There Goes the Sun, doo-doo-doo-doo

Maybe a few of you have heard of a little thing called a TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SUN that is happening on Monday, August 21. If you haven't, it might be time to come out from under your rock where you've been shacking up with a GEICO caveman. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Backroads is right smack dab in the middle of the totality path. That means 100% coverage, baby! The sun goes bye-bye for a couple of minutes. Poor Pony, out in Norman, Oklahoma, will only get a partial eclipse. About 84%, I think, though I didn't take notes during my internet research. Genius, in College Town, says he'll get 99-point-something percent, and that ten miles away from him is totality. I sent both boys a pair of eclipse viewing glasses in their letter this week. For 99 cents, you can save your vision! What will they think of next?

Walmart is getting in on the action! Today I saw a bunch of displays down a main center aisle. In fact, I picked up three caps for Hick. He has quite a cap collection, you know.

I figure a guy like Hick can use three caps. I daresay he's misplaced or worn out his caps from the last total eclipse of the sun here in Backroads. Which was in 1442!!! Here's a link to a nearby community's eclipse resources.

The schools around here have canceled classes for Monday. They say that with the influx of visitors, they're not sure that they'll be able to transport students home safely. Estimates are that anywhere from 389,000 to a million people are within driving distance of our area, and may come to view the eclipse within a 30-mile radius of Backroads. I know that I am NOT going to town for my 44 oz Diet Coke that day! And I'll go without a scratch-off ticket, too! OH, NOOOO! What if a visitor buys a big winner rightfully meant for Val???? I'm starting to feel a bit light-headed.

The Man Owner at the gas station chicken store told me he's not sure if his business will be affected. However...his wife the Lady Owner must think so. There's a new sign on the door that advertises an ECLIPSE SPECIAL for a 20-piece box of chicken for $19.95. I don't know the regular price, but an 8-piece box is usually $8.95. Anyhoo...the Man Owner said that he heard the MO State Highway Patrol is putting up signs that say NO PARKING along the highway. And that they'll have a trooper stationed every 20 miles.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a flash of...well...I'm not sure what to call it...but BRILLIANCE seems like the wrong fit, what with the sun going dark on this momentous occasion. But anyhoo, as I started up the hill out of town, driving past the vacant shopping center where Genius and the solar car team charged their vehicle, and where there's a storefront without a name that Hick at one time said was an unmarked pharmacy that he was going to apply to deliver for when he retires...I had that flash of...um...insight! See, there's still a problem, with the word sight, since we'll be risking losing our sight if we look directly at the dark sun...

Anyhoo...I couldn't wait to get home and tell Hick my idea. I found him floating just below the surface of Poolio, on a raft not quite rated for his weight.

"Hey! You know that eclipse that's coming up? I just thought of something! If I was the owner of that parking lot where Genius had the solar car, I'd rope it off and charge people by the head, or by the car, for spaces to park and watch the eclipse!"

"Yeah. That's the perfect place. There's no trees in the way. It's open. There's a lot of parking."

"I know! And  people will be parking there anyway. He'll have to rope it off, or they'll park there for free, on his property! I'm not even going to town that day. It will be a mess. The paper says all the motel rooms have been reserved for a couple of years. I wouldn't be surprised if people are parked all along the blacktop highway. You know, come down the interstate and think they can get off and pull over. There's no shoulder! I'm definitely not getting out that day. I'll make my own Diet Coke."

"You know...I could rent out space in the field! We're on top of a hill. The trees are cleared. People could camp. I have the bathroom in the BARn. And an outhouse. I made that shower for the solar car team when they camped here..."

"Well, you'd have to go sit in town with a cardboard sign advertising your space and your price. Because nobody's going to find it out here. You'd have to gather up your customers and come out in a convoy. Then they'd probably complain because when you said a field, you really meant a field. Then if it rains that day, they'll complain that they didn't get to see the eclipse. I don't think it's worth it."

"Yeah. Maybe not. But that guy in town should do something!"

He should. I'll never know, though. I'm not going to town that day!
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Here's a link about the eclipse from one of our local newspapers a couple weeks ago.

http://dailyjournalonline.com/farmington-press/news/local/watch-solar-eclipse-in-nature-at-mdc-areas/article_04d76db0-5972-500c-97ec-c95917197f08.html

Sitting In a Tahoe Down By the Moat

Today I vowed to be on my best behavior at the gas station chicken store. After allowing 44 oz of Diet Coke to flow across their premises, and cutting line in front of two kids...I figured I'd better not push my luck on the third day in a row.

I watch LIVE PD every Friday and Saturday night. I know that nuisances can be removed from the premises. All it takes is a call to the dispatcher, and a strong recommendation from a gun-toting law enforcement officer. I'm really not a scofflaw. I don't want to be rousted by the cops, or have a trespassing order put into effect. All I needed was to be careful with my ninja thumbs so as not to puncture the foam cup, and pay attention to the order that people came into the store and got in line. Even though there are often three lines to keep track of.

The lunch rush wasn't there yet, and my parking spot by the moat was available. I grabbed my $60 winner to cash in, put my phone in my pocket (in case I found a penny on the way, for documentation purposes) and clicked the door-locker. I was only halfway across the lot when my phone rang. Of course I answered. I have two boys away at college.

IT WAS ONE OF THEM!

Let the record show that nobody ever calls or texts me when I'm doing nothing in my dark basement lair with 44 oz of Diet Coke at my elbow. Nope. I'm as lonely as a Maytag repairman then. But let me be out and about, actually doing something, and they must contact me.

Genius was calling from College Town. He just got back on Saturday, from Overland Park, Kansas, where he'd worked the summer for Garmin.

"Are you able to talk right now?"

"Yeesss...what's wrong? I'm getting my soda, but I'll go back and sit in the car to talk."

"Oh, nothing's wrong. But I can call back."

"I'm already here now. Already have to door open."

Genius was alerting me to an impending purchase of textbooks, for his last semester before graduation in December. He wanted to know which Amazon account to use, mine or his. Which of course meant which credit card the purchase would be on. Then I take the money out of his college savings, and put it in one checking account or the other to pay off the credit card.

"I don't care. Let's see. You can put it on yours, but I'll need a copy for tax time. You might not want me to see what else is on your credit card. But you could print me a hard copy, and black it out. OR, you can just put it on mine. Then I'll have a record of it when my bill comes. But it's easier for my records when the exact amount goes to your bank account. I need to show that that we are the ones who paid, though,  just in case we can still claim you as a dependent..."

"Oh...then I can't get my cash back for the purchase!"

"I though you might not want it on your credit card right now."

"I don't care. Just checking with you."

"Okay, put it on yours."

It's always something. We had further discussion of when his bill comes, and if he wanted to wait until then for the money transfer, which he did not, because he has something set up with "virtual envelopes" that he planned to deposit the money in until payment was due.

So...even though neither one of us cared which card paid for the books, it took about 15 minutes to make a decision and sort out the timeline of money transfer. Also, Genius filled me in on his recent job interviews, and his current plans, and his weekend trip. I was sitting sideways in T-Hoe with the door open for about 20 minutes.

Once our call concluded, I hopped down and locked up the door again and started across the lot. Halfway there, I heard a siren. I turned to see TWO police cars with flashing lights coming through the stoplight.

Yes. For a split second, I felt guilty! Had a smidgen of concern as to whether I was going to be rousted for loitering. Then I saw both vehicles turn and head in the direction of the prison and my homestead.

Usually, that would concern me. Today, it did not.

Let the record show that inside the gas station chicken store, I was a model citizen and well-behaved soda-buyer. And that I won absolutely nothing on today's scratch-off tickets.

Will Val Be Banned From the Gas Station Chicken Store?

I fear that I may soon become persona non grata at the gas station chicken store.

They will not be giving me a thumbs up after yesterday's full-cup faux pas. When they see me enter, they will now see the cup as half empty rather than half full. Or probably completely empty.

Today I had good intentions. I was climbing right back on the horse that threw me. Dancing with the one what brung me. I should have sensed the bad moon a-risin' as I sat at the stoplight and watched a jacked-up pickup pull directly into my favorite parking spot near the door. AND glanced over at my moat parking space, and saw it occupied with a silver sedan.

I parked by the moat anyway, right under the big sign. Tempting fate, perhaps, but it didn't fall on T-Hoe. I hiked across the parking lot and into the store, my first obstacle being the plumber's crack of the giant man who was putting his weekly gas drawing red tickets into the cardboard box, and dropped them. He almost sent me flying as his buttocks lurched at me when he bent over. I may not be O.J. Simpson running through an airport, but my knees aren't shot yet. I juked around the noontime thankfully-not-full moon, and headed down the candy aisle to come around the end and get to the soda fountain.

Hullo! What's this, then? People in the way of my draught!

The gas station chicken store has two soda fountains, side by side. Coke. And Pepsi. Blocking both of them was a mother and two daughters. I assume a family connection, because they resembled each other, and the mom was bossing the kids. Not unduly. Kids need bossing. They were a round family. A say that not to be condescending or snarky, but merely for descriptive purposes. Val herself has never been svelte, and she does not stoop to not-svelte-shaming others. People come in all shapes and sizes. This family was the shape of basketballs with legs. It was like two daughter moons orbiting their mother planet.

It was, perhaps, their last hurrah of summer. Schools around here start on Thursday. All three gals were wearing some kind of tights that stop just below the knee. I'm not into fashion myself. There's probably a name for those togs. They were black, and each gal also wore a brightly colored striped or patterned knit shirt. Not matching each other. Fashionable enough for these parts. Each had her straight hair pulled back into a neck-nape ponytail. They were not slobs. And they were well-behaved. Not like the screeching toddler banshee I encountered in Walmart yesterday.

Anyhoo...they were taking up prime real estate that Val was in the market for. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I, myself, have done so in the past, when taking my two boys with me into a convenience store. Just the facts. Three people take up space. It's awkward in tight quarters.

The older girl, maybe 13, and the mom, had 44 oz sodas. They were putting on their lids and getting straws, and throwing away their wrappers in the wastebasket down by where I was waiting. The younger girl, maybe 9, was dissatisfied with her drink. I didn't hear the exact conversation, because Val is not an eavesdropper. The gist of it was that she wanted something different. I DID notice that while the older two were preoccupied, she was sipping heartily from her 32 oz cup.

As a solution, the mom told her to just pour it out, which she did, in the Pepsi fountain. The older girl pointed to the Coke machine, where there were two spigots for tea. I don't know the difference. I don't drink tea. The younger girl commenced to filling her cup with tea. That might sound petty, for Val to mention how that girl POURED OUT 32 oz of soda, when Val herself poured out 44 oz of soda yesterday, ON THE COUNTER AND FLOOR. But sometimes, Val IS petty.

Anyhoo...another customer strode in during the refilling. She might have been on lunch break from the nearby can-opener factory. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and tennis shoes, with her frizzy fried hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Again, Val is not pointing a digit from within her glass home, she's merely describing. Her own brunette lovely lady-mullet is generally in some faded-out state or another, so no shade thrown on Can Opener's color job.

Can Opener crept closer to the soda fountains. She saw me there. Acknowledged me. It's not like there was anywhere else for her to stand. As the stellar family orbited away from the drink machines, Can Opener magnanimously motioned for me to proceed. Okay. I'm glad she had manners. But we both knew I was there first, even though my long white beard was just starting to come in. She didn't have to be so grandiose about it.

As I was about 30 oz into drawing my magical elixir, Can Opener could wait no longer. She grabbed her own cup, and stepped up to the Pepsi machine. Different strokes for different folks. It made me no nevermind. She barely had room, with the Orbits standing there in no-woman's land, not quite bellied up to the register, but with their backs to the chicken-ordering counter.

I took my full 44 oz of Diet Coke, and my $30 winning ticket, and started to check out. Mama Orbit had left her little satellites, and headed for the back of the store. The oldest one was standing at the front, but with her back to the register. I didn't know if they were ready to check out, so I stepped up and laid down my ticket and set down my 44 oz cup back away from the edge, with my hands off.

I THINK I BUTTED AHEAD IN LINE!

Mama Orbit returned just as I set down my stuff. Too bad, so sad. She didn't say anything to me. She was busy telling The Littlest Orbit that no, she was not getting a donut. I am sorry if I took their turn. But they needed to crap or get off the pot. Other people need to use the pot for their own crapping. So you don't just run across the store and leave your two young 'uns holding down the pot.

I was in no hurry, though. I'd waited a good long time for them to complete their soda fountain performance. I even asked what number the next ticket was, and took it anyway, even though it was number 018 on a roll that goes to 019. (I won $60 on it, too!) My transaction was completed without incident. And by incident, I mean a deluge of Diet Coke cascading down the counter and onto the floor.

The Man Owner didn't seem at all put out by the fact that I might just possibly have cut in line. I don't think he'll tape a sign to the register prohibiting sales to me just yet.

Val Suffers Rigorous Mortification

The earth was nearly knocked off its axis this afternoon, my friends, by a faux pas so cataclysmic that Val may never be able to show her face in the gas station chicken store again!

I stopped by to pick up my daily 44 oz Diet Coke. The time was around 1:00, it being the last of my errands that began at 10:30 when I left home. Ahh...the sweet, sweet unsweetened nectar that I live for. My magical elixir. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a small cardboard Pepsi cup sitting under the Diet Coke spigot.

Was there a malfunction? No handwritten sign was taped up. So I moved that Pepsi cup over, pulled a 44 oz foam cup, and began filling my vat with Diet Coke. It looked fine. I took a sip before putting on the lid. Not to scam some extra before paying, but to make sure it wasn't too full, to prevent seepage through the lid as T-Hoe bounced over hill and dale on my dusty trail home. Tasted just right! I didn't see anything wrong on the soda fountain, so I threw away the Pepsi cup. Some ne'er-do-well slob must have quenched his thirst for free. My lid didn't fit right, the rim of the cup being flattened on one side from the the cup holder. So I threw away the lid that cracked, and put on another one.

My timing was just right. The other customer had been taken care of, and the Stern Old Gal Clerk, who was just going off duty, had bought herself a couple of items. She was chatting with the Lady Owner out front of the counter, while the Man Owner manned the register. They were talking about a washing machine malfunction, and subsequent carpet flooding.

I paid, and bought two lottery tickets (won $30), and told the Man Owner my own washing machine malfunction story. Then Stern Old Gal Clerk left, and Lady Owner came over to talk. It was an unusual lull without customers streaming in, or weirdos asking me for booze money. As we were having our gabfest, I'd moved my tickets and cup over, in front of the register, in case somebody came in and wanted to check out, or see the lottery tickets under glass on the counter. As I was chatting, my cup felt unstable. You know how they are so slim at the bottom. I raised my hand up a little for a better grip, to push it back a bit, and

MY THUMB WENT THROUGH THE SIDE!

Oh, the Diet-Coke-manity! Such a catastrophe. The Lady Owner looked down, and it was like slow motion. We both knew what was going on, but we couldn't react. Then she hollered to her husband, "GET THE WASTEBASKET!"

Problem was, that hole was so far down the cup that most of my magical elixir had already escaped. A small pond on the counter, and a larger lake on the floor. Man Owner flipped up the part of the counter that's like a drawbridge, and rushed out with the wastebasket and a roll of paper towels. I picked up some boxes of little cigars and caffeine pills that were being inundated. We wiped them off. I helped swab up the pool on the floor. Then Lady Owner told Man Owner to get the mop. "Funny how the mop fits his hand WAY BETTER here than at home," she said.

We got the spill contained without any other customers encroaching the disaster area. I apologized profusely. "I'm SO embarrassed. I probably won't even be able to show my face in here for...at least a DAY!"

"Oh, this is nothing. We're used to it," said Man Owner as his wife was pulling back the register and directing him to wipe the counter of its Diet-Coke-and-dust slime.

"You didn't see ANY of this, right?" said Woman Owner. Who runs a tight ship, and usually has that place smelling like bleach on days she is there. I fear that heads may roll at this exposure. But at least it's not mine.

"Go get yourself another soda," said Man Owner. Of course I demurred. But when he said it again, I caved. THAT is customer service.

Let the record show that Val is absolutely mortified by her uncouth behavior. If she was a dude, and an actor, and really good-looking, and stalked lusted after adored favored by blog buddy Sioux...her name might be Riggo Mortifson.

The Mode of Many Colors

Hick has always been the resourceful guy, as pointed out in a comment yesterday by blog buddy Jimmy. Hick knows the value of a buck, and I was raised pinching pennies myself.

I went away to college, and spent my first several working years in southwest Missouri. A job back in my hometown area led me to renting a townhouse just down the road from my new workplace. There were four apartment buildings, two of them being two-bedroom townhouses, and the other two being one-bedroom units.

My mother must have been somewhat nervous about where I would live when I came back. Not that she wouldn't have welcomed me back to my childhood bedroom, which she'd filled with craft materials. I think it was more of a case of her worrying that I'd live in a hovel. After all, in Mountain Grove, I'd taken a room over a garage on the end of a home of people who ran a trailer park. And at my next job in Sheldon, I rented a room in an old railroad hotel, second floor, about 10 feet from the railroad tracks. Still in use, I might add. The third place was a little house in Cuba that had a gas furnace that went WHOOSH every time it kicked on, and had squirrels in the attic.

"Oh, I've found just the place for you, honey! They're NEW! It's a townhouse, just built. They're really nice. Come and at least look at them. If it's too much money for you, I'll pay part of your rent. Just give them a chance." So I did. There was absolutely no other apartment housing in the area at the time, save for an old motel with one-room units, and a ramshackle building by the railroad tracks. I didn't need my mom's money for rent. I'd had five years of supporting only myself. Without much outlay for rent!

Mom was thrilled when I moved in. So was I. It was just far enough away from her, but just close enough. There was a pool, where I spent most of the summer. The owner advertised this as a singles complex, and there was only one couple with a little girl, and another with a teenage boy. So the pool was a calm place to be. That's where I met Hick. I was swimming in the deep end, in over my head, and he was sitting on the side, talking to another guy who lived in his one-bedroom building. I had a friend a few doors down who taught at a different school, and we all hung out together.

On the 1st and 3rd weekends, Hick had his boys for a visit. The apartment denizens and I might be floating around in the pool on a Friday evening, and see Hick turn into the drive with his boys. "Here comes Sanford and sons," one of them would say. They said it to Hick's face, too, and he didn't mind. He had a $400 truck, a 1965 Chevy pickup, that was all colors of the rainbow. Only not pastel. I don't know what color that truck was originally, but it had been patched and painted more than a handful of times. It was Hick's sole mode of transportation.

Once Hick and I became a thing, he said he was going to paint his truck. He was an hourly worker then, with an hour drive to and from the city each day, and didn't have a lot of money. He used to say, "I'm gonna get an Earl Scheib paint job on my truck!" But only when he got enough money. It cost $99.99. I think Hick was kind of proud that he'd snagged him a teacher. That still meant something back then. To him, anyway, coming from a home with a sick mom, a blind dad, and no indoor plumbing. Heck, Hick was proud to have a job and a $400 truck!

Anyhoo...Hick asked me what color he should paint his truck. That's when I knew he was serious. I told him that white for the upper part of the cab, and a medium blue for the rest, would look nice. The next time I saw Hick drive in, he'd painted his truck. With cans of spray paint. Oh, and he'd only painted one door, because that's all the paint he could afford at that time. But you know what?

It was the passenger door he painted.

That's my Sweet Baboo.

Where It All Began (Almost)

I'm thinking of roping off a special section of Hick's Shackytown Theme Park to display his very first shack. Almost. The actual very first shack was a tool shed, built on our land out here when we lived in town. But that's more of a work shack, and not for pleasure. So we'll put it on the back burner until I can get a picture of it. For today, we're only showcasing The A-Frame.

Before there was a homestead, before there was a BARn, before there was even a Genius or a Pony, there was The A-Frame. Hick and I bought our original 10 acres before there was even a marriage. Oh, it was in the works. But we wanted to snag the land while it was available, with the intention of building our house, which didn't happen until the summer Genius was three, and The Pony was waiting to make his grand entrance.

We got the land, and Hick liked nothing better (well, few things better) than to drive out and putter around. The first thing he built was an outhouse. Then he started thinking about a barn, probably always having the plan to finish out the upstairs to make it his BARn.

That summer, Hick was living in his one-bedroom apartment in the complex where we met at the pool, and I had moved from my townhouse into my $17,000 house a couple miles over. Hick has always been the busy sort, and did a lot of work fixing up my house. Of course he knew it would one day be his as well. No man can resist a woman with a $17,000 house!

Hick's boys, HOS and The Veteran, were just little shavers back then. Probably 7-8 years old. When they came for weekend visits, Hick would take them out to the land, and have them pick up sticks or stack wood, something to show that he was the boss over them, and laziness and whining would not be tolerated. I'd pack them a lunch or supper. Sometimes they took hot dogs (of course, Hick's favorite food) and built a fire, and stayed the night, sleeping under a tarp stretched across the bed of the pickup truck.

Hick kept the front part of the property mowed, but the woods he left alone. He decided that he wanted a cabin down by the creek, and set to collecting scrap materials for construction. Such as the wood from shipping crates that work gave him for free, so as not to pay to have them hauled away as trash. Let the record show that Hick never builds from a plan. He imagines it in his head, and then slaps it together. If pressed, he can sketch out the idea for skeptics. But he doesn't draw out his blueprint before building.

The A-Frame has a window up top that doesn't open, but lets in plenty of light. It's made from a piece of plexiglass that Hick salvaged somewhere. Same with the door. He didn't buy his materials back then. We weren't the Rockefellers that we are now. Inside, on the left, there's a platform built about knee-high, which opens on hinges for storage. The top is flat for sleeping. Beside it is enough space to put a couple of lawn chairs for seating. There's a board ladder to get up to the loft, which is the right size for two boy young 'uns to sleep in sleeping bags.

That A-Frame has provided many happy memories for both sets of our boys. But I think nobody has enjoyed it more than Hick.

Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #71 "The Grapes of Mirth"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. Do you know people who succeed at everything they touch? Have enough money to burn a wet mule? Fall rumpus-backwards into money every time they turn around? This week's fake book is the story of one such person. A multifaceted individual who laughs in the face of adversity, and is taking the jewelry world by storm. Fake-order your fake copy today! Even if you don't have any plans to read it yourself, you can pass it on to loved ones. Every re-gift begins with Val!

The Grapes of Mirth

Doc Jollyday is a triple threat. By night, he works as a standup comic. During the day, he practices medicine. And on the weekends, he designs jewelry. His newest shiny bauble is a necklace shaped like a bunch of grapes, showcasing the smiles of patients he has cured of assorted maladies. Laughter IS the best medicine, you know.

The other physicians are NOT happy with Doc Jollyday. Nor are his comedy store cohorts. Now the AMA is investigating him for allegedly using lips from shrunken heads, and comedians slotted ahead of Doc are playing Sarah McLachlan songs to subliminally sadden the audience before his set.

Will Doc Jollyday have the last laugh, or will his enemies turn his smiles upside down?
(121 words)

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Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

The Good Feet Store..."We are willing to order a truckload of these fake books to sell on our counter, as long as Thevictorian can give us a good price. We're willing to let her get her foot in the door, and partner with us* as we offer her fake book for free with every $1000 $1100 pair of shoe inserts sold." *This deal does not in any way constitute an endorsement of Val Thevictorian's writing.

The Good Teeth Store..."Do not buy this fake book! We are currently involved in litigation with Doc Jollyday and Val Thevictorian concerning misuse of 'after' photos from our clients. Avoid this purchase, and help us take a bite out of alleged crime."

The Good Meat Store..."This fake book is to literature as Auction Meat is to filet mignon. A mystery as to what's inside, and likely to make one's gorge rise after sampling it."

The Good TWEET Store..."Thevictorian's fake book has 140 characters. None of them with any redeeming qualities." #StopThevictorianNow

The Good Weep Store..."Our time has come! Our shops are the perfect place to commiserate over the time you wasted fake-reading this fake book. And if you actually fake-paid for a copy, you need our services even more. Come in, order a cup of our wasabi tea and a ghost chili muffin, sit down on our splintery chairs, and have a good cry with one of our Ripped-Off By a Bad Fake Author support groups."

The Good Neat Store..."We have a place for everything, and everything in its place. That said, you won't find this fake book anywhere on our shelves. We're in the business of clearing OUT the trash, not bringing it in! Thevictorian's fake book is garbage. We imagine her biggest fans will turn out to be rats and silverfish."

The Good BLEEP Store..."Who the BLEEP told this BLEEP she was a BLEEPing author? This piece of BLEEP is the worst fake book we've seen in a long BLEEPing time! Make that ever. The most BLEEPed-up fake book we've ever BLEEPing seen. It's a steaming pile of BLEEP! Thevictorian can go BLEEP herself! She must be BLEEPed in the head to fake-write such bullBLEEP!"