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.... "...no thanks, we gave at the office ..." .......

Kind of like the joke about all the parts of the body that want to be boss... The bladder doesn't end up as boss.

Those weren't called boxes, they were called forts when I was a kid. The boxes were waxed, made them (sorta/kinda) rainproof...

I don't think I could get used to things wanting to kill me around every corner and everywhere! My house would end up with bullet holes everywhere If ya grow up with it I suppose you don't think much of it.

Actually looks like a little girl's bedroom. Double yikes.

At least in NE Ohio, the first dusting of snow every year, people totally forget how to drive. I enjoy seeing people with 4WD/AWD in the ditches thinking that they could go anywhere and drive any way they wished.

Amen Brother

Recently, in Utah Bob's kitchen, he turned his back while making a snack:

Nope, I'm pretty sure it's a snake's bedroom.

Ours was to kneel by our desk and pray the Rosary.

At a bakery in Ukraine

Just Wondering:

In the time of the USSR, it was easy for Soviet border guards to recognize a fake passport. The staples in a fake passport were never corroded.

THE DOCTOR'S WIFE'S SECRET The Bear Killer was enjoying the benefits of Firelands' expansion. Already that day he'd been slipped a few toothsome dainties in their bakery: he'd been trotting happily beside Sarah as she did her Mama's marketing, he'd dropped his broad bottom to the scrupulously clean floor, burnished the boards with his tail's hopeful sweeps, as he employed that most potent of canine persuasions: The Bear Killer regarded the baker with big, shining, puppy-dog eyes. As Sarah collected a dozen spiral soemthings with cinnamon in them and sweet sticky and nuts on top, the proprietor winked at Sarah and tossed a few treats high in the air, amused as The Bear Killer snapped them easily from their descending ballistic trajectory. The butcher shop was another stop: this was a new innovation, and the townspeople took pride in having their very own butcher's shop, for this meant they were Prosperous, and like the bakery, they could afford to purchase what -- until then -- they did for themselves. Here The Bear Killer's wet nose was working, his tongue was hanging happily, he was panting, a hopeful expression to his canine face: when this did not produce the desired airborne treats, The Bear Killer tried The Ultimate Canine Weapon of Persuasion. The Bear Killer regarded the butcher with big, shining, puppy dog eyes. The entire town knew The Bear Killer, this curly furred creature the size of a young bear, to be a formidable enforcer of the Sheriff's will, they knew The Bear Killer to be a loud and most persuasive guardian of his young charges' safety, but the butcher was a man with a fondness for dogs, and a weakness for this visual persuasion, especially from the well mannered The Bear Killer, and so -- again -- dainties were tossed and caught, and The Bear Killer's forepaws fairly pranced with delight as the miniature meats were masticated. Sarah and The Bear Killer had occasion to encounter Dr. Greenlees, not long after: the physician's frowning eyes were on the ground as he walked, obviously deep in thought: he stopped suddenly, blinked as he saw Sarah, lifted his Homburg and greeted her politely: Sarah spoke to him and his wife both, and Dr. Greenlees hesitated, assessing Sarah with a professional medical eye, and also the eye of a man who was realizing (with some surprise) that a living soul he'd known as a wee child, was suddenly a woman, and a very attractive one, at that. Dr. Greenlees considered for a moment, then asked with his usual frankness, "Miss McKenna, forgive my being forward, but how would a man begin to earn your good graces?" Sarah smiled at Nurse Susan -- they shared one of those looks that women use for swift and silent communication -- then Sarah blinked innocently and lay gloved fingertips on the good physician's forearm and came up on her tiptoes. Dr. Greenlees bent to bring his ear close to her whispering lips, to receive her feminine sibilants. "It's when you give me those puppy-dog eyes," Sarah whispered, knowing the wall behind would help reflect her words, knowing full well Nurse Susan's hearing was excellent: Sarah looked over the back of the bowed surgeon's head, smiled a little as Nurse Susan nodded slightly to show she'd heard: Dr. Greenlees straightened, Sarah dipped her knees and dropped her eyes, and continued on her way, The Bear Killer happily pacing along beside her. Nurse Susan smiled just a little as they, too, continued on their journey. "Dr. Greenlees," Nurse Susan said quietly, "do you know what first endeared you to my heart?" Dr. Greenlees looked at his wife, smiled gently, his hand on her gloved fingers. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Greenlees," he replied, "I do not." Mrs. John Greenlees stopped, turned to face her husband squarely: she reached up, caressed his smooth-shaven cheek, looked deep into his dark eyes and smiled. "It was those big puppy-dog eyes," she whispered: her hand tightened on her arm, they both turned, and continued their journey down the boardwalk.

That looks like a kids bedroom. Yikes

Did that as well but we were all against the inside wall.

How old is that song?

Howdy fellow Grumps, just poppin' in to say hi, been a bit down in the dumps lately with different things happening, not shooting Cowboy as much but still enjoy having a shot. Shooting BP this coming w'end. Trap has been my main go to recently. Australia & Canada have one big thing in common ...Senseless Governments '' Hope ya' all as well as you can be...Cream buns & hot coffee are on me...that's after ya' mow the dang lawn..iffin' there ain't no snow on it.!!

Too much resistance here. I'm going to meditate. Ohmmmmmmmm.

THE WINNER Cold blew around them, father and son, wind carrying a few tiny, pioneering crystals of frozen promise, harbingers of the white that would cover the pasture, and soon. The horses were shaggy with winter coats; Jacob had ridden the immense pasture, studied where the herd would shelter from wind, from weather, he and his father cut the standing dead trees and bucked them up for stovewood -- what they didn't use, somebody would. Linn wanted to get the standing dead cut so they would not fall in a windstorm and kill any livestock sheltering among them. The resultant stovewood, of course, was a welcome bonus. Father and son worked in companionable silence, neither speaking. Neither had to. They tossed wood in a surprisingly tidy stack in the back of the truck. Warmed from their labors, they hung their coats hung on a convenient stub: each periodically dusted his leather gloves together to knock off dust and dirt so their grip would be sure and firm and not slick: neither wanted a sizable chunk of seasoned wood slipping from their hands and landing on a foot. Superstition, you understand: each man considered crush injuries as bad luck. They looked around, satisifed, forced and fitted the small branches they'd stacked for the purpose -- kindling they wouldn't have to split -- they retrieved their coats, shrugged into blanket lined insulation, peeled off sweat-damp work gloves and shared a thermos of steaming-hot coffee. Jacob looked at his father and grinned and Linn looked at his son and laughed. "Out with it," he said, and Jacob took a noisy slurp of coffee, steamed out a breath, nodded. "You recall Grant, works for water and wastewater." "I recall." "He's got that big busy beard." Linn nodded, swirled coffee in his red-plastic thermos cup. "The one his wife gives him hell about?" "The same." "She cut another big gouge in it?" Jacob laughed, his mirth expressed in expanding clouds of vapor, snatched away by the cold wind. "He won't let her trim his beard anymore, not when she cuts big gouges in it to try and get him to shave it." Linn sighed. "I grew a beard once," he said softly. "Shelly give me hell for it. I tormented her and said I wanted to grow it clear down to my belt buckle like ZZ Topp, and she threatened to smear bacon grease down its full length so squirrels would eat me alive." He laughed. "It never got more than an inch long and 'twas so thin, why, I give it up for a bad job and mowed it off." Jacob rubbed his own smooth chin, frowned. "Figure to grow a beard, Jacob?" "No, sir," Jacob grinned. "Least not today." Linn nodded. "Your Mama has that big tub of bacon grease she cooks with." Jacob looked at his father, suddenly, the way a son will when he realizes he'd just put another puzzle piece in place. "Sir, is that why that plastic butter tub is marked ZZ Topp?" Linn laughed, nodded. "That's the reason, Jacob," he affirmed. "Every time she reaches for cookin' grease, why, it reminds her she won that round." He gave his son a meaningful look and added, "The wise husband will let his wife know when she's won." "I'll remember that, sir." "More coffee?" "No thank you, sir, don't want to water every fencepost from here to there." "Me neither." Linn corked and capped the thermos, set it back in the cab, looked around. "We got all the tools?" "Loaded up, sir, and secure." "Good show." Linn took a deep breath, blew it out, looked up at lead colored clouds, considered. "Well, I reckon we'd ought to get rid of this-yere wood." "Yes, sir." "How we set for stovewood back at the house?" "We could use another stack, sir." "We got room for all this?" "No, sir." "Still a couple trees to cut." "Yes, sir." "Reckon the Widow Hostetler could use some winter's heat?" "I reckon so, sir." "We'll drop off the saws and the cans and we'll hitch on the wood splitter." "Yes, sir." "We swear an oath in Freemasonry to extend relief to worthy distressed Master Masons, their widows and orphans." "Yes, sir." "That charity is contagious. You're familiar with Shriner's Hospitals." "I am, sir." "Don Hostetler wasn't a Mason," Linn said softly, and Jacob saw a memory in his father's eyes. "Poor fellow was born poor, he lived poor, he died poor. He wasn't a Mason, but he was one of the best men I ever knew." He looked at Jacob and grinned. "You drive. I want to sightsee." Father and son climbed in the cab of their fading orange Dodge; the aging four wheel drive groaned, ground and cackled its way back across the pasture, father and son once again comfortably immersed in companionable silence. Later that evening, when Jacob raided the refrigerator (the way a lean son will), he stared into its depths and laughed, then closed the door: Shelly was about to remonstrate him for standing there with the door open when he closed it and paced over to her, gave her a big hug: his head was leaned over against the top of hers (good God, how'd you get so tall! she thought), and Jacob slacked his embrace, held his Mama's shoulders with a light, very careful, fingertip grip (you even hug like your father!) and grinned, "Mama, thank you." "For what?" "It's not every day I get to hug a winner!" Jacob kissed his Mama's cheek, turned, paced across the kitchen, silent in sock feet: he sat down in their living room, picked up a book, leaned back in a chair, began to read. Linn looked up from his own study, saw the puzzled look Shelly was giving their son. Linn's eyes went to the refrigerator, tightened a little at the corners, then returned innocently to his own reading.

Yeah.....that'll be the day

........ no, you get eaten by them things ........

Man, I gotta ask... do y'all eat them things??

Once again, thank you.

.............. yep ......

We do something similar here; but we put it in a paper bag on the dog owner's doorstep, light it on fire, ring the doorbell, and run like hell. LL

I like his front deck.

...... those funnels are everywhere there's roadworks ...... ...... so handy ......

I'm having fun imagining what the possibilities are of what the owner wrote on the insurance claim .......

Could be worse. That tree could have landed 5 feet further back.