Caleb

HoH
Christine Brecht
Christine

PoV

Cody

Victoria

Nomin
Derrick Levasseur
Derrick

Frankie

Nicole

Nomin
Donny Thompson
Donny

Day 70
Zach Rance
Zach

Day 63
Hayden Voss
Hayden

Day 49

Jocasta

Day 49

Amber

Day 42

Brittany

Day 35

Devin

Day 28
Paola Shea
Paola

Day 21

Joey

Day 14
Jury Jury Jury Jury

Big Brother 15 – The Final HoH Round Is Set

bb15-andy-ginamarie-finals

Round 2 of the final HoH competition was played last night, and from what I hear it took quite a long time.  It was a timed competition where Andy and Spencer had an hour to climb something and arrange things based on the order of evicted houseguests.  I didn’t watch much of the feeds yesterday because I took a much needed day off from blogging about the house.  It doesn’t hurt that every time I log on the feeds, I hear GinaMarie chatting away and want to jab a screwdriver in my ear. Anyway, the final competition was Andy versus Spencer, and I’ll let you take a wild guess who won this….

Yes, by an extremely tight margin of about 15 minutes, Andy destroyed Spencer and is headed to the final round of the HoH against GinaMarie.  This final 2 comes as a surprise to just about nobody as Spencer’s only shot at winning would have been a beard growing challenge.  This doesn’t mean Spencer is out of the final 2, it just means his fate is completely in the hands of either GinaMarie or Andy at this point.  If either of them have a brain, they’d take Spencer, but as of right now they’re ‘promising’ to take one another regardless of who wins the final challenge.

With that said, it’s not a surprise that they’re promising each other a spot in the final 2.  I’d like to think both have the intention of taking Spencer while promising deals in the event they do lose, but nothing would surprise me at this point.  All 3 of them have basically lucked their way into the final 3 by being the weakest and lowest priority target of their respective alliances.  Some may call them floaters, I just call them weak players who sat on the sidelines while the strong ones killed each other (that could also be considered a smart strategy?).

Enough about those 3, I want to mention some sad news.  If you were watching this season, you’d know that former houseguest Britney Haynes had a baby recently as Julie announced it to the house.  Sadly, Britney revealed that her baby (Tilly) was diagnosed with cancer.  There really aren’t very many words for this other than it really sucks and I hope the best for Britney, her family, and especially Tilly.  There is a hashtag going around twitter #prayfortilly if you want to show your support and send positive vibes their way.

Back to the house briefly, I’m not really sure how much I’ll be reporting this week as it’s generally the slowest period in the house and this final 3 is probably the least interesting trio possible.  I’d like to get another update or two in before the finale, but school has also started and I also need to start re-focusing on my other blog Teen Mom Junkies (there is a lot of train wreck to catch up on there).

PS – For those wondering, test results came back for my father and we got good news!  Yay!  Thank you for your kind words during my brief absence.

PPS – I think next season I’m going to require a log-in to comment, this way I can have better control over banning (should someone need it), among another things.


Comment Policy

I don't want to moderate every single comment on this blog, so please don't make me have to. Please do not bash other people for their opinions, also don't swear like Amanda. Once in awhile is ok, but every other word is not (kids can read this).

The obvious stuff is also there... no attacks, threats, etc. No racist remarks, etc. Use common sense and talk to people like you'd talk to your grandmother who is a Big Brother fan

Thank you!

485 comments

  1. robin says:
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    A whovian plug here. But for those of you would watch Doctor who you may remember this, and for those who dont you may want to see this episode for kicks. There was a marathon on Space today and saw the “badwolf” episode, the last episode of season one of the new series.

    In it they had a clip of Big brother 3000 and something. The reason I was sickly laugh: when you got eliminated (by voters at home not guest, which is way better, glass house) you weren’t just eliminated from the house you were eliminated from “life”. i wonder how BB15 players would have played if they were on that season lol.

    • Big Papi says:
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      Huh?

      • suzyq says:
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        There once was a fellow McSweeny
        Who spilled some gin on his weenie
        Just to be couth
        He added vermouth
        Then slipped his girlfriend a martini

        There once was a man Robin Hood
        Who lived in a Knottingham wood
        He learned how to f**k
        from old Friar Tuck
        And made Marion whenever he could

        There once was a fellow O’Doole
        Who found little red spots on his tool
        His Doctor a cynic
        said Get out of me clinic,
        And wipe off that lipstick you fool!

        A pirate, history relates
        Was scuffling with some of his mates
        When he slipped on a cutlass
        Which rendered him nutless
        And practically useless on dates

        There once was a woman named Jill
        Who swallowed an exploding pill
        They found her vagina
        In North Carolina
        And her tits in a tree in Brazil

        There once was a plumber from Lee
        Who was plumbing his girl by the sea
        She said Stop your plumbing,
        There’s somebody coming!
        Said the plumber still plumbing… It’s me!

        A right twisted wench from Caprees-ed
        Orgasmed each time that she sneez-ed
        To the druggist she went
        And laid down her last cent
        Said, “A barrel of snuff, if you pleas-ed.”

        On the moors Kelly walked in a daze
        There she’d bark at the moon and the haze
        Still her friends weren’t concerned
        For by now they had learned
        Once a month she would go through this phase.
        (author’s note to the ladies: “She was a
        werewolf. Now is it funny?”)

        A randy marsupial named Reeves
        Spent some time with the whores ‘tween their knees
        When they’d asked him for money
        He’d say “Listen honey
        A koala eats bushes and leaves.”

        Now down in the valley of Shneel
        Lived a woman who loved to reveal
        With her curtains well drawn
        Standing bare as a fawn
        She’d do this really neat trick with an eel

        Now this right old man was a sick ‘un
        He had a dozen hen ripe for the pickin’
        He’d chase ‘em around
        With his trousers pulled down
        And he’d say “Whatsa matter, you chicken?”

        A new farmer’s helper named Kull
        Accidentally was milking a bull
        The farmer said, “Boy yer dumb,
        You done milked the wrong one!”
        Said the boy, “But me whole bucket’s full.”

        Twas a crazy old man called O’Keef
        Who caused local farmers much grief
        To their cows he would run
        Cut their legs off for fun
        And say “Look, I’ve invented ground beef!”

        There once was a man from Madrass
        Whose balls were made out of brass
        When he’d bang ‘em together
        They’d play stormy weather
        And lightning would shoot out of his ass

        There once was a man from Havana
        Screwed a girl on a player piano
        At the height of their fever
        Her ass hit the lever
        And Yes he has no banana…

        There once was a man from East Kent
        Whose tool was so long that it bent
        To save her some trouble
        He folded it double
        And instead of coming…he went

        There once was a man from Bonaire
        Who was doing his wife on the stair
        When the banister broke
        He doubled his stroke
        And finished her off in midair

        On a knoll a young maiden named Molly
        Her innocence lost through young folly
        His name was Sing Chum
        And too soon he did cum
        And all he could say was “I’m solly!”

        A bear taking a dump asked a rabbit
        “Does shit stick to your fur as a habit?”
        “Of course not,” said the hare,
        “It’s really quite rare!”
        So the bear wiped his ass with the rabbit.

        There was a young tease from Mount Chesser
        Who’d smile as the men would assess her
        So flirtatious was she
        Inviting them home to tea
        Then allowing not one to undress her

        To his friend, Ned said, rather blue,
        “My wife Edith just told me we’re through,
        For she says I’m too fat.”
        And his friend told him that,
        “You can’t have your cake and Edith, too.”

        There once was a girl named Tristan
        Whose beer that she ordered was was pissed in
        She said “I don’t think,”
        As she spit out her drink,
        “On the menu that this one was listed.”

        Said a fool whose mind was quite miniscule
        As his ignorance reached a new pinnacle
        “I don’t believe in astrology
        It’s my ideology
        But I’m a Leo and Leo’s are cynical.

        I had me a wench from East Broint
        Who bade me her skin to anoint
        The girl had arthritis
        And so I decided
        She wouldn’t mind one more stiff joint.

  2. ashamed to be watching says:
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    Thank you Steven for all of your hard work ! I am very happy to hear that your father is doing better . I would Welcome a log in system ,but I am not sure if I would like it linked to my FB ( only because I am a very private person and do not share a lot on FB ), but have no problem with my IP address being tracked if I get out of line block me ! I do believe we should be accountable for our actions .Once again Thank you .

  3. Murphy'sLaw says:
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    Well, I leave you kids alone for a few hours and look you!!….haha…..All of you to your rooms for some time-out! Besides that…I’ve enjoyed tonight’s BB episode— their best/worst memories of each hg…..dang commercials interrupted the best stories!

  4. My 2 brain cells says:
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    Andy will be another Dan if he goes to F2. He will get one and only one vote, which is either GM or Spencer’s vote.

  5. Ludi says:
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    Thanks for the cool blogs Stevie

  6. Julz says:
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    wow, after watching this I lost respect for Judd, Helen and Jessie. I knew of Spencer, Aaryn, Amanda, GM, Kaitlyn, Jeremy, David, Howard, McCrae and Andy’sssssss vile & shady comments but missed some of the insight on this video compilation. I think “cast the first stone” should be the theme for next year!
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tyr5AOEzzc

  7. booboo says:
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    Hi,
    This is the first time I have watched BB US, I come from Spain and its very very different there. The HGs are nominated in the house but voted out by the public, and there can be up to 5 nominated…its a lot more exciting because the public has a lot more say in how things go. Although they cannot control who is nominated of course. And there is no jury, either, just the audience..I really didnt like this season I dont like the finalists and I am disappointed at the outcome now. Just watching because I have invested this much time already :(

    • Shirley says:
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      If the public votes, the house guests would be very careful about what they say and do, and especially in the USA, the winner would only have to be a “good person.” What’s the fun in that?

      • booboo says:
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        No its not like that at all! The thing is they forget about the cameras and the great part is that the HGs who are nominated get sent off and then the ones who are not evicted (can be 5 nominated but only 1 leaves) come back. Its always great to see who comes back and the reactions of the HGs who are desperately trying to get rid of someone if that someone comes back…of course, they can always nominate whoever they want, so the “best” of the “worst” (according to the audience) comes back. So if America’s worst nightmare never gets nominated they can never be evicted…so I guess Andy would still be there lol and of course so would Elissa and a few others…

    • richard says:
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      Scroll up a few message to my comment about why USA doesnt do it that way
      Just not enough people vote. A small group can control the game so this change was made to do it USA way.

  8. Shirley says:
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    The outcries about racism on Big Brother hasn’t put a dent in the racism in the USA.
    http://www.usatoday.com/story/life/people/2013/09/16/miss-america-nina-davuluri-brushes-off-racist-remarks/2819533/

  9. Midwest Middie says:
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    Hey stevebeans,
    It’s time to begin a new thread and hide this “Me” & “suzyq” thread
    in your archives. Please.
    : )

  10. Deb says:
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    The world is filled with low class humans such as ME, who believes the world revolves around them and are not happy unless they are making others miserable. The more you acknowledge ME’s bad behaviour, the more ME will do it, that is what this low class type of human thrives on, which means, ME will love this post because it is all about ME (as they like it) and it carries a negative tone (which is like an addiction to ME).
    I know it is hard to ignore such ignorance, but the more you respond, the more ME loves it. Ignore every single thing this person says and soon, when ME no longer gets a reaction, they will get bored and move on to a site where people will respond (as ME likes) to the negativity. Don’t feed the fire and it will burn itself out!

  11. Dan says:
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    No matter how this season has turned out I still hope they have more big brother seasons and think they should have a wheel of punishment when the contestants cross the line in the way they act. Big brother can be the judge of it and announce to the player they have crossed the line and have to go spin the wheel and see what their punishment is.
    I think it would add excitement if a player did but it really would help the players to keep more under control.

  12. Sadie says:
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    STEVEBEANS!!!! Why aren’t you banning these people?? God, they’re (if its indeed more than one) clogging up all the post forums with this idiocy. Jesus Christ.

    • Midwest Middie says:
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      Why hasn’t stevebeans put up a new thread? Period.
      You can time cooking a 3 minute egg waiting for this page to download.
      Ridiculous!

    • suzyq says:
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      A man and his wife go to their honeymoon hotel for their 25th anniversary. As the couple reflected on that magical evening 25 years ago, the wife asked the husband, “When you first saw my naked body in front of you, what was going through your mind?”

      The husband replied, “All I wanted to do was to fuck your brains out, and suck your tits dry.”

      Then, as the wife undressed, she asked, “What are you thinking now?”

      He replied, “It looks as if I did a pretty good job.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      As an airplane is about to crash, a female passenger jumps up frantically and announces, “If I’m going to die, I want to die feeling like a woman.”

      She removes all her clothing and asks, “Is there someone on this plane who is man enough to make me feel like a woman?”

      A man stands up, removes his shirt and says, “Here, iron this!”.

      ——————————————————————————–

      One morning a woman was walking out of her front door, when she notices a strange little man at the bottom of her garden.

      “You’re a goblin,” she says, “I caught you and you owe me three wishes!”. So the goblin replies “OK, you caught me fair and square, what’s your first wish?”. The woman stops and thinks for a second, “I want a huge mansion to live in.”, goblins replies “OK, you’ve got it.”. Woman again thinks it over, “My second wish is a Mercedes.” “OK, you’ve got that too.” “My last wish is a million dollars!”. The goblin then says “OK, you’ve got it. But to make your wishes come true you have to have sex all night with me.” “OK then, if that’s what it takes…”

      Next morning the little man wakes the woman up.

      “Tell me,” says the man, “how old are you?” “I’m 27″, she replies

      “Fuck me”, says the man, “27 and you still believe in goblins”

      ——————————————————————————–

      The newlyweds are in their honeymoon room and the groom decides to let the bride know where she stands right from the start of the marriage.

      He proceeds to take off his trousers and throw them at her. He says, “Put those on.”

      The bride replies, “I can’t wear your trousers.”

      He replies, “And don’t forget that! I will always wear the pants in the family!”

      The bride takes off her knickers and throws them at him with the same request, “Try those on!”

      He replies,”I can’t get into your knickers!”

      “And you never bloody will if you don’t change your attitude.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      How are women and tornadoes alike?

      They both moan like hell when they come, and take the house when they leave.

      ——————————————————————————–

      There was an elderly man who wanted to make his younger wife pregnant. So, he went to the doctor to have a sperm count done. The doctor told him to take a specimen cup home, fill it, and bring it back the next day. The elderly man came back the next day and the specimen cup was empty and the lid was on it. Doctor: What was the problem? Elderly man: Well, you I tried with my right hand…nothing. So, I tried with my left hand…nothing. My wife tried with her right hand…nothing. Her left hand…nothing. Her mouth…nothing. Then my wife’s friend tried. Right hand, left hand, mouth….still nothing. Doctor: Wait a minute. You mean your wife’s friend too?! Elderly man: Yeah, and we still couldn’t get the lid off of the specimen cup.

      ——————————————————————————–

      A guy walks into a sperm donor bank wearing a ski mask and holding a gun. He goes up to the nurse and demands her to open the sperm bank vault. She says “But sir, its just a sperm bank!”, “I don’t care, open it now!!!” he replies. So she opens the door to the vault and inside are all the sperm samples. The guy says “Take one of those sperm samples and drink it!”, she looks at him “BUT, they are sperm samples???” , “DO IT!”. So the nurse sucks it back. “That one there, drink that one as well.”, so the nurse drinks that one as well. Finally after 4 samples the man takes off his ski mask and says, “See honey – its not that hard.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      There are four kinds of sex :

      HOUSE SEX – When you are newly married and have sex all over the house in every room.

      BEDROOM SEX – After you have been married for a while, you only have sex in the bedroom.

      HALL SEX – After you’ve been married for many, many years you just pass each other in the hall and say “FUCK YOU”

      COURTROOM SEX – When your wife and her lawyer fuck you in the divorce court in front of many people for every penny you’ve got.

      ——————————————————————————–

      This beautiful woman one day walks into a doctors office and the doctor is bowled over by how stunningly awesome she is. All his professionallism goes right out the window…

      He tells her to take her pants, she does, and he starts rubbing her thighs.

      “Do you know what I am doing?” asks the doctor?

      “Yes, checking for abnormalities.” she replies.

      He tells her to take off her shirt and bra, she takes them off. The doctor begins rubbing her breasts and asks, “Do you know what I am doing now?”, she replies, “Yes, checking for cancer.”

      Finally, he tells her to take off her panties, lays her on the table, gets on top of her and starts having sex with her. He says to her, “Do you know what I am doing now?”

      She replies, “Yes, getting herpies – thats why I am here!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      This couple were in bed getting busy when the girl places the guys hand onto her pussy. “Put your finger in me…” she asks him. So he does without hesitation, as she starts moaning. “Put two fingers in…”, she says. So in goes another one. She’s really starting to get worked up when she says, “Put your whole hand in!”. The guy’s like, “Ok!”. So he has his entire hand in, when she says moaning aloud “Put both your hands inside of me!!!”. So the guy puts both of his hands in! “Now clap your hands…” commands the girl. “I can’t”, says the guy. The girl looks at him and says “See, I told you I had a tight pussy!”.

      ——————————————————————————–

      A dog, a cat, and a penis are sitting around a camp fire one night. The dog says, “My life sucks, my master makes me do my business on a fire hydrent!”. The cat says, “I don’t think so, my master makes me do my business in a box of cat litter.” The penis outraged, says “At least your master doesn’t put a bag over your head and make you do push ups until you throw up!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A man and a woman started to have sex in the middle of a dark forest. After about 15 minutes of it, the man finally gets up and says, “Damn, I wish I had a flashlight!”. The woman says, “Me too, you’ve been eating grass for the past ten minutes!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A couple just got married and on the night of their honeymoon before passionate love, the wife tells the husband, “Please be gentile, I’m still a virgin.” The husband being shocked, replied, “How’s this possible? You’ve been married three times before.” The wife responds, “Well, my first husband was a gynecologist and all he wanted to do was look at it. My second husband was a psychiatrist and all he wanted to do was talk about it. Finally, my third husband was a stamp collector and all he wanted to do was…oh, do I miss him!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      On their first night together, a newlywed couple go to change. The new bride comes out of the bathroom showered and wearing a beautiful robe. The proud husband says, “My dear, we are married now, you can open your robe.” The beautiful young woman opens her robe, and he is astonished.”Oh, oh, aaaahhh,” he exclaims, “My God you are so beautiful, let me take your picture. Puzzled she asks, “My picture?” He answers, “Yes my dear, so I can carry your beauty next to my heart forever”.

      She smiles and he takes her picture, and then he heads into the bathroom to shower. He comes out wearing his robe and the new wife asks, “Why do you wear a robe? We are married now.” At that the man opens his robe and she exclaims, “oh, OH, OH MY, let me get a picture”. He beams and asks why and she answers, “So I can get it enlarged!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      John just graduated from clinical psychology and opens his first office. After some successful advertising he is astounded to have nearly 300 people wanting to be in group therapy. John decides to rent a big hall and invite the entire group. To break the ice, and to get the therapy started, John decides to ask a show of hands how often the attendees had sex. He first asks for a show of hands of all the people who had sex almost every night. A modest number of hands were raised. He then asks, how many had sex once a week? This time a larger number of hands were raised. John then asks how many had sex once or twice a month? Again a few hands were raised. After John polled his group several more times he noticed one guy sitting off to the side with this huge beaming grin on his face. John noticed that the guy never raised his hand, so he asked him how often he had sex. The guy said, �Once a year!� To John’s dismay, he responds, �Why are you so happy getting sex only once a year?� The grinning guy responds, “Tonight�s the night!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      Three guys go to a ski lodge, and there aren’t enough rooms, so they have to share a bed. In the middle of the night, the guy on the right wakes up and says, “I had this wild, vivid dream of getting a hand job!” The guy on the left wakes up, and unbelievably, he’s had the same dream, too. Then the guy in the middle wakes up and says, “That’s funny, I dreamed I was skiing!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      One day Mr. Smith, the president of a large corporation, called his vice-president, Dave, into his office and said, “We’re making some cutbacks, so either Jack or Barbara will have to be laid off.” Dave looked at Mr. Smith and said, “Barbara is my best worker, but Jack has a wife and three kids. I don’t know whom to fire.”

      The next morning Dave waited for his employees to arrive. Barbara was the first to come in, so Dave said, “Barbara, I’ve got a problem. You see, I’ve got to lay you or Jack off and I don’t know what to do?” Barbara replied, “You’d better jack off. I’ve got a headache.”

  13. nana10 says:
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    OMG, did no one watch BBAD last night, making up stuff about other contestants. Spencer making comments about Elisa getting expelled in grade 5 (10 yrs. old) he just can’t get off child porn. Andy saying how all the girls and some of the guys gave him bj’s, these people need to be sued.. GM had some pretty bad things to say too, between her F— , this and F— that,and eating, had to turn it off.. Please give this money to Brittney’s daughter :(

    • suzyq says:
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      Construction worker on the 5th floor of a building needed a handsaw. So he spots another worker on the ground floor and yells down to him, but he can’t hear him. So the worker on the 5th floor tries sign language.

      He pointed to his eye meaning “I”, pointed to his knee meaning “need”, then moved his hand back and forth in a hand saw motion. The man on the ground floor nods his head, pulls down his pants, whips out his chop and starts masturbating.

      The worker on 5th floor gets so pissed off he runs down to the ground floor and says, “What the fuck is your problem!!! I said I needed a hand saw!”.

      The other guy says, “I knew that! I was just trying to tell you – I’m coming!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      One day an at home wife is alone and the doorbell rings.

      She opens it to a guy, “Hi, is Tony home?”

      The wife replies, “No, he went to the store, but you can wait here if you want.”

      So they sit down and after a while of silence the friend says “You know Sara, you have the greatest breasts I have ever seen. I’d give you a hundred buck just to see one.”

      Sara thinks about it for a second and figures, what the hell – a hundred bucks! She opens her robe and shows one to him for a few seconds. He promptly thanks her and throws a hundred bucks on the table. They sit there a while longer and guy then says “That was so amazing I’ve got to see both of them. I’ll give you another 100 dollars if I could just see the both of them together.”

      Sara amazed by the offer sits and thinks a bit about it and thinks, heck, why not? So she opens her robe and gives Chris a nice long chance to cop a look.

      A while later Tony arrives back home from the store. The wife goes up to him, “You know, your friend Chris came over.”

      Tony thinks about it for a second and says, “Well did he drop off the 200 bucks he owes me?”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A kindergarten teacher one day is trying to explain to her class the definition of the word “definitely” to them. To make sure the students have a good understanding of the word, she asks them to use it in a sentence. The first student raised his hand and said “The sky is definitely blue”. The teacher said, “Well, that isn’t entirely correct, because sometimes it’s gray and cloudy”.

      Another student says, “Grass is definitely green.” The teacher again replies “If grass doesn’t get enough water it turns brown, so that isn’t really correct either.”

      Another student raises his hand and asks the teacher “Do farts have lumps?” The teacher looked at him and said “No…But that isn’t really a question you want to ask in class discussion.” So the student replies, “Then I definitely shit my pants.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      Wife : “I dreamt they were auctioning off dicks. The big ones went for ten dollars and the thick ones went for twenty dollars.”

      Husband : “How about the ones like mine?”

      Wife : “Those they gave away.”

      Husband : “I had a dream too…I dreamt they were auctioning off cunts. The pretty ones went for a thousand dollars, and the little tight ones went for two thousand.”

      Wife : “And how much for the ones like mine?”

      Husband : “That’s where they held the auction.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      The queen of England was visiting one of Canada’s top hospitals, and during her tour of the floors she passed a room where a male patient was masturbating.

      “Oh my god!”, said the Queen, “That’s disgraceful, what is the meaning of this???”

      The doctor leading the tour explains, “I’m sorry your ladyship, this man has a very serious condition where the testicles rapidly fill with semen. If he doesn’t do that five times a day, they would explode and he would most likely die instantly.”

      “Oh, I am sorry” said the Queen.

      On the next floor they passed a room where a young nurse was giving a patient a blow job.

      “Oh my God”, said the Queen, “What’s happening in there?”

      The Doctor replied, “Same problem, better health plan.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A little boy and his grandfather are raking leaves in the yard. The little boy sees an earthworm trying to get back into its hole. He says, “Grandpa, I bet I can put that worm back in that hole.” The grandfather replies, “I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t. It’s too wiggly and limp to put back in that little hole.”

      The little boy runs into the house and comes back out with a can of hair spray. He sprays the worm until it is straight and stiff as a board. The boy then proceeds to put the worm back into the hole. The grandfather hands the little boy five dollars, grabs the hair spray and runs into the house.

      Thirty minutes later the grandfather comes back out and hands the boy another five dollars. The little boy says, “Grandpa, you already gave me five dollars.” The grandfather replies, “I know. That’s from your Grandma.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      Dirty Little Matt is sitting in the back of math class, obviously not paying any attention, when the teacher calls his name.

      “Yeah teach?” he replies.

      “If there are three ducks on a fence and you shoot one of them with a shotgun, how many are left?” asks the teacher.

      Matt answers “Well, teach, if I shoot one of them with a shotgun, the loud noise is gonna make them all fly off.”

      “No, Matt, there will be two left if you shoot one with a shotgun, but I like the way you’re thinking.” the teacher responds.

      “Well, teach, I’ve got a question for you… There are 3 women that come out of an ice-cream parlor, one is biting her ice-cream cone, one is licking it, and one is sucking on it. Which one is married?”

      The teacher, a little taken back by the question answers, “Well, uh, gee Matt, I guess the one that’s sucking on the ice cream.”

      Matt replies “No teach, the one that has the wedding ring on her finger, but I like the way you’re thinking!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A woman posts an ad in the news paper that looks like this…

      ‘Looking for man with these qualifications; won’t beat me up; or run away from me and is great in bed.’

      She got lots of phone calls replying to her ad but met someone perfect at her door one day. The man she met said, “Hi, I’m Bob. I have no arms so I won’t beat you up and no legs so I won’t run away.”

      So the lady says, “What makes you think you are great in bed?”

      Bob replies, “I rang the door bell didn’t I?”

      ——————————————————————————–

      Three sisters wanted to get married, but their parents couldn’t afford it so they had all of them on the same day. They also couldn’t afford to go on a honeymoon so they all stayed home with their new hubbies. That night the mother got up because she couldn’t sleep.

      When she went past her oldest daughter’s room she heard screaming. Then she went to her second daughters room and she heard laughing. Then she went to her youngest daughter’s room and she couldn’t hear anything.

      The next morning when the men left the mother asked her oldest daughter, “Why were you screaming last night?” The daughter replied “Mom you always told me if something hurt I should scream.”

      “That’s true.” She looked at her second daughter. “Why were you laughing so much last night?”

      The daughter replied “Mom you always said that if something tickled you should laugh.”

      “That’s also true.” Then the mother looked at her youngest daughter. “Why was it so quiet in your room last night?”

      The youngest daughter replied “Mom you always told me I should never talk with my mouth full.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A depressed young woman was so desperate that she decided to end her life by throwing herself into the ocean. When she went down to the docks, a handsome young sailor noticed her tears, took pity on her, and said, “Look, you’ve got a lot to live for. I’m off to Europe in the morning, and if you like, I can stow you away on my ship. I’ll take good care of you and bring you food every day.” Moving closer, he slipped his arm around her shoulder and added, “I’ll keep you happy, and you’ll keep me happy.”

      The girl nodded yes, after all, what did she have to lose? That night, the sailor brought her aboard and hid her in a lifeboat. From then on, every night he brought her three sandwiches and a piece of fruit, and they made passionate love until dawn.

      Three weeks later, during a routine search, she was discovered by the captain. ‘What are you doing here?’ the captain asked. She got up off the ground and explained, “I have an arrangement with one of the sailors. He’s taking me to Europe, and he’s screwing me.”

      The captain looked at her, “He sure is lady, this is the Staten Island Ferry.’

      ——————————————————————————–

      A boy is at school and he hears the older kids talking about pussy, and their bitch. The boy confused by this goes to his mother. “Mom”, the boy asks, “What’s a pussy?”

      The mother being startled by this thinks quick and finds the closest dictionary and opens it up to a picture of a cat and says “Son, that is a pussy.” the son then asks “What’s a bitch?” The mother again thinking quickly opens to a picture of a dog and says “Son, this is a bitch.”

      The son walks away still confused, and sees his father watching television. The son walks up to his father and says “Dad, what’s a pussy?” The father doesn’t want to miss the baseball game so he quickly whips out his Penthouse magazine to the centerfold, grabs a marker and draws a circle around the vagina and says “Son, this is a pussy!”

      The son, now starting to understand what the older boys are talking about asks “Then, what is a bitch?”

      The dad replies, “That’s everything outside the circle!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      One Christmas Eve, Santa Claus comes down the chimney and is startled by a beautiful 19 year old blonde. She said “Santa, will you stay with me?”, Santa replied, “Ho Ho Ho gotta go, gotta go, gotta deliver these toys to good girls and boys.”

      So she took off her night gown, wearing only a bra and panties, she asked “Santa, now will you stay with me?”

      “Ho Ho Ho gotta go, gotta go, gotta deliver these toys to gook girls and boys.”

      She takes off everything and says “Santa, now will you stay with me?”

      Santa replies “Gotta stay, gotta stay, can’t get up the chimney with my dick this way!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A woman and her little boy were walking through a park in New York and they pass two squirrels having sex. The little boy asks his mom, “Mommy, mommy, what are they doing?” The lady responded, “They’re making a sandwich.” Then they pass two dogs having sex and the little boy again asks what they were doing. His mother again replied they were making a sandwich. A couple of days later the little boy walks in on his mother and father and said “Mommy, Daddy, you must be making a sandwich because, Mommy has mayonnaise all over her mouth!!!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      This guy wakes up out of a deep sleep and, feeling real horny, nudges his wife awake and asks, “Why don’t we get it on, eh?” She replies, “I have an appointment at the gynecologist tomorrow and you know I don’t like to make love the night before.” So the husband agrees and rolled back over and started to go back to sleep.

      A few minutes later, he nudges his wife again and asks, “You don’t by any chance have a dentist’s appointment tomorrow, do you?”

      ——————————————————————————–

      Two five year old boys are standing at the toilet to pee. One says, “Your thing doesn’t have any skin on it!”.

      “I’ve been circumcised.”, the other replied.

      “What’s that mean?”

      “It means they cut the skin off the end.”

      “How old were you when it was cut off?”

      “My mom said I was two days old.”

      “Did it hurt?”, the kid asked inquiringly.

      “You bet it hurt, I didn’t walk for a year!”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A teacher was wrapping up class, and started talking about tomorrow’s final exam. He said there would be no excuses for not showing up tomorrow, barring a dire medical condition or an immediate family member’s death. One smart ass, male student said, “What about extreme sexual exhaustion?”, and the whole classroom burst into laughter.

      After the laughter had subsided, the teacher glared at the student, and said, “Not an excuse, you can use your other hand to write.”

      ——————————————————————————–

      A woman is in the delivery room giving birth, the doctor tells her to push. She does and the baby’s head pops out. The doctor says, “Oh! Your baby has slanted eyes.” To which she replies “Yeah I heard them Chinese men were pretty good, so I decided to give them a try.�

      The doctor shrugs it off and tells her to push again. This time the baby’s body comes out. “Holy Shit, your baby has a white body,” the doctor says. “Yeah I heard them white men were pretty good so I decided to give them a try,” she said.

      The doctor shrugs it off again and tells her to push again and that will be it. So she does and the legs come out. “Holy Shit! Your baby has black legs,” the doctor said. “Yeah I heard them black men were pretty good so I decided to give them a try,” she said.

      So the doctor shrugs it off again and ties the umbilical cord and slaps the baby on the ass, it starts to cry. The doctor turns to the woman and asks, “How are you going to deal with a baby who has slanted eyes, white body, and black legs?” The woman replies “I’m just glad it didn’t bark!”

  14. Hayden on survivor says:
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    I wish Andy would of start thinking for himself he should of kept mccrae but no Andy the rat listen to Spencer and GM I would of had Helen or elissa to win or maybe Amanda I don’t like Andy GM or spencer

  15. Floater-hater says:
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    This is a BB blog.
    Take ur scented candles, crate and barrel cookware, your strings and ceiling wax and other fancy stuff….and divide it all between all your imaginary friends. Set out tea cups and make a little tea party in your yard. You can spout ALL your very important and learned opinions to them.
    No one else cares what you think. — You can put that in your 995.00 free shipping purse and take it to the bank “dr”
    Thank you.

    • suzyq says:
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      Aw, gosh darnit, If all the humble folk can talk about their lives why can’t I. You seem to know yankee candles are scented, so you can’t be too much of a yokel. Why can’t you just enjoy yourself. I thought maybe you all regular people would like to rub elbows with your betters once in a wile. Or, as my old uncle Philo used to say. “Fuck them if they can’t take a joke”. That Philo was such a card. Fell overboard in terrible yachting incident.

  16. Kathy says:
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    I feel that last night BB episode was a waste of an hour of TV time. I sure hope the final show is better. I still do not want Andy to win. I think he is very immature and a very mean vile person. When the season started I actually liked him and was hoping for him to go far but not anymore. He showed his true colours. I never cared for Spencer. I thought he was lazy. GM is very crude and not much of a lady. Just my opinion on the final three.
    Thanks to Steve for the blog. I thoroughly enjoyed reading your postings and I also enjoyed the majority of the comments.

  17. My 2 brain cells says:
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    Here’s a question: who’s the worst of the F3 you want win?

  18. Me says:
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    You camt let the public vote thats how we got here……..
    …the part of public that watches reality t.v is small… and most of that group is screwed up….and most of them vote the same screwed up way…so as you all get mad at CBS and casting ppl…its a result of years of fact and info gathering…and the info concludes…us ppl watch so much nonsense. .that they jus feed the beast whit going with what sells…I give you BB15

    :) retardz

  19. richard says:
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    Andy was funny last night he was asking who or what this or that one was, like who was the biggest AH and so he volunteered Jerremy i started laughing yelling at the TV no you you AH. Backstabbing SOB.

  20. richard says:
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    BB tried something new this yr with MVP (it failed) but they should have learned from BB First season, small groups can control the game outside. This is not UK that has millions of votes this is USA thats why season 1 was changed from vote out by US voting to the present form of game, by useing MVP it caused an unblanced game where some the more interesting people made and early exit. I would have liked to see Howard and Nick stay around longer they were very interesting people, and the first 5 people were some of the strongest that played.

  21. susie says:
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    http://www.celebdirtylaundry.com/2013/big-brother-15-spoiler-andy-herren-wins-winner/

    Not a spoiler…just someone’s thought about how an Andy win could bring something positive to this season.

    • nana10 says:
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      Obviously this person has not been watching BBAD, Sunday night for sure! Things Andy and Spencer said, should get those men sued by other house guests. I can’t believe anything can save this season especially Andy or Spencer. Don’t get me wrong, GM’s mouth is not much better, but she should be a clear winner in the final 3. I so wish the jury house could see BBAD, they would probably walk out without any money, rather than vote for any of them.

  22. ANNETTE says:
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    GOT BIG BROTHER?!!..UMM hello, this is a site for a reality show called Big Brother Junkies, incase you have forgotten this isn’t spew your problems & whatever is rattling around in that twisted head… which lets be honest here…I wonder if McCrae is still in a showmance with Amanda or is he waiting until the show is over to part ways? Also, I cant imagine what Nick is thinking at this point!

  23. Costanza says:
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    Yesssss, please update TMJ, we are stuck with TMT and TRTMT, they both suck!

  24. Me says:
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    I know most of you will flip out and get hung up on Me putting woman in the weak category…. get over it ;) lol

  25. Jill says:
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    You must’ve missed it. You just revealed that in fact “you” have been replying early on in this blog. Problem is your “ME” persona wasn’t invented until just recently. And you say you’re a Dr. Tsh tsh.

  26. Me says:
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    Ive been Me my whole life loser :D lol

  27. Jill says:
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    You’re too hard on yourself, how can you say that you have been one your whole life?

  28. Debdeb says:
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    Go Blog somewhere else. What’s the matter with you? You must be a friend of perv spencer. We don’t want you here. !!! And go lmao up a tree. If you don’t have anything nice to say. Don’t say it all. Where’s your MOM? Didn’t she treat you any manners?

  29. Fansforu says:
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    blub

  30. ROB says:
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    Really? Your against cancer research??? Jeremy is this you?

  31. Kitty says:
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    Don’t talk about what you don’t know. I am in remission from a cancer that 15 years ago would have been my death sentence. Only possible thru research (thank you Dr. Goy at Hackensack Medical enter). Prayers to Brittney and family.

  32. Peggi says:
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    Me you better hope you or any of your family members never get cancer, your remarks are distasteful and uncalled for.

  33. Me says:
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    Awww :)

    …n btw ..youre welcime Steve ;) I noticed every post telling these freeloaders to pay u remained ;) classy lol

  34. suzyq says:
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    @Fansforu…..very funny…blub is the appropriate answer.

  35. NancyW says:
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    Wel i will just say this! Thank you DavidBeans for deciding to add a login next season so you can have more control over banning.( Should you need to!) :)

  36. Me says:
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    Yes David please unleash your inner fascist. …quit pretending u like the free expression of differing ideas and ban anyone that disagrees with your ignorant group a tardz ;) lmao

  37. Fansforu says:
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    blub

  38. sizzors says:
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    “me”..you would seem to be the “clog” in the exchange of free speech! You seen to think you are adding to the exchange (no matter to content of said exchange), when actually, you are just taking a chance to show your ignorance and hate. You spew more hate and anger than any one on this blog. You not expecting others to respond in kind just shows how stupid you seem to be.

    Here is hoping that you find a home for you hate somewhere other than on a TV show blog and move there. I’m sure you can find lots of like minded “me, me, me,” people who think they are right and everyone else should just fall in line. Cause you are losing ground here, others see you for the loser you seem to be and they could be wrong….but I doubt it.

    For now, this is a TV show! People are supposed to have strong feelings about the outcome….if not I ask “Why do we still watch football? Why does it interfere with BB on Sunday nights?” “Can’t someone fix that time crunch?”

    I have a lot of questions but “me” is not welcome to answer any of them. It is not for “me” to fix the world.

  39. Me says:
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    Idiot im criticizing an idustry that fills its pockets on the suffering of others like you :/
    Look up Susan Somerz n quit buying into the lie

  40. Jill says:
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    Glad to hear you’re in remission!!!!! Praise God for people who have the knowledge to create medicines! It breaks my heart when little babies have to go through it. Tilly baby, lots of prayers and love your way sweetie!

  41. Kiki says:
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    Me too!!! D-free 5yrs. Thank You City of Hope

  42. Fansforu says:
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    blub

  43. Kate says:
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    All I see I blah, blah, blah, blah, blah and someone sure has his big boy panties in a bunch.

  44. joe says:
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    Write a book why don’t you. Who’s going to read all that garbage?

  45. sizzors says:
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    Do you really we are so stupid we cannot distinguish real life from a TV show? You are an idiot who has some bug up his ass about your place in the grand scheme of things…uh…the answer is not here, “me”. You don’t even understand that to garner someones “ear” first you have to tell them something they don’t already know or something they care about. You, are the type to go to the doctor and proceed to tell others “why they are there.” Get a real life, make changes that you can live with, let us whatch the “game” and yell for our chosen teams! Geez! Are you really so stupid?

  46. suzyq says:
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    WTF are you talking about? How anyone can think we are the same person is beyond me. You are going off on tangents and are not displaying a linear thought process. What gives? Why are you reeling out of control?

  47. rayanne says:
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    just wondering if you work as a secretary, a court reporter or if you type cuz you like to exercise you fingers like you do your mouth. By that I mean, do you like to talk a lot? do you like hearing yourself talk?. some ppl use ipods to listen to music. does yours have your voice that is filled with nonsense like your post? just wondering? This comment is for the typist name me.

  48. Me says:
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    Come on finish me off lol ;)

  49. Me says:
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    You N I both know u got nothing HA!! :P

  50. sizzors says:
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    ” Do you really think…” is how the first line should start…shouldn’t cook dinner while playing with the idiot.

  51. Me says:
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    Where?? Show me where I slammed cancer patients please Im begging u to show me something I did not do :P asshole!!!

  52. suzyq says:
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    But somewhere in the nonsense he does have a point, the money is in the treatment, not the cure. The drug industry seems to be more interested on giving 80 year old men hard ons then it is in curing anything.

  53. suzyq says:
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    People like Suzanne Sommers and Jenny McCarthy do more harm than good.

  54. suzyq says:
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    A lot of Americans have a problem with reading comprehension. But, your nasty manner and horrible grammar doesn’t help.

  55. Peggi says:
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    knocking cancer research and the money given for research. Now pull your head out of your a$$ take your multiple personalities and STFU

  56. suzyq says:
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    @Kitty – My mom is also 13 years cancer free of a disease that killed her own mother at age 33. Me is just trying to make a point, but he/she does seem very inexperienced of lifes’ hardships.

  57. Me says:
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    See what u did there for xample…. Susan Sommers does help ppl but it just dont fit your beliefs, so u attempt to discredit and surpress anyone from thinking it might be worth investigation. ..like how youre trying to imply I ssid I want a superior race when I said its the continuing dumping of all yhe bagage onto a shirking group of providers thats flawed….but youre so much smarter than Me :P lol

  58. Me says:
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    lol I know :)

  59. Me says:
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    Bravo!! I might just leave now cuz FINALLY someone woke up :)

  60. richard says:
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    Ya but at least the 80yr old man will die with a smile on his face lol

  61. suzyq says:
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    @Jill – You are too dumb to breathe.

  62. sizzors says:
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    Again, projecting! No one has “ruined” the life of any one…you are the definition of your hate. Call me names..that is childish! Call others names, childish. Scream all you like. You remind me of our new pup, he runs around and around the house at night till he just gives up and goes to sleep. Why don’t you try that, chase your own stupid clueless ideals around and around in you head then go to sleep..we’ll step over you.

    Again I’ll ask you “Why are you so angry?” “Why do you hate free speech?” “Why do you post political hate speak on a blog for a TV show?” “Why do you hate American values?”

    You are SQ and SQ is you…both wandering around in a fog of hate and envy of others. Get help and Get off, we are not seeking you out to talk, you came here and are imposing yourselves where you are not wanted or liked. Get It? I’ll live a lot longer than the likes of you. Hate is not good for the body or soul. So eat you words and go to sleep, tomorrow is a new day!

  63. Deb says:
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    a superior being???? A superior being would not behave in such an inferior way. You bested no one, especially with rude and ignorant statements, which does not, a superior being make!

  64. rayanne says:
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    Well you are right about not being able to argue with you “ME” They do say never argue with an idiot. So for once you are in fact 100 percent correct!!!

  65. Me says:
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    Too vague lmfao :P

  66. suzyq says:
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    How do you know that “Me” does not have emotional problems? Can’t you tell from his/her rant that something is wrong?” You obviously are the more level headed at this moment. Your post was objective and helpful and the person you were talking to is obviously not taking your advice well. Back off or it could be considered cyber-bullying.

  67. Jannie says:
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    sizzors – you are normally pretty rational here, but I agree w/SQ. When you see someone who can rant like that – why do you want to poke them some more?? Telling anyone that they are not wanted or liked is really crappy. You should know better.
    Careful or you’ll be put in the “haters who hate haters” club.
    Me is a little rough, sometimes pretty funny and now, I am realizing, actually insightful. He said some nice things today and actually apologized to Shirley.
    Whose to judge who the trolls are here??

  68. suzyq says:
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    idiot…..

  69. Big Papi says:
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    haha

  70. Jill says:
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    How’s that working for you?

    You’re really angry at your world. I am really starting to feel sorry for you, spending all day at your computer, talking to ‘yourselves’, trying to keep straight all the people you’ve created. Now I have but one question…do you set alarms to remind yourself when to post whomever you created?

    I will say this-there’s no way you’re a therapist. A respectable counselor doesn’t attack others.

    DBT sounds like a great fit for you. Otto F. Kernberg developed a theory of borderline personality disorders, he believes it starts when a child cannot integrate positive and negative mental objects together.This creates defenses which are PROJECTION, denial, dissociation or splitting,and they are called borderline defense mechanisms.As well as devaluation and projective I.D.
    Make a list of ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ of lashing out at complete strangers vs confronting the real reason for all your pent up anger.
    You do realize that people who play with multiple personalities actually begin the groundwork for DID/MPD. Be careful! Your alters could start running away from you!

    Now, how does that make you feel?

  71. Big Papi says:
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    that’s what she said

  72. Me says:
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    Nooooooo u didnt make a point, u just regurgitated the same shit….
    The industtry of cancer is the enemy of finding a cure bcuz its dependant on the problem to xsist :D wanna fight about it? Lmao

  73. suzyq says:
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    This is not normal behavior. Let’s leave him/her alone for a while.

  74. suzyq says:
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    Exactly. Something is wrong.

  75. suzyq says:
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    I want a list of the people Suzanne Sommers and Jenny McCarthy have helped. Sommers crazy hormone and apricot pit BS has been proven to be ineffective. Please tell me you are not one of those people who don’t believe in science. It is proven fact that children who are not vaccinated are developing illnesses that medicine has managed to suppress. States are considering not allowing these children in the public school system, that’s how serious it is. There is absolutely no reliable medical professional who has been able to prove that vaccinations lead to autism. It is more likely that doctors were just not labeling children with autism because they were unaware of the disease. I can remember plenty of kids from my childhood who if born today would be placed somewhere on the autism spectrum.

  76. suzyq says:
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    NOT TRUE!

  77. suzyq says:
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    @ME – for a person with intellectual curiosity you are starting to sound as delusional as Jill and Annette.

  78. suzyq says:
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    Let’s praise science and leave God of the discussion when we refer to scientific discovery.

  79. suzyq says:
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    Don’t call your children or pets idiots.

  80. Natedogg says:
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    I will praise my God all day everyday &run the earth back &forth doing so thank you very much.I’ll gladly stay away from whatever multiple crazies you are following.Que music from the shining.Who do you think gave the discoveries to man?You with you limited knowledge?Or any man for that matter?Only God with His infinite knowledge could do such a thing.I didn’t always believe but now I do &hope for your sake you do to soon.You are not all there.Few fries short of the happy meal.Dude what’s wrong with you??I just joined this site today and even I can tell something is not all there with you.You talk to yourself and now you’re arguing with yourself.Dancing to a different beat may be but it isn’t cool.

  81. Me says:
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    Alrite if u feel that strongly about it :D lol
    ….natural healing really botherz u medical science types eh??

  82. carrie says:
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    I have to respectfully disagree with you SQ… the rise of children with Autism has increased exponentially. Vaccines are dead and dying viruses.. not to mention the discovery of “dirty” vaccines. Of course there will be children who react adversely to this and may possibly affect them physically in a negative way. I have friends who’s children reacted very badly to there vaccinations. I believe it is still yet to be determined.. the big pharmaceutical companies appear to be very unscrupulous in the way they do business and they seem to really love money.

  83. suzyq says:
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    Intelligent conversation for a change. I am shocked. Let’s talk more like this. But, honestly I have been posting only as susyq for some time now. I just can’t believe you think “Me” is me. It is my fault for having some fun, but this time you are wrong in assuming I am any one other than suzyq. I never posted with more than one name at a time before. It is not my modus operandi. And therapists are human too, I have said things here I would never say in my professional life. The lack of compassion for the HG’s and their situation just pushed me over the edge, that I will hand you. I would think my corralling of “Me” into some semblance of a human being tonight might have proven that to you. It was not easy getting him to apologize to Shirley.

  84. Me says:
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    It gives me a boner ;)

    Watching u all talk about Me is funny lol I came to kill time, crap on tardz and basically make myself laugh, but all this attention makes me wonder……maybe I should be a pornstar :P lmao

  85. suzyq says:
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    The above comments are for Jill and Veee respectively. The comments are no longer in the proper reply area.

  86. J P says:
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    “ME” is cra-cra (narcissistic).

  87. Big Papi says:
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    Warren G and Nate Dogg…..REGULATORS

  88. Big Papi says:
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    Amen and Halleujah, bretheren! lol

  89. NancyW says:
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    Is it me? Or has anyone else noticed the back to back post suzyq has done? Its almost like she is answering herself! This is weird!

  90. suzyq says:
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    Many things in the world have not been named; and many things, even if they have been named, have never been described. One of these is the sensibility — unmistakably modern, a variant of sophistication but hardly identical with it — that goes by the cult name of “Camp.”

    A sensibility (as distinct from an idea) is one of the hardest things to talk about; but there are special reasons why Camp, in particular, has never been discussed. It is not a natural mode of sensibility, if there be any such. Indeed the essence of Camp is its love of the unnatural: of artifice and exaggeration. And Camp is esoteric — something of a private code, a badge of identity even, among small urban cliques. Apart from a lazy two-page sketch in Christopher Isherwood’s novel The World in the Evening (1954), it has hardly broken into print. To talk about Camp is therefore to betray it. If the betrayal can be defended, it will be for the edification it provides, or the dignity of the conflict it resolves. For myself, I plead the goal of self-edification, and the goad of a sharp conflict in my own sensibility. I am strongly drawn to Camp, and almost as strongly offended by it. That is why I want to talk about it, and why I can. For no one who wholeheartedly shares in a given sensibility can analyze it; he can only, whatever his intention, exhibit it. To name a sensibility, to draw its contours and to recount its history, requires a deep sympathy modified by revulsion.

    Though I am speaking about sensibility only — and about a sensibility that, among other things, converts the serious into the frivolous — these are grave matters. Most people think of sensibility or taste as the realm of purely subjective preferences, those mysterious attractions, mainly sensual, that have not been brought under the sovereignty of reason. They allow that considerations of taste play a part in their reactions to people and to works of art. But this attitude is naïve. And even worse. To patronize the faculty of taste is to patronize oneself. For taste governs every free — as opposed to rote — human response. Nothing is more decisive. There is taste in people, visual taste, taste in emotion – and there is taste in acts, taste in morality. Intelligence, as well, is really a kind of taste: taste in ideas. (One of the facts to be reckoned with is that taste tends to develop very unevenly. It’s rare that the same person has good visual taste and good taste in people and taste in ideas.)

    Taste has no system and no proofs. But there is something like a logic of taste: the consistent sensibility which underlies and gives rise to a certain taste. A sensibility is almost, but not quite, ineffable. Any sensibility which can be crammed into the mold of a system, or handled with the rough tools of proof, is no longer a sensibility at all. It has hardened into an idea . . .

    To snare a sensibility in words, especially one that is alive and powerful,1 one must be tentative and nimble. The form of jottings, rather than an essay (with its claim to a linear, consecutive argument), seemed more appropriate for getting down something of this particular fugitive sensibility. It’s embarrassing to be solemn and treatise-like about Camp. One runs the risk of having, oneself, produced a very inferior piece of Camp.

    These notes are for Oscar Wilde.

    “One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art.”
    – Phrases & Philosophies for the Use of the Young

    1. To start very generally: Camp is a certain mode of aestheticism. It is one way of seeing the world as an aesthetic phenomenon. That way, the way of Camp, is not in terms of beauty, but in terms of the degree of artifice, of stylization.

    2. To emphasize style is to slight content, or to introduce an attitude which is neutral with respect to content. It goes without saying that the Camp sensibility is disengaged, depoliticized — or at least apolitical.

    3. Not only is there a Camp vision, a Camp way of looking at things. Camp is as well a quality discoverable in objects and the behavior of persons. There are “campy” movies, clothes, furniture, popular songs, novels, people, buildings. . . . This distinction is important. True, the Camp eye has the power to transform experience. But not everything can be seen as Camp. It’s not all in the eye of the beholder.

    4. Random examples of items which are part of the canon of Camp:

    Zuleika Dobson
    Tiffany lamps
    Scopitone films
    The Brown Derby restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in LA
    The Enquirer, headlines and stories
    Aubrey Beardsley drawings
    Swan Lake
    Bellini’s operas
    Visconti’s direction of Salome and ‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore
    certain turn-of-the-century picture postcards
    Schoedsack’s King Kong
    the Cuban pop singer La Lupe
    Lynn Ward’s novel in woodcuts, God’s Man
    the old Flash Gordon comics
    women’s clothes of the twenties (feather boas, fringed and beaded dresses, etc.)
    the novels of Ronald Firbank and Ivy Compton-Burnett
    stag movies seen without lust

    5. Camp taste has an affinity for certain arts rather than others. Clothes, furniture, all the elements of visual décor, for instance, make up a large part of Camp. For Camp art is often decorative art, emphasizing texture, sensuous surface, and style at the expense of content. Concert music, though, because it is contentless, is rarely Camp. It offers no opportunity, say, for a contrast between silly or extravagant content and rich form. . . . Sometimes whole art forms become saturated with Camp. Classical ballet, opera, movies have seemed so for a long time. In the last two years, popular music (post rock-’n’-roll, what the French call yé yé) has been annexed. And movie criticism (like lists of “The 10 Best Bad Movies I Have Seen”) is probably the greatest popularizer of Camp taste today, because most people still go to the movies in a high-spirited and unpretentious way.

    6. There is a sense in which it is correct to say: “It’s too good to be Camp.” Or “too important,” not marginal enough. (More on this later.) Thus, the personality and many of the works of Jean Cocteau are Camp, but not those of André Gide; the operas of Richard Strauss, but not those of Wagner; concoctions of Tin Pan Alley and Liverpool, but not jazz. Many examples of Camp are things which, from a “serious” point of view, are either bad art or kitsch. Not all, though. Not only is Camp not necessarily bad art, but some art which can be approached as Camp (example: the major films of Louis Feuillade) merits the most serious admiration and study.

    “The more we study Art, the less we care for Nature.”
    – The Decay of Lying

    7. All Camp objects, and persons, contain a large element of artifice. Nothing in nature can be campy . . . Rural Camp is still man-made, and most campy objects are urban. (Yet, they often have a serenity — or a naiveté — which is the equivalent of pastoral. A great deal of Camp suggests Empson’s phrase, “urban pastoral.”)

    8. Camp is a vision of the world in terms of style — but a particular kind of style. It is the love of the exaggerated, the “off,” of things-being-what-they-are-not. The best example is in Art Nouveau, the most typical and fully developed Camp style. Art Nouveau objects, typically, convert one thing into something else: the lighting fixtures in the form of flowering plants, the living room which is really a grotto. A remarkable example: the Paris Métro entrances designed by Hector Guimard in the late 1890s in the shape of cast-iron orchid stalks.

    9. As a taste in persons, Camp responds particularly to the markedly attenuated and to the strongly exaggerated. The androgyne is certainly one of the great images of Camp sensibility. Examples: the swooning, slim, sinuous figures of pre-Raphaelite painting and poetry; the thin, flowing, sexless bodies in Art Nouveau prints and posters, presented in relief on lamps and ashtrays; the haunting androgynous vacancy behind the perfect beauty of Greta Garbo. Here, Camp taste draws on a mostly unacknowledged truth of taste: the most refined form of sexual attractiveness (as well as the most refined form of sexual pleasure) consists in going against the grain of one’s sex. What is most beautiful in virile men is something feminine; what is most beautiful in feminine women is something masculine. . . . Allied to the Camp taste for the androgynous is something that seems quite different but isn’t: a relish for the exaggeration of sexual characteristics and personality mannerisms. For obvious reasons, the best examples that can be cited are movie stars. The corny flamboyant female-ness of Jayne Mansfield, Gina Lollobrigida, Jane Russell, Virginia Mayo; the exaggerated he-man-ness of Steve Reeves, Victor Mature. The great stylists of temperament and mannerism, like Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, Tallulah Bankhead, Edwige Feuillière.

    10. Camp sees everything in quotation marks. It’s not a lamp, but a “lamp”; not a woman, but a “woman.” To perceive Camp in objects and persons is to understand Being-as-Playing-a-Role. It is the farthest extension, in sensibility, of the metaphor of life as theater.

    11. Camp is the triumph of the epicene style. (The convertibility of “man” and “woman,” “person” and “thing.”) But all style, that is, artifice, is, ultimately, epicene. Life is not stylish. Neither is nature.

    12. The question isn’t, “Why travesty, impersonation, theatricality?” The question is, rather, “When does travesty, impersonation, theatricality acquire the special flavor of Camp?” Why is the atmosphere of Shakespeare’s comedies (As You Like It, etc.) not epicene, while that of Der Rosenkavalier is?

    13. The dividing line seems to fall in the 18th century; there the origins of Camp taste are to be found (Gothic novels, Chinoiserie, caricature, artificial ruins, and so forth.) But the relation to nature was quite different then. In the 18th century, people of taste either patronized nature (Strawberry Hill) or attempted to remake it into something artificial (Versailles). They also indefatigably patronized the past. Today’s Camp taste effaces nature, or else contradicts it outright. And the relation of Camp taste to the past is extremely sentimental.

    14. A pocket history of Camp might, of course, begin farther back — with the mannerist artists like Pontormo, Rosso, and Caravaggio, or the extraordinarily theatrical painting of Georges de La Tour, or Euphuism (Lyly, etc.) in literature. Still, the soundest starting point seems to be the late 17th and early 18th century, because of that period’s extraordinary feeling for artifice, for surface, for symmetry; its taste for the picturesque and the thrilling, its elegant conventions for representing instant feeling and the total presence of character — the epigram and the rhymed couplet (in words), the flourish (in gesture and in music). The late 17th and early 18th century is the great period of Camp: Pope, Congreve, Walpole, etc, but not Swift; les précieux in France; the rococo churches of Munich; Pergolesi. Somewhat later: much of Mozart. But in the 19th century, what had been distributed throughout all of high culture now becomes a special taste; it takes on overtones of the acute, the esoteric, the perverse. Confining the story to England alone, we see Camp continuing wanly through 19th century aestheticism (Bume-Jones, Pater, Ruskin, Tennyson), emerging full-blown with the Art Nouveau movement in the visual and decorative arts, and finding its conscious ideologists in such “wits” as Wilde and Firbank.

    15. Of course, to say all these things are Camp is not to argue they are simply that. A full analysis of Art Nouveau, for instance, would scarcely equate it with Camp. But such an analysis cannot ignore what in Art Nouveau allows it to be experienced as Camp. Art Nouveau is full of “content,” even of a political-moral sort; it was a revolutionary movement in the arts, spurred on by a Utopian vision (somewhere between William Morris and the Bauhaus group) of an organic politics and taste. Yet there is also a feature of the Art Nouveau objects which suggests a disengaged, unserious, “aesthete’s” vision. This tells us something important about Art Nouveau — and about what the lens of Camp, which blocks out content, is.

    16. Thus, the Camp sensibility is one that is alive to a double sense in which some things can be taken. But this is not the familiar split-level construction of a literal meaning, on the one hand, and a symbolic meaning, on the other. It is the difference, rather, between the thing as meaning something, anything, and the thing as pure artifice.

    17. This comes out clearly in the vulgar use of the word Camp as a verb, “to camp,” something that people do. To camp is a mode of seduction — one which employs flamboyant mannerisms susceptible of a double interpretation; gestures full of duplicity, with a witty meaning for cognoscenti and another, more impersonal, for outsiders. Equally and by extension, when the word becomes a noun, when a person or a thing is “a camp,” a duplicity is involved. Behind the “straight” public sense in which something can be taken, one has found a private zany experience of the thing.

    “To be natural is such a very difficult pose to keep up.”
    – An Ideal Husband

    18. One must distinguish between naïve and deliberate Camp. Pure Camp is always naive. Camp which knows itself to be Camp (“camping”) is usually less satisfying.

    19. The pure examples of Camp are unintentional; they are dead serious. The Art Nouveau craftsman who makes a lamp with a snake coiled around it is not kidding, nor is he trying to be charming. He is saying, in all earnestness: Voilà! the Orient! Genuine Camp — for instance, the numbers devised for the Warner Brothers musicals of the early thirties (42nd Street; The Golddiggers of 1933; … of 1935; … of 1937; etc.) by Busby Berkeley — does not mean to be funny. Camping — say, the plays of Noel Coward — does. It seems unlikely that much of the traditional opera repertoire could be such satisfying Camp if the melodramatic absurdities of most opera plots had not been taken seriously by their composers. One doesn’t need to know the artist’s private intentions. The work tells all. (Compare a typical 19th century opera with Samuel Barber’s Vanessa, a piece of manufactured, calculated Camp, and the difference is clear.)

    20. Probably, intending to be campy is always harmful. The perfection of Trouble in Paradise and The Maltese Falcon, among the greatest Camp movies ever made, comes from the effortless smooth way in which tone is maintained. This is not so with such famous would-be Camp films of the fifties as All About Eve and Beat the Devil. These more recent movies have their fine moments, but the first is so slick and the second so hysterical; they want so badly to be campy that they’re continually losing the beat. . . . Perhaps, though, it is not so much a question of the unintended effect versus the conscious intention, as of the delicate relation between parody and self-parody in Camp. The films of Hitchcock are a showcase for this problem. When self-parody lacks ebullience but instead reveals (even sporadically) a contempt for one’s themes and one’s materials – as in To Catch a Thief, Rear Window, North by Northwest — the results are forced and heavy-handed, rarely Camp. Successful Camp — a movie like Carné’s Drôle de Drame; the film performances of Mae West and Edward Everett Horton; portions of the Goon Show — even when it reveals self-parody, reeks of self-love.

    21. So, again, Camp rests on innocence. That means Camp discloses innocence, but also, when it can, corrupts it. Objects, being objects, don’t change when they are singled out by the Camp vision. Persons, however, respond to their audiences. Persons begin “camping”: Mae West, Bea Lillie, La Lupe, Tallulah Bankhead in Lifeboat, Bette Davis in All About Eve. (Persons can even be induced to camp without their knowing it. Consider the way Fellini got Anita Ekberg to parody herself in La Dolce Vita.)

    22. Considered a little less strictly, Camp is either completely naive or else wholly conscious (when one plays at being campy). An example of the latter: Wilde’s epigrams themselves.

    “It’s absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious.”
    – Lady Windemere’s Fan

    23. In naïve, or pure, Camp, the essential element is seriousness, a seriousness that fails. Of course, not all seriousness that fails can be redeemed as Camp. Only that which has the proper mixture of the exaggerated, the fantastic, the passionate, and the naïve.

    24. When something is just bad (rather than Camp), it’s often because it is too mediocre in its ambition. The artist hasn’t attempted to do anything really outlandish. (“It’s too much,” “It’s too fantastic,” “It’s not to be believed,” are standard phrases of Camp enthusiasm.)

    25. The hallmark of Camp is the spirit of extravagance. Camp is a woman walking around in a dress made of three million feathers. Camp is the paintings of Carlo Crivelli, with their real jewels and trompe-l’oeil insects and cracks in the masonry. Camp is the outrageous aestheticism of Steinberg’s six American movies with Dietrich, all six, but especially the last, The Devil Is a Woman. . . . In Camp there is often something démesuré in the quality of the ambition, not only in the style of the work itself. Gaudí’s lurid and beautiful buildings in Barcelona are Camp not only because of their style but because they reveal — most notably in the Cathedral of the Sagrada Familia — the ambition on the part of one man to do what it takes a generation, a whole culture to accomplish.

    26. Camp is art that proposes itself seriously, but cannot be taken altogether seriously because it is “too much.” Titus Andronicus and Strange Interlude are almost Camp, or could be played as Camp. The public manner and rhetoric of de Gaulle, often, are pure Camp.

    27. A work can come close to Camp, but not make it, because it succeeds. Eisenstein’s films are seldom Camp because, despite all exaggeration, they do succeed (dramatically) without surplus. If they were a little more “off,” they could be great Camp – particularly Ivan the Terrible I & II. The same for Blake’s drawings and paintings, weird and mannered as they are. They aren’t Camp; though Art Nouveau, influenced by Blake, is.

    What is extravagant in an inconsistent or an unpassionate way is not Camp. Neither can anything be Camp that does not seem to spring from an irrepressible, a virtually uncontrolled sensibility. Without passion, one gets pseudo-Camp — what is merely decorative, safe, in a word, chic. On the barren edge of Camp lie a number of attractive things: the sleek fantasies of Dali, the haute couture preciosity of Albicocco’s The Girl with the Golden Eyes. But the two things – Camp and preciosity – must not be confused.

    28. Again, Camp is the attempt to do something extraordinary. But extraordinary in the sense, often, of being special, glamorous. (The curved line, the extravagant gesture.) Not extraordinary merely in the sense of effort. Ripley’s Believe-It-Or-Not items are rarely campy. These items, either natural oddities (the two-headed rooster, the eggplant in the shape of a cross) or else the products of immense labor (the man who walked from here to China on his hands, the woman who engraved the New Testament on the head of a pin), lack the visual reward – the glamour, the theatricality – that marks off certain extravagances as Camp.

    29. The reason a movie like On the Beach, books like Winesburg, Ohio and For Whom the Bell Tolls are bad to the point of being laughable, but not bad to the point of being enjoyable, is that they are too dogged and pretentious. They lack fantasy. There is Camp in such bad movies as The Prodigal and Samson and Delilah, the series of Italian color spectacles featuring the super-hero Maciste, numerous Japanese science fiction films (Rodan, The Mysterians, The H-Man) because, in their relative unpretentiousness and vulgarity, they are more extreme and irresponsible in their fantasy – and therefore touching and quite enjoyable.

    30. Of course, the canon of Camp can change. Time has a great deal to do with it. Time may enhance what seems simply dogged or lacking in fantasy now because we are too close to it, because it resembles too closely our own everyday fantasies, the fantastic nature of which we don’t perceive. We are better able to enjoy a fantasy as fantasy when it is not our own.

    31. This is why so many of the objects prized by Camp taste are old-fashioned, out-of-date, démodé. It’s not a love of the old as such. It’s simply that the process of aging or deterioration provides the necessary detachment — or arouses a necessary sympathy. When the theme is important, and contemporary, the failure of a work of art may make us indignant. Time can change that. Time liberates the work of art from moral relevance, delivering it over to the Camp sensibility. . . . Another effect: time contracts the sphere of banality. (Banality is, strictly speaking, always a category of the contemporary.) What was banal can, with the passage of time, become fantastic. Many people who listen with delight to the style of Rudy Vallee revived by the English pop group, The Temperance Seven, would have been driven up the wall by Rudy Vallee in his heyday.

    Thus, things are campy, not when they become old – but when we become less involved in them, and can enjoy, instead of be frustrated by, the failure of the attempt. But the effect of time is unpredictable. Maybe Method acting (James Dean, Rod Steiger, Warren Beatty) will seem as Camp some day as Ruby Keeler’s does now – or as Sarah Bernhardt’s does, in the films she made at the end of her career. And maybe not.

    32. Camp is the glorification of “character.” The statement is of no importance – except, of course, to the person (Loie Fuller, Gaudí, Cecil B. De Mille, Crivelli, de Gaulle, etc.) who makes it. What the Camp eye appreciates is the unity, the force of the person. In every move the aging Martha Graham makes she’s being Martha Graham, etc., etc. . . . This is clear in the case of the great serious idol of Camp taste, Greta Garbo. Garbo’s incompetence (at the least, lack of depth) as an actress enhances her beauty. She’s always herself.

    33. What Camp taste responds to is “instant character” (this is, of course, very 18th century); and, conversely, what it is not stirred by is the sense of the development of character. Character is understood as a state of continual incandescence – a person being one, very intense thing. This attitude toward character is a key element of the theatricalization of experience embodied in the Camp sensibility. And it helps account for the fact that opera and ballet are experienced as such rich treasures of Camp, for neither of these forms can easily do justice to the complexity of human nature. Wherever there is development of character, Camp is reduced. Among operas, for example, La Traviata (which has some small development of character) is less campy than Il Trovatore (which has none).

    “Life is too important a thing ever to talk seriously about it.”
    – Vera, or The Nihilists

    34. Camp taste turns its back on the good-bad axis of ordinary aesthetic judgment. Camp doesn’t reverse things. It doesn’t argue that the good is bad, or the bad is good. What it does is to offer for art (and life) a different — a supplementary — set of standards.

    35. Ordinarily we value a work of art because of the seriousness and dignity of what it achieves. We value it because it succeeds – in being what it is and, presumably, in fulfilling the intention that lies behind it. We assume a proper, that is to say, straightforward relation between intention and performance. By such standards, we appraise The Iliad, Aristophanes’ plays, The Art of the Fugue, Middlemarch, the paintings of Rembrandt, Chartres, the poetry of Donne, The Divine Comedy, Beethoven’s quartets, and – among people – Socrates, Jesus, St. Francis, Napoleon, Savonarola. In short, the pantheon of high culture: truth, beauty, and seriousness.

    36. But there are other creative sensibilities besides the seriousness (both tragic and comic) of high culture and of the high style of evaluating people. And one cheats oneself, as a human being, if one has respect only for the style of high culture, whatever else one may do or feel on the sly.

    For instance, there is the kind of seriousness whose trademark is anguish, cruelty, derangement. Here we do accept a disparity between intention and result. I am speaking, obviously, of a style of personal existence as well as of a style in art; but the examples had best come from art. Think of Bosch, Sade, Rimbaud, Jarry, Kafka, Artaud, think of most of the important works of art of the 20th century, that is, art whose goal is not that of creating harmonies but of overstraining the medium and introducing more and more violent, and unresolvable, subject-matter. This sensibility also insists on the principle that an oeuvre in the old sense (again, in art, but also in life) is not possible. Only “fragments” are possible. . . . Clearly, different standards apply here than to traditional high culture. Something is good not because it is achieved, but because another kind of truth about the human situation, another experience of what it is to be human – in short, another valid sensibility — is being revealed.

    And third among the great creative sensibilities is Camp: the sensibility of failed seriousness, of the theatricalization of experience. Camp refuses both the harmonies of traditional seriousness, and the risks of fully identifying with extreme states of feeling.

    37. The first sensibility, that of high culture, is basically moralistic. The second sensibility, that of extreme states of feeling, represented in much contemporary “avant-garde” art, gains power by a tension between moral and aesthetic passion. The third, Camp, is wholly aesthetic.

    38. Camp is the consistently aesthetic experience of the world. It incarnates a victory of “style” over “content,” “aesthetics” over “morality,” of irony over tragedy.

    39. Camp and tragedy are antitheses. There is seriousness in Camp (seriousness in the degree of the artist’s involvement) and, often, pathos. The excruciating is also one of the tonalities of Camp; it is the quality of excruciation in much of Henry James (for instance, The Europeans, The Awkward Age, The Wings of the Dove) that is responsible for the large element of Camp in his writings. But there is never, never tragedy.

    40. Style is everything. Genet’s ideas, for instance, are very Camp. Genet’s statement that “the only criterion of an act is its elegance”2 is virtually interchangeable, as a statement, with Wilde’s “in matters of great importance, the vital element is not sincerity, but style.” But what counts, finally, is the style in which ideas are held. The ideas about morality and politics in, say, Lady Windemere’s Fan and in Major Barbara are Camp, but not just because of the nature of the ideas themselves. It is those ideas, held in a special playful way. The Camp ideas in Our Lady of the Flowers are maintained too grimly, and the writing itself is too successfully elevated and serious, for Genet’s books to be Camp.

    41. The whole point of Camp is to dethrone the serious. Camp is playful, anti-serious. More precisely, Camp involves a new, more complex relation to “the serious.” One can be serious about the frivolous, frivolous about the serious.

    42. One is drawn to Camp when one realizes that “sincerity” is not enough. Sincerity can be simple philistinism, intellectual narrowness.

    43. The traditional means for going beyond straight seriousness – irony, satire – seem feeble today, inadequate to the culturally oversaturated medium in which contemporary sensibility is schooled. Camp introduces a new standard: artifice as an ideal, theatricality.

    44. Camp proposes a comic vision of the world. But not a bitter or polemical comedy. If tragedy is an experience of hyperinvolvement, comedy is an experience of underinvolvement, of detachment.

    “I adore simple pleasures, they are the last refuge of the complex.”
    – A Woman of No Importance

    45. Detachment is the prerogative of an elite; and as the dandy is the 19th century’s surrogate for the aristocrat in matters of culture, so Camp is the modern dandyism. Camp is the answer to the problem: how to be a dandy in the age of mass culture.

    46. The dandy was overbred. His posture was disdain, or else ennui. He sought rare sensations, undefiled by mass appreciation. (Models: Des Esseintes in Huysmans’ À Rebours, Marius the Epicurean, Valéry’s Monsieur Teste.) He was dedicated to “good taste.”

    The connoisseur of Camp has found more ingenious pleasures. Not in Latin poetry and rare wines and velvet jackets, but in the coarsest, commonest pleasures, in the arts of the masses. Mere use does not defile the objects of his pleasure, since he learns to possess them in a rare way. Camp — Dandyism in the age of mass culture — makes no distinction between the unique object and the mass-produced object. Camp taste transcends the nausea of the replica.

    47. Wilde himself is a transitional figure. The man who, when he first came to London, sported a velvet beret, lace shirts, velveteen knee-breeches and black silk stockings, could never depart too far in his life from the pleasures of the old-style dandy; this conservatism is reflected in The Picture of Dorian Gray. But many of his attitudes suggest something more modern. It was Wilde who formulated an important element of the Camp sensibility — the equivalence of all objects — when he announced his intention of “living up” to his blue-and-white china, or declared that a doorknob could be as admirable as a painting. When he proclaimed the importance of the necktie, the boutonniere, the chair, Wilde was anticipating the democratic esprit of Camp.

    48. The old-style dandy hated vulgarity. The new-style dandy, the lover of Camp, appreciates vulgarity. Where the dandy would be continually offended or bored, the connoisseur of Camp is continually amused, delighted. The dandy held a perfumed handkerchief to his nostrils and was liable to swoon; the connoisseur of Camp sniffs the stink and prides himself on his strong nerves.

    49. It is a feat, of course. A feat goaded on, in the last analysis, by the threat of boredom. The relation between boredom and Camp taste cannot be overestimated. Camp taste is by its nature possible only in affluent societies, in societies or circles capable of experiencing the psychopathology of affluence.

    “What is abnormal in Life stands in normal relations to Art. It is the only thing in Life that stands in normal relations to Art.”
    – A Few Maxims for the Instruction of the Over-Educated

    50. Aristocracy is a position vis-à-vis culture (as well as vis-à-vis power), and the history of Camp taste is part of the history of snob taste. But since no authentic aristocrats in the old sense exist today to sponsor special tastes, who is the bearer of this taste? Answer: an improvised self-elected class, mainly homosexuals, who constitute themselves as aristocrats of taste.

    51. The peculiar relation between Camp taste and homosexuality has to be explained. While it’s not true that Camp taste is homosexual taste, there is no doubt a peculiar affinity and overlap. Not all liberals are Jews, but Jews have shown a peculiar affinity for liberal and reformist causes. So, not all homosexuals have Camp taste. But homosexuals, by and large, constitute the vanguard — and the most articulate audience — of Camp. (The analogy is not frivolously chosen. Jews and homosexuals are the outstanding creative minorities in contemporary urban culture. Creative, that is, in the truest sense: they are creators of sensibilities. The two pioneering forces of modern sensibility are Jewish moral seriousness and homosexual aestheticism and irony.)

    52. The reason for the flourishing of the aristocratic posture among homosexuals also seems to parallel the Jewish case. For every sensibility is self-serving to the group that promotes it. Jewish liberalism is a gesture of self-legitimization. So is Camp taste, which definitely has something propagandistic about it. Needless to say, the propaganda operates in exactly the opposite direction. The Jews pinned their hopes for integrating into modern society on promoting the moral sense. Homosexuals have pinned their integration into society on promoting the aesthetic sense. Camp is a solvent of morality. It neutralizes moral indignation, sponsors playfulness.

    53. Nevertheless, even though homosexuals have been its vanguard, Camp taste is much more than homosexual taste. Obviously, its metaphor of life as theater is peculiarly suited as a justification and projection of a certain aspect of the situation of homosexuals. (The Camp insistence on not being “serious,” on playing, also connects with the homosexual’s desire to remain youthful.) Yet one feels that if homosexuals hadn’t more or less invented Camp, someone else would. For the aristocratic posture with relation to culture cannot die, though it may persist only in increasingly arbitrary and ingenious ways. Camp is (to repeat) the relation to style in a time in which the adoption of style — as such — has become altogether questionable. (In the modem era, each new style, unless frankly anachronistic, has come on the scene as an anti-style.)

    “One must have a heart of stone to read the death of Little Nell without laughing.”
    – In conversation

    54. The experiences of Camp are based on the great discovery that the sensibility of high culture has no monopoly upon refinement. Camp asserts that good taste is not simply good taste; that there exists, indeed, a good taste of bad taste. (Genet talks about this in Our Lady of the Flowers.) The discovery of the good taste of bad taste can be very liberating. The man who insists on high and serious pleasures is depriving himself of pleasure; he continually restricts what he can enjoy; in the constant exercise of his good taste he will eventually price himself out of the market, so to speak. Here Camp taste supervenes upon good taste as a daring and witty hedonism. It makes the man of good taste cheerful, where before he ran the risk of being chronically frustrated. It is good for the digestion.

    55. Camp taste is, above all, a mode of enjoyment, of appreciation – not judgment. Camp is generous. It wants to enjoy. It only seems like malice, cynicism. (Or, if it is cynicism, it’s not a ruthless but a sweet cynicism.) Camp taste doesn’t propose that it is in bad taste to be serious; it doesn’t sneer at someone who succeeds in being seriously dramatic. What it does is to find the success in certain passionate failures.

    56. Camp taste is a kind of love, love for human nature. It relishes, rather than judges, the little triumphs and awkward intensities of “character.” . . . Camp taste identifies with what it is enjoying. People who share this sensibility are not laughing at the thing they label as “a camp,” they’re enjoying it. Camp is a tender feeling.

    (Here, one may compare Camp with much of Pop Art, which — when it is not just Camp — embodies an attitude that is related, but still very different. Pop Art is more flat and more dry, more serious, more detached, ultimately nihilistic.)

    57. Camp taste nourishes itself on the love that has gone into certain objects and personal styles. The absence of this love is the reason why such kitsch items as Peyton Place (the book) and the Tishman Building aren’t Camp.

    58. The ultimate Camp statement: it’s good because it’s awful . . . Of course, one can’t always say that. Only under certain conditions, those which I’ve tried to sketch in these notes.

    1 The sensibility of an era is not only its most decisive, but also its most perishable, aspect. One may capture the ideas (intellectual history) and the behavior (social history) of an epoch without ever touching upon the sensibility or taste which informed those ideas, that behavior. Rare are those historical studies — like Huizinga on the late Middle Ages, Febvre on 16th century France — which do tell us something about the sensibility of the period.

  91. suzyq says:
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    Fuck you natedogg. Do you believe in fairies and bigfoot too?

  92. Big Papi says:
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    Respectively. As it were, and as it shall be….lol

  93. Deb says:
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    If you wish to seem intelligent and believable, you should learn how to spell first…you sound like an uneducated child with too much time on your hands

  94. Jill says:
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    You are right. I work with big pharmaceutical companies and they are always pushing to sell their drugs. Free samples all the time. They want money, money, money. Just look at the free?? advertisement BB gave them. How many HG were popping anti depressants, anti anxiety or adderall?

  95. Me says:
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    Thx jill for admitting im right… wanna touch it?? ;) lol

  96. suzyq says:
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    There once was a woman named Jill

  97. suzyq says:
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    Construction worker on the 5th floor of a building needed a handsaw. So he spots another worker on the ground floor and yells down to him, but he can’t hear him. So the worker on the 5th floor tries sign language.

    He pointed to his eye meaning “I”, pointed to his knee meaning “need”, then moved his hand back and forth in a hand saw motion. The man on the ground floor nods his head, pulls down his pants, whips out his chop and starts masturbating.

    The worker on 5th floor gets so pissed off he runs down to the ground floor and says, “What the fuck is your problem!!! I said I needed a hand saw!”.

    The other guy says, “I knew that! I was just trying to tell you – I’m coming!”

    ——————————————————————————–

    One day an at home wife is alone and the doorbell rings.

    She opens it to a guy, “Hi, is Tony home?”

    The wife replies, “No, he went to the store, but you can wait here if you want.”

    So they sit down and after a while of silence the friend says “You know Sara, you have the greatest breasts I have ever seen. I’d give you a hundred buck just to see one.”

    Sara thinks about it for a second and figures, what the hell – a hundred bucks! She opens her robe and shows one to him for a few seconds. He promptly thanks her and throws a hundred bucks on the table. They sit there a while longer and guy then says “That was so amazing I’ve got to see both of them. I’ll give you another 100 dollars if I could just see the both of them together.”

    Sara amazed by the offer sits and thinks a bit about it and thinks, heck, why not? So she opens her robe and gives Chris a nice long chance to cop a look.

    A while later Tony arrives back home from the store. The wife goes up to him, “You know, your friend Chris came over.”

    Tony thinks about it for a second and says, “Well did he drop off the 200 bucks he owes me?”

    ——————————————————————————–

    A kindergarten teacher one day is trying to explain to her class the definition of the word “definitely” to them. To make sure the students have a good understanding of the word, she asks them to use it in a sentence. The first student raised his hand and said “The sky is definitely blue”. The teacher said, “Well, that isn’t entirely correct, because sometimes it’s gray and cloudy”.

    Another student says, “Grass is definitely green.” The teacher again replies “If grass doesn’t get enough water it turns brown, so that isn’t really correct either.”

    Another student raises his hand and asks the teacher “Do farts have lumps?” The teacher looked at him and said “No…But that isn’t really a question you want to ask in class discussion.” So the student replies, “Then I definitely shit my pants.”

    ——————————————————————————–

    Wife : “I dreamt they were auctioning off dicks. The big ones went for ten dollars and the thick ones went for twenty dollars.”

    Husband : “How about the ones like mine?”

    Wife : “Those they gave away.”

    Husband : “I had a dream too…I dreamt they were auctioning off cunts. The pretty ones went for a thousand dollars, and the little tight ones went for two thousand.”

    Wife : “And how much for the ones like mine?”

    Husband : “That’s where they held the auction.”

    ——————————————————————————–

    The queen of England was visiting one of Canada’s top hospitals, and during her tour of the floors she passed a room where a male patient was masturbating.

    “Oh my god!”, said the Queen, “That’s disgraceful, what is the meaning of this???”

    The doctor leading the tour explains, “I’m sorry your ladyship, this man has a very serious condition where the testicles rapidly fill with semen. If he doesn’t do that five times a day, they would explode and he would most likely die instantly.”

    “Oh, I am sorry” said the Queen.

    On the next floor they passed a room where a young nurse was giving a patient a blow job.

    “Oh my God”, said the Queen, “What’s happening in there?”

    The Doctor replied, “Same problem, better health plan.”

    ——————————————————————————–

    A little boy and his grandfather are raking leaves in the yard. The little boy sees an earthworm trying to get back into its hole. He says, “Grandpa, I bet I can put that worm back in that hole.” The grandfather replies, “I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t. It’s too wiggly and limp to put back in that little hole.”

    The little boy runs into the house and comes back out with a can of hair spray. He sprays the worm until it is straight and stiff as a board. The boy then proceeds to put the worm back into the hole. The grandfather hands the little boy five dollars, grabs the hair spray and runs into the house.

    Thirty minutes later the grandfather comes back out and hands the boy another five dollars. The little boy says, “Grandpa, you already gave me five dollars.” The grandfather replies, “I know. That’s from your Grandma.”

    ——————————————————————————–

    Dirty Little Matt is sitting in the back of math class, obviously not paying any attention, when the teacher calls his name.

    “Yeah teach?” he replies.

    “If there are three ducks on a fence and you shoot one of them with a shotgun, how many are left?” asks the teacher.

    Matt answers “Well, teach, if I shoot one of them with a shotgun, the loud noise is gonna make them all fly off.”

    “No, Matt, there will be two left if you shoot one with a shotgun, but I like the way you’re thinking.” the teacher responds.

    “Well, teach, I’ve got a question for you… There are 3 women that come out of an ice-cream parlor, one is biting her ice-cream cone, one is licking it, and one is sucking on it. Which one is married?”

    The teacher, a little taken back by the question answers, “Well, uh, gee Matt, I guess the one that’s sucking on the ice cream.”

    Matt replies “No teach, the one that has the wedding ring on her finger, but I like the way you’re thinking!”

    ——————————————————————————–

    A woman posts an ad in the news paper that looks like this…

    ‘Looking for man with these qualifications; won’t beat me up; or run away from me and is great in bed.’

    She got lots of phone calls replying to her ad but met someone perfect at her door one day. The man she met said, “Hi, I’m Bob. I have no arms so I won’t beat you up and no legs so I won’t run away.”

    So the lady says, “What makes you think you are great in bed?”

    Bob replies, “I rang the door bell didn’t I?”

    ——————————————————————————–

    Three sisters wanted to get married, but their parents couldn’t afford it so they had all of them on the same day. They also couldn’t afford to go on a honeymoon so they all stayed home with their new hubbies. That night the mother got up because she couldn’t sleep.

    When she went past her oldest daughter’s room she heard screaming. Then she went to her second daughters room and she heard laughing. Then she went to her youngest daughter’s room and she couldn’t hear anything.

    The next morning when the men left the mother asked her oldest daughter, “Why were you screaming last night?” The daughter replied “Mom you always told me if something hurt I should scream.”

    “That’s true.” She looked at her second daughter. “Why were you laughing so much last night?”

    The daughter replied “Mom you always said that if something tickled you should laugh.”

    “That’s also true.” Then the mother looked at her youngest daughter. “Why was it so quiet in your room last night?”

    The youngest daughter replied “Mom you always told me I should never talk with my mouth full.”

    ——————————————————————————–

    A depressed young woman was so desperate that she decided to end her life by throwing herself into the ocean. When she went down to the docks, a handsome young sailor noticed her tears, took pity on her, and said, “Look, you’ve got a lot to live for. I’m off to Europe in the morning, and if you like, I can stow you away on my ship. I’ll take good care of you and bring you food every day.” Moving closer, he slipped his arm around her shoulder and added, “I’ll keep you happy, and you’ll keep me happy.”

    The girl nodded yes, after all, what did she have to lose? That night, the sailor brought her aboard and hid her in a lifeboat. From then on, every night he brought her three sandwiches and a piece of fruit, and they made passionate love until dawn.

    Three weeks later, during a routine search, she was discovered by the captain. ‘What are you doing here?’ the captain asked. She got up off the ground and explained, “I have an arrangement with one of the sailors. He’s taking me to Europe, and he’s screwing me.”

    The captain looked at her, “He sure is lady, this is the Staten Island Ferry.’

    ——————————————————————————–

    A boy is at school and he hears the older kids talking about pussy, and their bitch. The boy confused by this goes to his mother. “Mom”, the boy asks, “What’s a pussy?”

    The mother being startled by this thinks quick and finds the closest dictionary and opens it up to a picture of a cat and says “Son, that is a pussy.” the son then asks “What’s a bitch?” The mother again thinking quickly opens to a picture of a dog and says “Son, this is a bitch.”

    The son walks away still confused, and sees his father watching television. The son walks up to his father and says “Dad, what’s a pussy?” The father doesn’t want to miss the baseball game so he quickly whips out his Penthouse magazine to the centerfold, grabs a marker and draws a circle around the vagina and says “Son, this is a pussy!”

    The son, now starting to understand what the older boys are talking about asks “Then, what is a bitch?”

    The dad replies, “That’s everything outside the circle!”

    ——————————————————————————–

    One Christmas Eve, Santa Claus comes down the chimney and is startled by a beautiful 19 year old blonde. She said “Santa, will you stay with me?”, Santa replied, “Ho Ho Ho gotta go, gotta go, gotta deliver these toys to good girls and boys.”

    So she took off her night gown, wearing only a bra and panties, she asked “Santa, now will you stay with me?”

    “Ho Ho Ho gotta go, gotta go, gotta deliver these toys to gook girls and boys.”

    She takes off everything and says “Santa, now will you stay with me?”

    Santa replies “Gotta stay, gotta stay, can’t get up the chimney with my dick this way!”

    ——————————————————————————–

    A woman and her little boy were walking through a park in New York and they pass two squirrels having sex. The little boy asks his mom, “Mommy, mommy, what are they doing?” The lady responded, “They’re making a sandwich.” Then they pass two dogs having sex and the little boy again asks what they were doing. His mother again replied they were making a sandwich. A couple of days later the little boy walks in on his mother and father and said “Mommy, Daddy, you must be making a sandwich because, Mommy has mayonnaise all over her mouth!!!”

    ——————————————————————————–

    This guy wakes up out of a deep sleep and, feeling real horny, nudges his wife awake and asks, “Why don’t we get it on, eh?” She replies, “I have an appointment at the gynecologist tomorrow and you know I don’t like to make love the night before.” So the husband agrees and rolled back over and started to go back to sleep.

    A few minutes later, he nudges his wife again and asks, “You don’t by any chance have a dentist’s appointment tomorrow, do you?”

    —————————-

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    Personal History

    THE FOURTH STATE OF MATTER

    by Jo Ann Beard June 24, 1996
    .

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    KeywordsCosmology; Divorce; Dogs; Gang Lu; Goertz, Christoph; Linhua Shan; Murders

    The collie wakes me up about three times a night, summoning me from a great distance as I row my boat through a dim, complicated dream. She’s on the shoreline, barking. Wake up. She’s staring at me with her head slightly tipped to the side, long nose, gazing eyes, toenails clenched to get a purchase on the wood floor. We used to call her the face of love.

    She totters on her broomstick legs into the hallway and over the doorsill into the kitchen, makes a sharp left at the refrigerator—careful, almost went down—then a straightaway to the door. I sleep on my feet in the cold of the doorway, waiting. Here she comes. Lift her down the two steps. She pees and then stands, Lassie in a ratty coat, gazing out at the yard.

    In the porch light the trees shiver, the squirrels turn over in their sleep. The Milky Way is a long smear on the sky, like something erased on a blackboard. Over the neighbor’s house, Mars flashes white, then red, then white again. Jupiter is hidden among the anonymous blinks and glitterings. It has a moon with sulfur-spewing volcanoes and a beautiful name: Io. I learned it at work, from the group of men who surround me there. Space physicists, guys who spend days on end with their heads poked through the fabric of the sky, listening to the sounds of the universe. Guys whose own lives are ticking like alarm clocks getting ready to go off, although none of us are aware of it yet.

    The dog turns and looks, waits to be carried up the two steps. Inside the house she drops like a shoe onto her blanket, a thud, an adjustment. I’ve climbed back under my covers already but her leg’s stuck underneath her, we can’t get comfortable. I fix the leg, she rolls over and sleeps. Two hours later I wake up and she’s gazing at me in the darkness. The face of love. She wants to go out again. I give her a boost, balance her on her legs. Right on time: 3:40 A.M.

    There are squirrels living in the spare bedroom upstairs. Three dogs also live in this house, but they were invited. I keep the door of the spare bedroom shut at all times, because of the squirrels and because that’s where the vanished husband’s belongings are stored. Two of the dogs—the smart little brown mutt and the Labrador—spend hours sitting patiently outside the door, waiting for it to be opened so they can dismantle the squirrels. The collie can no longer make it up the stairs, so she lies at the bottom and snores or stares in an interested manner at the furniture around her.

    I can take almost anything at this point. For instance, that my vanished husband is neither here nor there; he’s reduced himself to a troubled voice on the telephone three or four times a day.

    from the issue
    cartoon bank
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    Or that the dog at the bottom of the stairs keeps having mild strokes, which cause her to tilt her head inquisitively and also to fall over. She drinks prodigious amounts of water and pees great volumes onto the folded blankets where she sleeps. Each time this happens I stand her up, dry her off, put fresh blankets underneath her, carry the peed-on blankets down to the basement, stuff them into the washer and then into the dryer. By the time I bring them back upstairs they are needed again. The first few times this happened, I found the dog trying to stand up, gazing with frantic concern at her own rear. I praised her and patted her head and gave her treats until she settled down. Now I know whenever it happens, because I hear her tail thumping against the floor in anticipation of reward. In retraining her I’ve somehow retrained myself, bustling cheerfully down to the basement, arms drenched in urine, the task of doing load after load of laundry strangely satisfying. She is Pavlov and I am her dog.

    I’m fine about the vanished husband’s boxes stored in the spare bedroom. For now, the boxes and the phone calls persuade me that things could turn around at any moment. The boxes are filled with thirteen years of his pack-ratness: statistics textbooks that still harbor an air of desperation; smarmy suit coats from the Goodwill; various old Halloween masks and one giant black papier-mâché thing he made that was supposed to be Elvis’s hair but didn’t turn out. A collection of ancient Rolling Stones T-shirts. You know he’s turning over a new leaf when he leaves the Rolling Stones behind.

    What I can’t take is the squirrels. They come alive at night, throwing terrific parties in the spare bedroom, making thumps and crashes. Occasionally a high-pitched squeal is heard amid bumps and the sound of scrabbling toenails. I’ve begun sleeping downstairs, on the blue vinyl dog couch, the sheets slipping off, my skin stuck to the cushions. This is an affront to the two younger dogs, who know the couch belongs to them; as soon as I settle in they creep up and find their places between my knees and elbows.

    I’m on the couch because the dog on the blanket gets worried at night. During the day she sleeps the catnappy sleep of the elderly, but when it gets dark her eyes open and she is agitated, trying to stand whenever I leave the room, settling down only when I’m next to her. We are in this together, the dying game, and I read for hours in the evening with one foot on her back, getting up only to open a new can of beer or take blankets to the basement. At some point I stretch out on the vinyl couch and close my eyes, one hand hanging down, touching her side. By morning the dog arm has become a nerveless club that doesn’t come around until noon. My friends think I’m nuts.

    One night, for hours, the dog won’t lie down. I call my office pal, Mary, and wake her up. “I’m weary,” I say, in italics.

    Mary listens, sympathetic, on the other end. “Oh my God,” she finally says. “What are you going to do?”

    I calm down immediately. “Exactly what I’m doing,” I tell her. The dog finally parks herself with a thump on the stack of damp blankets. She sets her nose down and tips her eyes up to watch me. We all sleep then, for a bit, while the squirrels sort through the boxes overhead and the dog on the blanket keeps nervous watch.

    I’ve called in tired to work. It’s mid-morning and I’m shuffling around in my long underwear, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. The whole house is bathed in sunlight and the faint odor of used diapers. The dogs are being mild-mannered and charming; I nudge the collie with my foot.

    “Wake up and smell zee bacons,” I say. She lifts her nose groggily and falls back asleep. I get ready for the office.

    “I’m leaving and I’m never coming back,” I say while putting on my coat. I use my mother’s aggrieved, underappreciated tone. The little brown dog transfers her gaze from me to the table, the last place she remembers seeing toast. The Labrador, who understands English, begins howling miserably. She wins the toast sweepstakes and is chewing loudly when I leave, the little dog barking ferociously at her.

    At the office, there are three blinks on the answering machine, the first from a scientist who speaks very slowly, like a kindergarten teacher, asking about reprints. “What am I, the village idiot?” I ask the room, taking down his number in large backward characters. The second and third blinks are from my husband, the across-town apartment dweller.

    The first of his calls makes my heart lurch in a hopeful way. “I have to talk to you right now,” he says grimly. “Where are you? I can never find you.”

    “Try calling your own house,” I say to the machine. In his second message he has composed himself.

    “I’m fine now,” he says firmly. “Disregard previous message and don’t call me back, please; I have meetings.” Click, dial tone, rewind.

    My leaping heart settles back into its hole in my chest. I say “Damn it” out loud, just as Chris strides into the office.

    “What?” he asks defensively. He tries to think if he’s done anything wrong recently. He checks the table for work; things are in good shape. A graduate student, Gang Lu, stops by to drop off some reports. Chris and I have a genial relationship these days, reading the paper together in the mornings, congratulating ourselves on each issue of the journal. It’s a space-physics monthly, and he’s the editor and I’m the managing editor. I know nothing about the science part; my job is to shepherd the manuscripts through the review process and create a journal out of the acceptable ones.

    Christoph Goertz. He’s hip in a professorial, cardigan/jeans kind of way. He’s tall and lanky and white-haired, forty-seven years old, with an elegant trace of accent from his native Germany. He has a great dog, a giant black outlaw named Mica, who runs through the streets of Iowa City at night, inspecting garbage cans. She’s big and friendly but a bad judge of character, and frequently runs right into the arms of the dogcatcher. Chris is always bailing her out.

    “They don’t understand dogs,” he says.

    I spend more time with Chris than I ever did with my husband. The morning I told him I was being dumped he was genuinely perplexed. “He’s leaving you?” he asked.

    Chris was drinking coffee, sitting at his table in front of the blackboard. Behind his head was a chalk drawing of a hip, professorial man holding a coffee cup. It was a collaborative effort; I had drawn the man and Chris framed him, using blue chalk and a straightedge. The two-dimensional man and the three-dimensional man stared at me intently.

    “He’s leaving you?” And for an instant I saw myself from their vantage point across the room—Jo Ann—and a small bubble of self-esteem percolated up from my depths. Chris shrugged. “You’ll do fine,” he said.

    During my current turmoils I’ve come to think of work as my own kind of Zen practice, the constant barrage of paper hypnotic and soothing. Chris lets me work an eccentric schedule; in return I update his publications list for him and listen to stories about outer space.

    Besides being an editor and a teacher, he’s the head of a theoretical-plasma-physics team made up of graduate students and research scientists. He travels all over the world telling people about the magnetospheres of various planets, and when he comes back he brings me presents—a small bronze box from Africa with an alligator embossed on the top, a big piece of amber from Poland with the wings of flies preserved inside it, and, once, a set of delicate, horrifying bracelets made from the hide of an elephant.

    Currently he is obsessed with the dust in the plasma of Saturn’s rings. Plasma is the fourth state of matter. You’ve got your solid, your liquid, your gas, and then your plasma. In outer space there’s the plasmasphere and the plasmapause. I avoid the math when I can and put a layperson’s spin on these things.

    “Plasma is blood,” I told him.

    “Exactly,” he agreed, removing the comics page and handing it to me.

    This is the kind of conversation we mostly have around the office, but today he’s caught me at a weak moment, tucking my heart back inside my chest. I decide to be cavalier.

    “I wish my dog was out tearing up the town and my husband was home sleeping on a blanket,” I say.

    Chris is neutral about my marriage problems, but he thinks the dog thing has gone far enough. “Why are you letting this go on?” he asks solemnly.

    “I’m not letting it, that’s why,” I tell him. There are stacks of manuscripts everywhere and he has all the pens over on his side of the room. “It just is, is all. Throw me a pen.” He does, I miss it, stoop to pick it up, and when I straighten up again I might be crying.

    “You have control over this,” he explains in his professor voice. “You can decide how long she suffers.”

    This makes my heart pound. Absolutely not, I cannot do it. And then I weaken and say what I really want: for her to go to sleep and not wake up, just slip out of her skin and into the other world.

    “Exactly,” he says.

    I have an ex-beauty queen coming over to get rid of the squirrels for me. She has long red hair and a smile that can stop trucks. I’ve seen her wrestle goats, scare off a giant snake, and express a dog’s anal glands, all in one afternoon. I told her on the phone that a family of squirrels is living in the upstairs of my house.

    “They’re making a monkey out of me,” I said.

    So Caroline climbs into her car and drives across half the state, pulls up in front of my house, and gets out carrying zucchini, cigarettes, and a pair of big leather gloves. I’m sitting outside with my old dog, who lurches to her feet, staggers three steps, sits down, and falls over. Caroline starts crying.

    “Don’t try to give me zucchini,” I say.

    We sit companionably on the front stoop for a while, staring at the dog and smoking cigarettes. One time I went to Caroline’s house and she was nursing a dead cat that was still breathing. At some point that afternoon, I saw her spoon baby food into its mouth and as soon as she turned away the whole puréed mess plopped back out. A day later she took it to the vet and had it euthanized. I remind her of this.

    “You’ll do it when you do it,” she says firmly.

    I pick the collie up like a fifty-pound bag of sticks and feathers, stagger inside, place her on the damp blankets, and put the two other nutcases in the back yard. From upstairs comes a crash and a shriek. Caroline stares up at the ceiling.

    “It’s like having the Wallendas stay at your house,” I say cheerfully. All of a sudden I feel fond of the squirrels and fond of Caroline and fond of myself for heroically calling her to help me. The phone rings four times. It’s the husband, and his voice over the answering machine sounds frantic. He pleads with whoever Jo Ann is to pick up the phone.

    “Please? I think I might be freaking out,” he says. “Am I ruining my life here, or what? Am I making a mistake? Jo?” He breathes raggedly and sniffs into the receiver for a moment, then hangs up with a muffled clatter.

    Caroline stares at the machine as if it’s a copperhead.

    “Holy fuckoly,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re living with this crap?”

    “He wants me to reassure him that he’s strong enough to leave me,” I tell her. “Else he won’t have fun on his bike ride. And guess what? I’m too tired to.” But now I can see him in his dank little apartment, wringing his hands and staring out the windows. In his rickety dresser is the new package of condoms he accidentally showed me last week.

    Caroline lights another cigarette. The dog pees and thumps her tail.

    I need to call him back because he’s suffering.

    “You call him back and I’m forced to kill you,” Caroline says. She exhales smoke and points to the phone. “That is evil shit.”

    I tend to agree. It’s blanket time. I roll the collie off onto the floor and put the fresh blankets down, roll her back. Caroline has put on the leather gloves, which go all the way to her elbows. She’s staring at the ceiling with determination.

    The plan is that I’m supposed to separate one squirrel from the herd and get it in a corner. Caroline will take it from there. But when I’m in the room with her and the squirrels are running around, all I can do is scream. I’m not afraid of them, but my screaming button is on and the only way to turn it off is to leave the room.

    “How are you doing?” I ask from the other side of the door. I can hear Caroline crashing around and swearing. The door opens and she falls out into the hall, with a gray squirrel stuck to her glove. She clatters down the stairs and out the front door, and returns looking triumphant.

    The collie appears at the foot of the stairs with her head cocked and her ears up. For an instant she looks like a puppy, then her feet start to slide. I run down and catch her and carry her upstairs so she can watch the show. The squirrels careen around the room, tearing the ancient wallpaper off the walls. The last one is a baby, so we keep it for a few minutes, looking at its little feet and its little tail. We show it to the collie, who stands up immediately and tries to get it.

    Caroline patches the hole where they got in, cutting the wood with a power saw down in the basement. She comes up wearing a tool belt and lugging a ladder. I’ve seen a scrapbook of photos of her wearing evening gowns with a banner across her chest and a crown on her head. Curled hair, lipstick. She climbs down and puts the tools away. We eat nachos.

    “I only make food that’s boiled or melted these days,” I tell her.

    “I know,” she replies.

    The phone rings again, but whoever it is hangs up.

    “Is it him?” she asks.

    “Nope.”

    Caroline gestures toward the sleeping collie and remarks that it seems like just two days ago that she was a puppy.

    “She was never a puppy,” I tell her. “She’s always been older than me.”

    When they say goodbye, Caroline holds the collie’s long nose in one hand and kisses her on the forehead; the collie stares back at her gravely. Caroline is crying when she leaves, a combination of squirrel adrenaline and sadness. I cry, too, although I don’t feel particularly bad about anything. I hand her the zucchini through the window and she pulls away from the curb.

    The house is starting to get dark in that early-evening twilit way. I turn on lights and go upstairs. The black dog comes with me and circles the squirrel room, snorting loudly, nose to floor. There is a spot of turmoil in an open box—they made a nest in some disco shirts from the seventies. I suspect that’s where the baby one slept. The mean landlady has evicted them.

    Downstairs, I turn the lights back off and let evening have its way with me. Waves of pre-nighttime nervousness are coming from the collie’s blanket. I sit next to her in the dimness, touching her ears, and listen for feet at the top of the stairs.

    They’re speaking in physics, so I’m left out of the conversation. Chris apologetically erases one of the pictures I’ve drawn on the blackboard and replaces it with a curving blue arrow surrounded by radiating chalk waves of green.

    “If it’s plasma, make it in red,” I suggest. We’re all smoking semi-illegally in the journal office with the door closed and the window open. We’re having a plasma party.

    “We aren’t discussing plasma,” Bob Smith says condescendingly. A stocky, short-tempered man, he’s smoking a horrendously smelly pipe. The longer he stays in here the more it feels as if I’m breathing small daggers in through my nose. He and I don’t get along; each of us thinks the other needs to be taken down a peg. Once we had a hissing match in the hallway which ended with him suggesting that I could be fired, which drove me to tell him that he was already fired, and both of us stomped into our offices and slammed our doors.

    “I had to fire Bob,” I tell Chris later.

    “I heard,” he says. Bob is his best friend. They spend at least half of each day standing in front of blackboards, writing equations and arguing about outer space. Then they write theoretical papers about what they come up with. They’re actually quite a big deal in the space-physics community, but around here they’re just two guys who keep erasing my pictures.

    Someone knocks on the door and we put our cigarettes out. Bob hides his pipe in the palm of his hand and opens the door.

    It’s Gang Lu, the doctoral student. Everyone lights up again. Gang Lu stands stiffly talking to Chris, while Bob holds a match to his pipe and puffs fiercely; nose daggers waft up and out, right in my direction. I give him a sugary smile and he gives me one back. Unimaginable, really, that less than two months from now one of his colleagues from abroad, a woman with delicate, birdlike features, will appear at the door to my office and identify herself as a friend of Bob’s. When she asks, I take her down the hall to the room with the long table and then to his empty office. I do this without saying anything, because there’s nothing to say, and she takes it all in with small, serious nods until the moment she sees his blackboard covered with scribbles and arrows and equations. At that point her face loosens and she starts to cry in long ragged sobs. An hour later I go back and the office is empty. When I erase the blackboard finally, I can see where she laid her hands carefully, where the numbers are ghostly and blurred.

    Bob blows his smoke discreetly in my direction and waits for Chris to finish talking to Gang Lu, who is answering questions in a monotone—yes or no or I don’t know. Another Chinese student, Linhua Shan, lets himself in after knocking lightly. He nods and smiles at me and then stands at a respectful distance, waiting to ask Chris a question.

    It’s like a physics conference in here. I wish they’d all leave so I can make my usual midafternoon spate of personal calls. I begin thumbing through papers in a businesslike way.

    Bob pokes at his pipe with a paper clip. Linhua Shan yawns hugely and then looks embarrassed. Chris erases what he put on the blackboard and tries unsuccessfully to redraw my pecking parakeet. “I don’t know how it goes,” he says to me.

    Gang Lu looks around the room with expressionless eyes. He’s sick of physics and sick of the buffoons who practice it. The tall glacial German, Chris, who tells him what to do; the crass idiot Bob, who talks to him as if he is a dog; the student Shan, whose ideas about plasma physics are treated with reverence and praised at every meeting. The woman who puts her feet on the desk and dismisses him with her eyes. Gang Lu no longer spends his evenings in the computer lab down the hall, running simulations and thinking about magnetic forces and invisible particles; he now spends them at the firing range, learning to hit a moving target with the gun he purchased last spring. He pictures himself holding the gun with both hands, arms straight out and steady; Clint Eastwood, only smarter.

    He stares at each person in turn, trying to gauge how much respect each of them has for him. One by one. Behind black-rimmed glasses, he counts with his eyes. In each case the verdict is clear: not enough.

    The collie fell down the basement stairs. I don’t know if she was disoriented and was looking for me, or what. But when I was at work she used her long nose like a lever and got the door open and tried to go down there, except her legs wouldn’t do it and she fell. I found her sleeping on the concrete floor in an unnatural position, one leg still awkwardly resting on the last step. I repositioned the leg and sat down and petted her. We used to play a game called Maserati, where I’d grab her long nose like a gearshift and put her through all the gears—first second third fourth—until we were going a hundred miles an hour through town. She thought it was funny.

    Friday, I’m at work, but this morning there’s not much to do, and every time I turn around I see her sprawled, eyes mute, leg bent upward. We’re breaking each other’s heart. I draw a picture of her on the blackboard using brown chalk. I make “X”s where her eyes should be. Chris walks in with the morning paper and a cup of coffee. He looks around the clean office.

    “Why are you here when there’s no work to do?” he asks.

    “I’m hiding from my life, what else?” This sounds perfectly reasonable to him. He gives me part of the paper.

    His mother is visiting from Germany; she’s a robust woman of eighty who is depressed and hoping to be cheered up. In the last year she has lost her one-hundred-year-old mother and her husband of sixty years. She can’t be really cheered up but she likes going to art galleries, so Chris has been driving her around the Midwest, to our best cities, showing her what kind of art Americans like to look at.

    “How’s your mom?” I ask him.

    He shrugs and makes a flat-handed “so-so” motion.

    We read, smoke, drink coffee, and yawn. I decide to go home.

    “Good idea,” he says.

    It’s November 1, 1991, the last day of the first part of my life. Before I leave I pick up the eraser and stand in front of the collie’s picture on the blackboard, thinking. I can feel Chris watching me, drinking his coffee. His long legs are crossed, his eyes are mild. He has a wife named Ulrike, a daughter named Karein, and a son named Göran. A dog named Mica. A mother named Ursula. A friend named me.

    I erase the “X”s.

    Down the hall, Linhua Shan feeds numbers into a computer and watches as a graph is formed. The computer screen is brilliant blue, and the lines appear in red and yellow and green. Four keystrokes and the green becomes purple, the blue background fades to the azure of a summer sky. The wave lines arc over it, crossing against one another. He asks the computer to print, and while it chugs along he pulls up a golf game on the screen and tees off.

    One room over, at a desk, Gang Lu works on a letter to his sister in China. The study of physics is more and more disappointing, he tells her. Modern physics is self-delusion, and All my life I have been honest and straightforward, and I have most of all detested cunning, fawning sycophants and dishonest bureaucrats who think they are always right in everything. Delicate Chinese characters all over a page. She was a kind and gentle sister, and he thanks her for that. He’s going to kill himself. You yourself should not be too sad about it, for at least I have found a few travelling companions to accompany me to the grave. Inside the coat on the back of his chair are a .38-calibre handgun and a .22-calibre revolver. They’re heavier than they look and weigh the pockets down. My beloved second elder sister, I take my eternal leave of you.

    The collie’s eyes are almond-shaped; I draw them in with brown chalk and put a white bone next to her feet.

    “That’s better,” Chris says kindly.

    Before I leave the building I pass Gang Lu in the hallway and say hello. He has a letter in his hand and he’s wearing his coat. He doesn’t answer, and I don’t expect him to. At the end of the hallway are the double doors leading to the rest of my life. I push them open and walk through.

    Friday-afternoon seminar, everyone is glazed over, listening as someone at the head of the long table explains something unexplainable. Gang Lu stands up and leaves the room abruptly; goes down one floor to see if the department chairman, Dwight, is sitting in his office. He is. The door is open. Gang Lu turns, walks back up the stairs, and enters the seminar room again. Chris Goertz is sitting near the door and takes the first bullet in the back of the head. There is a loud popping sound and then blue smoke. Linhua Shan gets the second bullet in the forehead; the lenses of his glasses shatter. More smoke and the room rings with the popping. Bob Smith tries to crawl beneath the table. Gang Lu takes two steps, holds his arms straight out, and levels the gun with both hands. Bob looks up. The third bullet in the right hand, the fourth in the chest. Smoke. Elbows and legs, people trying to get out of the way and then out of the room.

    Gang Lu walks quickly down the stairs, expelling spent cartridges and loading new ones. From the doorway of Dwight’s office: the fifth bullet in the head, the sixth strays, the seventh also in the head. A slumping. More smoke and ringing. Through the cloud an image comes to him—Bob Smith, hit in the chest, hit in the hand, still alive. Back up the stairs. Two scientists, young men, crouch over Bob, loosening his clothes, talking to him. From where he lies, Bob can see his best friend still sitting upright in a chair, head thrown back at an unnatural angle. Everything is broken and red. The two young scientists leave the room at gunpoint. Bob closes his eyes. The eighth and ninth bullets in his head. As Bob dies, Chris Goertz’s body settles in his chair, a long sigh escapes his throat. Reload. Two more for Chris, one for Linhua Shan. Exit the building, cross two streets and the green, into the second building and up the stairs.

    The administrator, Anne Cleary, is summoned from her office by the receptionist. She speaks to him for a few minutes, he produces the gun and shoots her in the face. The receptionist, a young student working as a temp, is just beginning to stand when he shoots her. He expels the spent cartridges in the stairwell, loads new ones. Reaches the top of the steps, looks around. Is disoriented suddenly. The ringing and the smoke and the dissatisfaction of not checking all the names off the list. A slamming and a running sound, the shout of police. He walks into an empty conference room, takes off his coat, folds it carefully, and puts it over the back of a chair. Checks his watch: twelve minutes since it began. Places the barrel against his right temple. Fires.

    The first call comes at four o’clock. I’m reading on the bench in the kitchen, one foot on a sleeping dog’s back. It’s Mary, calling from work. There’s been some kind of disturbance in the building, a rumor that Dwight was shot; cops are running through the halls carrying rifles. They’re evacuating the building and she’s coming over. Dwight, a tall likable oddball who cut off his ponytail when they made him chair of the department. Greets everyone with a famous booming hello in the morning; studies plasma, just like Chris and Bob. Chris lives two and a half blocks from the physics building; he’ll be home by now if they’ve evacuated. I dial his house and his mother answers. She tells me that Chris won’t be home until five, and then they’re going to a play. Ulrike, her daughter-in-law, is coming back from a trip to Chicago and will join them. She wants to know why I’m looking for Chris—isn’t he where I am?

    No, I’m at home and I just had to ask him something. Could he please call me when he comes in.

    She tells me that Chris showed her a drawing I made of him sitting at his desk behind a stack of manuscripts. She’s so pleased to meet Chris’s friends, and the Midwest is lovely, really, except it’s very brown, isn’t it?

    It is very brown. We hang up.

    The Midwest is very brown. The phone rings. It’s a physicist. His wife, a friend of mine, is on the extension. Well, he’s not sure, but it’s possible that I should brace myself for bad news. I’ve already heard, I tell him—something happened to Dwight. There’s a long pause, and then his wife says, “Jo Ann. It’s possible that Chris was involved.”

    I think she means Chris shot Dwight. “No,” she says gently. “Killed, too.”

    Mary is here. I tell them not to worry and hang up. I have two cigarettes going. Mary takes one and smokes it. She’s not looking at me. I tell her about the phone call.

    “They’re out of it,” I say. “They thought Chris was involved.”

    She repeats what they said: “I think you should brace yourself for bad news.” Pours whiskey into a coffee cup.

    For a few minutes I can’t sit down, I can’t stand up. I can only smoke. The phone rings. Another physicist tells me there’s some bad news. He mentions Chris and Bob and I tell him I don’t want to talk right now. He says O.K. but to be prepared because it’s going to be on the news any minute. It’s four-forty-five.

    “Now they’re trying to stir Bob into the stew,” I tell Mary. She nods; she’s heard this, too. I have the distinct feeling there is something going on that I can either understand or not understand. There’s a choice to be made.

    “I don’t understand,” I tell Mary.

    We sit in the darkening living room, smoking and sipping our cups of whiskey. Inside my head I keep thinking, Uh-oh, over and over. I’m rattled; I can’t calm down and figure this out.

    “I think we should brace ourselves in case something bad has happened,” I say to Mary. She nods. “Just in case. It won’t hurt to be braced.” I realize that I don’t know what “braced” means. You hear it all the time but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. Whiskey is supposed to be bracing but what it is is awful. I want either tea or beer, no whiskey. Mary nods again and heads into the kitchen.

    Within an hour there are seven women in the dim living room, sitting. Switching back and forth between CNN and the local news reports. There is something terrifying about the quality of the light and the way voices are echoing in the room. The phone never stops ringing, ever since the story hit the national news. Physics, University of Iowa, dead people. Names not yet released. Everyone I’ve ever known is checking in to see if I’m still alive. California calls, New York calls, Florida calls, Ohio calls twice. My husband is having a party and all his guests call, one after another, to ask how I’m doing. Each time, fifty times, I think it might be Chris and then it isn’t.

    It occurs to me once that I could call his house and talk to him directly, find out exactly what happened. Fear that his mother would answer prevents me from doing it. By this time I am getting reconciled to the fact that Linhua Shan, Gang Lu, and Dwight Nicholson were killed. Also an administrator and her office assistant. The Channel 9 newswoman keeps saying there are five dead and two in critical condition. The names will be released at nine o’clock. Eventually I sacrifice all of them except Chris and Bob; they are the ones in critical condition, which is certainly not hopeless. At some point I go into the study to get away from the terrible dimness in the living room—all those eyes, all that calmness in the face of chaos. The collie tries to stand up, but someone stops her with a handful of Fritos.

    The study is small and cold after I shut the door, but more brightly lit than the living room. I can’t remember what anything means. The phone rings and I pick up the extension and listen. My friend Michael is calling from Illinois for the second time. He asks Shirley if I’m holding up O.K. Shirley says it’s hard to tell. I go back into the living room.

    The newswoman breaks in at nine o’clock, and of course they drag it out as long as they can. I’ve already figured out that if they go in alphabetical order Chris will come first: Goertz, Lu, Nicholson, Shan, Smith. His name will come on first. She drones on, dead University of Iowa professors, lone gunman named Gang Lu.

    Gang Lu. Lone gunman. Before I have a chance to absorb that, she says, The dead are.

    Chris’s picture.

    Oh no, oh God. I lean against Mary’s chair and then leave the room abruptly. I have to stand in the bathroom for a while and look at myself in the mirror. I’m still Jo Ann, white face and dark hair. I have earrings on, tiny wrenches that hang from wires. In the living room she’s pronouncing all the other names. The two critically wounded are the administrator and her assistant, Miya Rodolfo-Sioson. The administrator is already dead for all practical purposes, although they won’t disconnect the machines until the following afternoon. The student receptionist will survive but will never again be able to move much more than her head. She was in Gang Lu’s path and he shot her and the bullet lodged in the top of her spine and she will never dance or walk or spend a day alone. She got to keep her head but lost her body. The final victim is Chris’s mother, who will weather it all with a dignified face and an erect spine, then return to Germany and kill herself without further words or fanfare.

    I tell the white face in the mirror that Gang Lu did this, wrecked everything and murdered all those people. It seems as ludicrous as everything else. I can’t get my mind to work right, I’m still operating on yesterday’s facts; today hasn’t jelled yet. “It’s a good thing none of this happened,” I say to my face. A knock on the door, and I open it.

    Julene’s hesitant face. “She wanted to come visit you,” she tells me. I bring the collie in and close the door. We sit by the tub. She lifts her long nose to my face and I take her muzzle and we move through the gears slowly—first second third fourth—all the way through town, until what happened has happened and we know it has happened. We return to the living room. The second wave of calls is starting to come in, from people who just saw the faces on the news. Shirley screens. A knock comes on the door. Julene settles the dog down again on her blanket. It’s the husband at the door, looking distraught. He hugs me hard, but I’m made of cement, arms stuck in a down position.

    The women immediately clear out, taking their leave, looking at the floor. Suddenly it’s only me and him, sitting in our living room on a Friday night, just like always. I realize it took courage for him to come to the house when he did, facing all those women who think he’s the Antichrist. The dogs are crowded against him on the couch and he’s wearing a shirt I’ve never seen before. He’s here to help me get through this. Me. He knows how awful this must be. Awful. He knows how I felt about Chris. Past tense. I have to put my hands over my face for a minute.

    We sit silently in our living room. He watches the mute television screen and I watch him. The planes and ridges of his face are more familiar to me than my own. I understand that he wishes even more than I do that he still loved me. When he looks over at me, it’s with an expression I’ve seen before. It’s the way he looks at the dog on the blanket.

    I get his coat and follow him out into the cold November night. There are stars and stars and stars. The sky is full of dead men, drifting in the blackness like helium balloons. My mother floats past in a hospital gown, trailing tubes. I go back inside where the heat is.

    The house is empty and dim, full of dogs and cigarette butts. The collie has peed again. The television is flickering “Special Report” across the screen and I turn it off before the pictures appear. I bring blankets up, fresh and warm from the dryer.

    After all the commotion the living room feels cavernous and dead. A branch scrapes against the house, and for a brief instant I feel a surge of hope. They might have come back. And I stand at the foot of the stairs staring up into the darkness, listening for the sounds of their little squirrel feet. Silence. No matter how much you miss them. They never come back once they’re gone.

    I wake her up three times between midnight and dawn. She doesn’t usually sleep this soundly, but all the chaos and company in the house tonight have made her more tired than usual. The Lab wakes and drowsily begins licking her lower region. She stops and stares at me, trying to make out my face in the dark, then gives up and sleeps. The brown dog is flat on her back with her paws limp, wedged between me and the back of the couch.

    I’ve propped myself so I’ll be able to see when dawn starts to arrive. For now there are still planets and stars. Above the black branches of a maple is the Dog Star, Sirius, my personal favorite. The dusty rings of Saturn. Io, Jupiter’s moon.

    When I think I can’t bear it for one more minute I reach down and nudge her gently with my dog arm. She rises slowly, faltering, and stands over me in the darkness. My peer, my colleague. In a few hours the world will resume itself, but for now we’re in a pocket of silence. We’re in the plasmapause, a place of equilibrium, where the forces of the earth meet the forces of the sun. I imagine it as a place of stillness, where the particles of dust stop spinning and hang motionless in deep space.

    Around my neck is the stone he brought me from Poland. I hold it out. Like this? I ask. Shards of fly wings, suspended in amber.

    Exactly, he says. ♦

    A woman is in the delivery room giving birth, the doctor tells her to push. She does and the baby’s head pops out. The doctor says, “Oh! Your baby has slanted eyes.” To which she replies “Yeah I heard them Chinese men were pretty good, so I decided to give them a try.�

    The doctor shrugs it off and tells her to push again. This time the baby’s body comes out. “Holy Shit, your baby has a white body,” the doctor says. “Yeah I heard them white men were pretty good so I decided to give them a try,” she said.

    The doctor shrugs it off again and tells her to push again and that will be it. So she does and the legs come out. “Holy Shit! Your baby has black legs,” the doctor said. “Yeah I heard them black men were pretty good so I decided to give them a try,” she said.

    So the doctor shrugs it off again and ties the umbilical cord and slaps the baby on the ass, it starts to cry. The doctor turns to the woman and asks, “How are you going to deal with a baby who has slanted eyes, white body, and black legs?” The woman replies “I’m just glad it didn’t bark!”

    ——————————————————————————–

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  98. Midwest Middie says:
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    FYI – Cleaning Psychologists Offices does not make you a Psychologist!
    If you continue using the office computers at night to post your nonsense,
    you may lose your job.
    Get A Grip and Get Back To Work.

  99. suzyq says:
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    sizzors chews tobacky, and spits through the spaces in her teeth. I mean this in the nicest possible way.

  100. suzyq says:
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    I only point out the dirty areas and my elves do the spit polishing and vacuuming. All the while I shoot little foose balls at them and they catch them between the cheeks of their asses. Then we all go to Denny’s and make fun of the city slickers who get all dressed up in their church clothes just to go to work. Ah, the good times. P.S. I wouldn’t be so proud of being from the Midwest. Scientific studies have shown that a person loses ten (10) IQ points for each 100 miles they live further inland from the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. I come from strong peasant stock, just 2 generations away from dirt floors an a tin roof, so bang away.

  101. suzyq says:
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    And, putting down cleaning people is the utmost of snobbery. It is a noble profession that has put many an immigrants or poor persons child through college. Even when you all take pot shots at me you always reveal just enough of your real selves to see the worms and bugs under the lovely green lawns.

  102. joe says:
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    Stevebeans you really need to start banning this crap.

  103. Midwest Middie says:
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    BS – the “pot shot” was directed at YOU and YOU ALONE.
    IF I had called you a HOG based upon your selfish misuse of this site,
    I wouldn’t be disrespecting animals from the biological Suidae family.

  104. Midwest Middie says:
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    suzyq -
    Your “Sighntifick” nonsense, as usual, makes
    no sense.

    However, thanks for the AM LAUGH!!!

  105. Floater-hater says:
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    Please. Please, STFU
    Get help.
    Dig yourself outta your hoard, climb down from the pile of tuna tins that you balance your computer on and get some help.
    What in Gods Holy Name is WRONG with you?
    At the very least, STFU already.
    Enough of your insanity

  106. Floater-hater says:
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    MwMiddie;
    Just wanted to say I have enjoyed your comments all season. –
    It’s been the worst BB ever, but it’s been great hearing the thoughts and input of other fans
    –with the obvious exception of the Nutbag, Sybil, Dr Demento who has attempted to extinguish this only light we have had in this dark season….
    She might consider opening her $995.00 plus free shipping purse and writing herself a reality check. I suppose the only problem is she wouldn’t know WHO to address it to.

  107. Midwest Middie says:
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    Thanks, Floater-hater.
    It’s been my pleasure posting here with you and the majority of
    the others.
    Hope we “meet up” here next year for BB16.
    Have a wonderful year.