headed for the elevators, eager to begin the 18 floor descent to ground level and their own dashes toward home or to join the throngs at a local “watering hole.”  A small handful remained to tend the finish of the days settlements; me, Mabel Woo, Huey Cassidy, Brenda Bagis, Marie Tarantan…

     Four minutes later life changed.

     With the first tremor we took note. Almost automatically, we all looked for our resident NYB’s (pronounced “nibs.”)   New York Bankers.  We were infested with ‘em.  Brought in by hordes to “save us from ourselves” after a major system conversion had gone south a couple years earlier.  By and large an unpleasantly intense bunch.  Predictably, your typical NYB was capable of increasing the collective blood pressure of a conference room full of natives by his or her mere presence… frequently causing downright unhealthy spikes.  The fortunate thing was that this tended to be a condition with a built-in terminal date.  Invariably, after an indeterminate period of one to three years, an invisible switch would *click* and a most amazing transformation would occur – the NYB would experience an instant conversion to Reborn Californian, surrounded by a “mist of Mellow.” 

     Take David Steinberg or Bob Lyons, for example.  A year and a half we suffered with Steinberg… even if he walked into a conference room unseen and unheard, the hairs on one’s arms and back of the neck would lift and tingle.  And then one day, David (now “Dave!”) strolled in with a smile, dressed in shorts, sandals, and an aloha shirt.  We all smiled… Dave had been ASSIMILATED!  Bob always had one in a defensive state, readily lacing his monologues with degrading statements such as his “definition of the West Coast Work Ethic – ‘DON’T!’”  Then one morning, Bob drove up in an old MG Midget, strolled in with a smile… he had become One of Us.  Downright endearing.

     But this current batch was still pre-conversion. Difficult to live with.  One of our few pleasures was watching them react to local events, such as demonstrations, riots, and of course, earthquakes.

     And what a delight they were when the earth quaked!  Why, they KNEW what to do… they’d been told before they ever made the migration West.  So, at the instant they detected a shiver and determined it was not someone trundling past with a pastry cart, they would immediately brace themselves in a doorway.  If it became anything more, we “natives” would find great delight in noting their expensively-clad butts poking out from beneath desks.  Great fun!

     But not today.

     Not October 17, 1989.  Not at five oh four p m on this day.

     One of my clearest memories of that afternoon was the few NYBs in sight freezing in situ.  Not a one of ‘em made a dash for a doorway or desk.  But we natives did!  Because we KNEW.  We knew this was “The Big Eye-Tee.”  This one was IT!

     I ducked into my office doorway and grasped the doorframe on each side.  As desks hopped, acoustic ceiling tiles flew like errant Frisbees, and desktop items crashed to the floor, I watched Huey, Mable, and Marie scramble for cover.  Hearing a plaintive yelp, I looked out and spotted Brenda.  Evidently returning from the Lady’s, she had been just entering our department when IT hit.  And there she was… she’d grasped the doorknobs on each side of the door, and was hanging on like it was a narrow motorcycle handlebar.  Her feet were off the floor; she was squeezing the door with her knees, riding it as it swung to and fro, weakly crying “Mama!  Mama!!” 

     Soon, Brenda was drowned out by a cacophony of rumbling and crashing.  By now all the ceiling light fixtures had popped from their moorings and were swinging by the power cables.  I heard another heartsick sound – the magnetically controlled access doors to the emergency staircase slamming shut.

     We were trapped.

     Eventually, it stopped.  After a few ending shudders and rolls, we “natives” crawled or stepped from our shelters.  The NYB’s continued to stand in place, stock-still… each apparently stunned.

     But we were still trapped.  Obviously, the elevators were off-line, and the magnetically controlled access doors to the emergency staircase were still shut – and could not be opened.

     And it was dark.  Not completely, but electrical power was lost. The only illumination was from the exterior windows and a few scattered emergency lamps.  Surprisingly, the phones were still operable – others quickly checked with loved ones; I reached my missus at home and made a tentative plan for her to meet me at the ferry terminal in Vallejo.

     As I recall, somehow those doors were eventually freed, allowing us to make the absurdly long hike to ground level.  While en route I took a slight detour two floors down to check on my dear friend Dona Johnson.  As expected, she was still there.  Not as expected, the normally calm and unflappable woman was in shock and barely functional.

      “Dona! Let’s go – we need to get out of here!”

     With a vacant expression, she would only say “I think we should wait and see what happens… don’t you?”

     After she’d repeated this twice, I grabbed a phone and found that my boss (who was an otherwise creepy fella) was still in his office.  I knew that he had taken BART to work and would not have a way home, so I quickly came up with a plan:  Dona was in no condition to drive home to Richmond – and had she been, we had not yet heard of the partial collapse of the Bay Bridge.  Jeff would use her car to get home, but would first drive us to the Ferry Terminal.  I would put Dona on a boat to Richmond, and I would board one bound for Vallejo.

     I gently but insistently helped Dona to the ground floor, working our way through a crowd of dazed and lost-soul looking bankers.   Just before we rendezvoused with Jeff, Eric Mendelson spotted me and dashed over.

      “Rocko! The Bay Bridge is down! Look… you can stay at my place in the Marina district for the night – or longer, if need be…”

     I thanked Eric, and told him what we were about. Then I looked to the northeast.  The sky in that direction was covered by a wall of smoke.

      “Eric…”

     He followed my gaze, and groaned. Indeed, it would be many days until he would be able to reach home – and then only to gather belongings and evacuate.

     I wished him well, and Jeff and Dona and I made our way quickly to the garage.  I had Dona give Jeff her keys, and we found our way onto the city streets. Jeff was only able to get us to within three blocks of the Ferry Terminal – the roadways were filled with mobs of people; indeed, the scene immediately brought to mind the countless Godzilla movies of my youth, with half of Tokyo desperately trying to escape the monster. I also noticed that in places the sidewalks were littered with rubble – mostly chunks of masonry; brick cornices and window ledges.

     It’s all still a blur, but after leaving Jeff, I steered Dona to the terminal.  Amazingly, there were two boats there – I managed to get her a ticket and aboard the Richmond-bound ship.  When she saw the collapsed section of the bridge, her mind cleared and she realized what she needed to do.  I don’t recall how she made it home from the terminal in Richmond, but we had that figured out before she embarked. 

     Seeing her safely aboard, I made my way through the crowd to the Vallejo dock.  Oh Christ, NOW what? I thought as I saw the boat standing off from the dock.  Her captain was evidently unsure about the wisdom of trying to tie up, pointing to the bent spire of the terminal building.  Finally, as a result of either pleads and cajoling or shouted threats of his fate later if he did NOT dock, he came in.

     Needless to say, the boat was more crowded than I’d ever seen. Despite mental images of those Phillipine ferry tragedies we all read about (boats capsizing when overloaded), we boarded and eventually got underway. If there was one fortunate twist to this it is the timing – the ferry had been delayed almost an hour, giving me the opportunity to get aboard.

     And of course, the boat ride was both memorable and forgettable.  I do recall the on-board bar doing a bang-up business, pretty much depleting their stock by the time we reached our destination.  And of course, there were NO “earthquake discounts.”

     But we made it.  When we disembarked, Lisa was waiting for me, wide-eyed and astonished.  We transported another ferry passenger home then drove to our own.  Later that night, after ascertaining that the Carquinez Bridge was open, she drove me to Concord to fetch my li’l Ford Ranger, parked at a bank garage near the BART station.

     Then back home, for a well-deserved glass of “adult beverage.” 

     The following morning would begin the next part of the story – to be shared later.

     And by the way – my recorded tape of the ball game turned out to be a remarkable documentary.

*     *     *     *     *

Feel free to send small files by PM here if you like, and I will ask for a full size/quality image to go to my email address.

          Thank You Very Much,   the Kid

Just curious.

Then I started another thread about cats, but something was posted so that whenever I try to open that thread my browser crashes. It does not appear to affect anybody but me, but it does it every time. So I will not try to open it anymore.

Thus we now have cat thread number 3.

The U.S. Postal Service (USPS) on April 2, 2026, published a proposed rule that would permit the mailing of lawful handguns through the U.S. mail for the first time in nearly a century. The change aligns Postal Service regulations with a January 2026 Department of Justice (DOJ) opinion declaring the longstanding federal ban on mailing “concealable firearms” unconstitutional under the Second Amendment.

The proposal, detailed in the Federal Register, revises standards in USPS Publication 52 (Hazardous, Restricted, and Perishable Mail). It expands “mailable firearms” to include pistols, revolvers, and other handguns—previously classified as nonmailable—under the same conditions already applied to rifles and shotguns. Firearms must be unloaded, securely packaged according to “Domestic Mail Manual” guidelines, and bear no external markings indicating the contents. Most shipments require USPS tracking and signature confirmation at delivery. Mailers must also comply with the Gun Control Act of 1968, state and local laws, and all other federal regulations.

https://gunsamerica.com/digest/smith-wesson-mp-2-0-review/

Most of the YouTube shorts have subtitles. I was watching one the other day - Chato's Land. Charles Bronson western where he is a half breed, who made the audacious move as to attempt to get a drink in the saloon.

While all the white people in the saloon was laughing at this enjoyable spectacle, the sheriff informed him that this was a white man's bar served white man's liquor.

"Do you hear me you damned red (evil n word)?"

He said it. You could clearly hear him say it. But the subtitles just left it off.

There are a lot of videos of Dave Chappelle stand-up routines. He uses the word constantly, and he will say something like, "I called him on the phone and I said hey (evil n word) what's up?" And the subtitles will say, "I called him on the phone and I said hey ______ what's up?" You clearly hear him say it, but they leave it out of the subtitles.

I was watching one the other day and the guy had a gun in his hand. It was obvious he had a gun. But from about halfway down his forearm to maybe six inches past the end of his fingers it had been pixelated out, so you could not see the gun.

I was watching another one where a guy had been in a car wreck and his face was all bloody. And they pixelated out his face so you could not see the blood.

And I see more and more like this. And I just wonder if YouTube is doing it, or if the dummies that are posting them are doing it?

For example - if I was being searched and they found a bag of drugs in my pocket, so they just took them out of my pocket with their little bare hands, then I could insist that the reason their fingerprints were on it was because they had planted it on me. So when they removed the bag of drugs from my pocket they should have been wearing gloves.

Right?

The two on the left - not so much. Especially that front left.

So my question is why would those two muffins not rise like the other four?

My first thought was they were running out of batter. But I don't know if they would have filled the cup all the way up to the edge if that was the problem.

I'm just curious. Any thoughts?

He won the "no-bell" prize.

With a bit of wire, solder, and a few rubber bands, I was able to make a nice one for use on the powder baffle.  Here is a shot of the two parts and then the entire setup. The red arrow shows the vibrator motor rubber-banded to the baffle.

But this, I thought it was actually funny.