My Life in Education Hasn't Hurt Me None

Val may not lead the most exciting life now that she's retired. But she gets herself in enough predicaments that she could probably pitch her own reality show.

Sunday, I was in Country Mart picking up Diet Coke. It wasn't on my list, but I saw that they had 3 six-packs of 20 oz bottles for $9.00. Curiously enough...they had no six-packs of 20 oz bottles. All out. They did, however, have eight-packs of 12 oz bottles for the same price. So I got 3. You had to, to get the special price. They were $3.99 apiece otherwise.

I also saw a sign for Diet Mountain Dew, 5 six-packs of 20 oz bottles, for $10.00. And they even had them on the shelf. Well. That's only $2.00 apiece. I didn't get them. Must be something wrong with them! Heh, heh. Probably not, but I was already going to be weighted down with my Diet Coke. So I figured I'd tell Hick about it, and he could go get some for himself. What else has he got to do, anyway? He's retired.

Anyhoo...I went on and picked up my list items of bananas, onions, hoisen sauce, and ice cream. The ice cream wasn't even for me. It was for Hick. The little party size plastic cups of vanilla, with a strawberry and chocolate swirl. It even comes with flat wooden spoons, but I throw them away. My man can eat his child-sized ice cream with a metal spoon. We're not barbarians! I, myself, prefer the birthday cake flavor of these party cups that Walmart has. It doesn't come with wooden spoons, but I use an old plastic Dairy Queen spoon. It's made for ice cream, right?

Hick's ice cream is what got me in trouble.

When I approached the freezer cases, I noticed that the floor was being repaired. I was just in there less than a week ago. Over on that aisle, too. And the tile was fine. I guess maybe there was a leak? Or this was just some long-planned tile replacement. The area wasn't roped off or anything. Not even a yellow plastic warning board, or an orange cone.

There's Hick's ice cream. Bottom shelf. Under that little green sign. A bag laying on its side, containing a dozen plastic cups of swirled vanilla. It only has 100 calories, you know. Providing you only eat one cup. When you eat them two at a time like Hick thinks I don't notice, it has 200. Still. That's better than letting Hick dip out of a tub of ice cream. He's not even supposed to HAVE ice cream. But it's better to have limited ice cream than the unlimited donuts he sneaks some mornings. Anyhoo...back to the freezer case.

I'm so trusting. You'd think that a retired teacher would be a bit more suspicious by nature. But no. I was in a place of business. What could possibly go wrong?

I parked my cart on the white speckled tile, beside the open freezers that run down the aisle. I took two steps over to the ice cream door, opened it, and snagged a bag of ice cream for Hick. I closed the door and turned to go back to my cart. And turned to go back to my cart. And turned to go back to my cart.

I WASN'T MOVING!

My feet were stuck to the floor! I could turn my body, and act like I was walking back, but my feet stayed put! I was trapped like a rat on a sticky mat! With much concentration, utilizing my athlete's body, and will of steel, I picked up my left foot and headed back to my cart. And headed back to my cart. And headed back to my cart. No. I didn't. I stepped the left leg out, but the right foot remained stuck on the human rat mat.

Seriously. I thought I was going to have to gnaw my foot off to get loose! Country Mart was not very busy. There WAS a guy on a beeper cart that I had encountered on the soda aisle up front. He was turning from the soda on the front wall down the popcorn aisle, but he had to beepin' back up. Then he started muttering to himself, because he was going neither forward, nor backward any more. I guess his battery ran down. So he wouldn't be much help for me, needing rescue himself.

Don't underestimate Val, though! She's a retired physics teacher, by cracky! I realized that by tilting my foot, I could pry my sole loose from the edge. Slowly. But loose. It took a bit of waggling back and forth, like a slow band-aid removal, but I freed myself. The walk to the checkout was pretty slow, because I had to re-free my right foot every step.

The Beeper Cart Guy must have called for back-up, because he pulled out in front of me at the popcorn aisle. He was on his feet, leaning on a cart, with a man and woman on each side of him for support, both moral and physical, I assumed. Anyhoo...The Man Formerly Known As Beeper Cart Guy was still moving faster than me! Good thing, because there might have been a collision, and I shudder to think of what might have happened if my shoe sole got stuck on some part of him.

Whoa! It just hit me! I could have taken off my shoe! I could have gotten loose by taking off my shoe! Surely I would have thought of that before I started gnawing at my tarsals...wouldn't I? But then, what if I took off my shoe, and I couldn't keep my balance, and my black-with-a-gray-sole Doc Ortho sock got stuck? And then I took off my Doc Ortho sock, and my foot-skin got stuck? THEN I would have been right back to gnawing at my tarsals!

Country Mart really needs to put up a caution sign, or they're going to have a lot of old ice-cream-eaters trapped and blocking their freezer case.

Not every customer is going to be a retired physics teacher, you know.

'Nother One Pulled In By Val's Weirdo Magnet

My head grows heavy, wearing the crown of both Queen of the Weirdos and Queen of Convenience Stores. A couple of my kind-of-local readers are no doubt picturing me as the Queen of Carpet. I could never aspire to be the Princess of Tile.

Anyhoo...today Hick and I had a lunch date with my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel, and her husband. We dined on delicious fare at a cozy kitchen along the interstate. I had the chicken quesadillas. Hick had one of today's specials, half a chicken with two sides. He chose corn and mashed potatoes. Mabel had the other special, a breaded pork sandwich, with broccoli for the side. Her man enjoyed a cheeseburger with fries, and some onion rings that he tried to share, but only Hick partook of. Three of us sipped Diet Cokes, while Mabel had coffee. Guess that shows who was the adult. Oh, and Mabel picked up the tab! Thanks, Mabel! Next one's on me. I meant to take pictures, but was busy catching up on gossip.

The story's not at lunch, though. Or in the tour of Mabel's beautiful palace that Hick was treated to for the first time. It's in what happened AFTER our visit. In a short stop at The Love Station on the way home. That's just a truck stop, people. Don't get your hopes up. It's nothing racy. Just a big roadside convenience store with gas pumps.

Anyhoo...we stopped to pick up a 44 oz Diet Coke for me, and some scratchers from their machine. Hick grabbed a 20 oz Diet Coke for himself. As he stood in line to pay, with me hanging back out of the way of all those truckers in a hurry...a man came up to me. A man holding out a map. Or in my terms: a weirdo.

He was a spry little thing, older than me, bald, bow-legged, wearing jeans and a western-style short-sleeve blue plaid shirt with snaps instead of buttons.

"What's this number?" he asked, pushing the half-folded road map into my personal space.

"Um...I don't know. I don't have on my glasses."

"Me neither! That's the problem."

Hick turned, always nosy helpful when other people are not including him in their conversation. The cashier was ringing up our sodas as Hick talked to the guy.

"Where are you trying to go?"

"I just left Memphis earlier today. I'm headed to Minnesota. Am I right about here?"

"No, Bud, you're more like HERE." Hick was spouting off I-55 info to him.

"Oh. I usually don't have any trouble during the day. But I'm having trouble now. I'm looking for Highway 61. I have trouble breathing sometimes. I'm just really tired. I'm trying to find Highway 61."

"Okay. You go on up I-55 North, and hit 270 towards Kansas City, and then 70 towards Kansas City, and then somewhere around Wentzville, you'll see 61."

"Oh. Thank you. Now I go to 70 and then 61?"

Hick repeated his directions (I think these are the ones he gave, but I'm terrible with directions, and I don't drive the interstates anymore.)

All the while, the cashier was ringing up our sodas, and saying the price, and then announcing the amount of change back. I don't think that helped our little weirdo keep his directions straight.

"Now what was that again? I-55 to 70 to 61?"

"No..."

The cashier was bemused. "Do we need to write it down? I can get a pen and paper."

Hick explained a couple more times, and each one, Weirdo messed up the order, or left out a highway as he repeated it back.

"YES! Let's write it down!" I really wanted that little guy to make it where he was going. I'm pretty sure he was driving a semi, but I kind of hope he wasn't.

Cashier got out a pen, and tore off our long receipt (for just two sodas!) and Hick started writing down the directions.

"Good. You made them big enough that I can see them!"

"Yeah. How do you spell Wentzville?"

Cashier must have been her school valedictorian, because she spelled it right out before I had a chance. We left, and Weirdo followed us out the door.

"Thank you so much! I'm just so tired..."

"You're welcome, sir." Hick really is a Good Samaritan.

"Hurry. I want to get out of the parking lot before he starts driving. I'm really glad we're not going his direction."

Hick may be polite, and like to help people...but Val is a realist.

Val Is Making Cents Again

For my untiring, unpaid work promoting the concept of pennies from heaven...I have been rewarded tenfold today!

It's a DIME, by cracky! No closeup. I was getting the stinkeye from the Lady Owner, and snapped two pictures only, to make sure I actually got the dime in the shot. Without my glasses, I can't tell on that itty bitty cell phone screen if I've centered the dime.

Yes. I promise you, I was on the soda fountain aisle of the gas station chicken store, and not hanging around in a liquor store at 11:00 a.m., asking people for spare whiskey change. I put that dime in my Penny Goblet as soon as I got home. It was a shiny 2014. Nothing meaningful in that date for me.
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And now, for you antidecapennyites who would wish Val centsless so she can get on with her usual scintillating blog posts...

I was having an awkward day, and this dime find at my last stop hit the spot. I started out with the intent of getting my hair cut, gassing T-Hoe, taking money from the credit union to the bank, picking up some scratchers, and getting my 44 oz. Diet Coke.

When I left home, I opened my Terrible Cuts app to check in, but saw the wait was 45 minutes, so I changed my order of errands.

I'd been headed by Casey's for gas, but the truck was there, with the door blocked by its rolling conveyor, so I went on by.

I went in Waterside Mart for two $10 scratcher tickets, and the clerk said, "That'll be thirty dollars." I got her straightened out with a quickness.

On to the credit union for my college boys' monthly allowances, and a little car whipped into the 3-space lot right ahead of me. Even though he parked in the handicap spot, that bandy-legged little man was faster than I. So I had to wait in line.

At the bank, only one of the three drive-thru lanes was open, and it was one I never go to, and I had to learn how to open a money canister from the side, rather than twisting off the top.

I checked in with my Terrible Cuts app, since the wait was down to 16 minutes, rather than the 45 minutes when I had left home. Then it showed 10 minutes. But the drive over there took me 20.

At Terrible Cuts, I got the talky gal, who mostly combs my hair a lot, and makes a few snips. That's okay. I'll trim it myself tomorrow in the mirror.

Thankfully, the soda fountain at the gas station chicken store was flowing with Diet Coke. I put my lid on, and stepped up in line.

THERE WAS A DIME ON THE FLOOR!

While I was taking a picture of my found dime while waiting in line, a lady came in the gas station chicken store and stood at the side of the counter that's not really a line. I told Lady Owner to go ahead and help her first. Figuring that was a good deed.

When that gas lady left, Lady Owner commented, "I don't even know her name, but I remember her because she's in here all the time. She has such pretty hair!"

"Yes. She had nice hair." I really didn't find it at all remarkable. It was okay. Kind of a gray pageboy. Not mussed up or anything. Average at best.

"Yes, I don't know if it's the cut, or if I just really like the color."

"It was nice." Seriously? Here I was, fresh from Terrible Cuts, having just paid $13 for a haircut (wait...maybe I'm realizing the problem), and having just freshened my color with a box of L'Oreal Medium Brown only yesterday, and now Lady Owner was falling all over herself about that Gas Lady's hair!

Oh, well. I don't think Gas Lady is 10 steps closer to being a pennyillionaire today. But I am!

Thevictorian's Monster

No, I haven't been burning the midnight oil in the laboooooratory. I stay up far too late for midnight oil. I'm not robbing graveyards for spare parts. I have my monster-creating ingredients right here in the house. No, I'm not strapping my creation to the metal roof, to wait for a bolt of lightning to animate him. My monster was built right here in the La-Z-Boy.

You might recall that I made Chex Mix last week. I store it in plastic tubs. They happen to be Christmas themed tubs, but that's what I have on hand. They seal the freshness in very well. Hick set one on the table beside his La-Z-Boy. I made the mistake of telling him that when he's done, he can switch out his tub for another one. NOW HE'S DONE IT!

"Done" to Hick means that he's finished with it. Not that it's empty. It means that he's picked through that delicious Chex Mix, and eaten what he likes, and is done with that container. It means that there are almonds and Cheerios and broken Chex fragments left. But they're not his favorites.

Okay. I could deal with that. I like almonds. I'll eat the Cheerios. So I dumped the remains into the tub I'd been taking a tiny individual pie pan worth of Chex Mix out of each day. Jack Spratt's wife, kind of, making use of Hick's fat.

I do that because I'm selfless, you know. Can you imagine the kerfuffle if I would try to pass those remnants off on the homeless? Just ask Rebecca DeMornay down at the homeless center! I daresay I'd be pelted with muffin stumps and toilet books for my trouble.

Now here's another example of how selfless I am. I have been picking out the Bugles from my own container, and adding them to Hick's container. Because he LOVES the Bugles, you see. And I don't. But I would never leave a tub with only the bottom covered with Bugles, and move on to a new tub. No siree, Bob! I'd force myself to eat those Bugles first. So my tub is empty. But since my sometimes Sweet Baboo loves them, I am happy to provide him with extra Bugles.

Hick is kind of shifty sometimes. A few nights ago, I came upstairs unexpectedly. I think it was one of his auction nights, when he got home late, and was still up past 8:30. I walked past the La-Z-Boy, where Hick was reclined, munching on his tub of Chex Mix.

IT WAS FULL OF BUGLES!

I knew something was amiss. That very day, I had discovered my tub of Chex Mix missing, and found it perched atop Hick's tub of Chex Mix on the table beside his La-Z-Boy. I removed Hick's original tub, leaving mine in its place, and dumped his Chex leavings into a new tub that I would start for myself. So I KNEW that the tub on the table was not bulging with Bugles. There should have been just the normal amount, or less, since Hick had already been feeding out of it.

"Where did all those Bugles come from?"

"What Bugles?"

"All those Bugles in that tub you took from me. The one I've been picking Bugles OUT OF to give to you."

"Oh. These Bugles? I got them."

"From where?"

"That bag on the kitchen table."

"That bag in the box with the cereal and nuts and oil? For the next batch?"

"I guess so. They was in that bag."

"Well...I was planning on using it to make more Chex Mix. Bugles are hard to find. Walmart doesn't have them. Country Mart is the only place I've seen them. I was just there today. I would have gotten a new bag if I knew you were eating them."

"Well, I LIKE Bugles."

I let it slide. It was, after all, the first day of the rest of Hick's retirement. But in the future, I'm going to have to put my foot down. Hick will have to finish his Chex Mix completely before getting more. Otherwise, it will get worse and worse, until he's just picking out the Bugles and pecans and pretzels. What kind of crazy world would THAT be, where someone can just pick and choose which morsels of the Chex Mix they want to eat?

If Hick doesn't comply, he's going to get schooled on how to make his own Chex Mix. I think he might have a greater appreciation for it after bending over every 15 minutes for two hours, to take it out of the oven and stir it.

Yes, I've created this monster, and I am the one who must put an end to him.

It's Always Snarkest After the Fawn

Yes, there's a hatchet job coming up on Hick in the next few days. But for now, let's just revel in the wondrous beauty that showcases my Sweet Baboo's splendid yard sale taste.

HICK BOUGHT ME A DISH FOR MY HEAVEN-PENNIES!

He was a cool character about it, too...not telling me, but leaving it on the kitchen counter when he went to bed at 9:00 p.m., for me to find when I came upstairs at 3:00 a.m. Sitting there. Right in front of the pile of pennies. Here it is, posed outside, because my phone camera uses its flash inside, and makes everything else look like we live in the bowels of the earth.

Isn't it beautiful? Heavy glass. Non-tippy. Not likely to crack or turn over. It's not all that big.

Here it is on the rail. You might notice that Poolio is already dressed for the winter. We'll delve into this decision at a later date, after we're done admiring my precious penny cup.

Those pennies fit just fine. Hick found it at the major yard sale along I-55 on Friday. He said, "An old lady had it setting out. There were three little girls, maybe from 9 to 13, sitting there with the stuff. I asked about the vase, and one of them yelled, "Hey, Grandma! How much do you want for the vase?" I got it for 50 cents. I thought it was neat because of that little window circle. Then I thought, 'That would work for Val's pennies!'"

I still have plenty of room to work on my pennyillionaire status.
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As a footnote...today (Sunday) I was in line at the gas station chicken store. I almost had another penny for my collection! An older gentleman in line ahead of me dropped a penny! "YES!" I thought. "Another penny from heaven for Val!"

Then a little girl of about 6, whose mom was standing in the side area that's not a line, jumped forward. She bent down and picked up that penny that was rightfully mine! "Here, Mister. You dropped this." What is WRONG with people these days! Can't they teach their kids to mind their own business, and not really care about people?

Mister thanked her, and put that penny in his pocket. I bet that penny didn't even mean anything to Mister. It was all I could do not to rush up and jam my hand down his pocket and claim my penny.

You don't think I'm becoming too obsessed with this whole penny thing, do you?

A New Spectator Sport

I should have seen the signs. Had I looked outside on my way to bed around 3:30 a.m., no doubt I would have noticed that a bad moon had risen. On the way to town, there were no good songs on any of my regular 10 favorite stations. And all three of my favorite parking spaces were taken at Country Mart, where I stopped for some scratch-off tickets.

Country Mart has two ticket-dispensing machines. They're fairly new, replacing their old ticket-dispensing machines. These are touch-screen, with a lot more ticket choices than the old ones. And when a ticket is getting low, the screen shows you "...only 4 tickets left." That matters to some people. Not necessarily to me, because I've discovered that sometimes they load those machines with the last tickets first. So the last four may actually be tickets 000, 001, 002, and 003. Those are tickets a lot of people yearn for. Doesn't really matter to me. I take my chances.

I entered through the exit doors, and stepped to the machine on my left, which is actually the right-side machine. They are up against the incoming wall. I knew it had my Golden Ticket, the one I was after, because I'd been there only two days ago, and knew that the other machine was out of them.

I inserted my money, and got my ticket. I was conscious of somebody standing behind me. That's a no-no in ticket-machine etiquette. I looked over my shoulder, and saw a weirdo leaning on his cart. He looked like an old gold miner, in a plaid shirt, threadbare jeans, and a white wiry beard with white eyebrows accenting his eyes. Just watching. Not speaking. No money out for his own purchase. Just leaning on the cart. Watching. Two white plastic bags in the child seat.

What in the Not-Heaven?

I was not happy. Not an unusual state for Val. I had planned to get Hick a $5 ticket, because he had bought himself another one, and won $5, and asked me to pick one up for him. But with Weirdo 89er breathing down my neck, I didn't want to.

I moved to the machine on the left. Oh! They had restocked the Golden Tickets! I'd already bought one, though. So I put in a $20, planning to get a $10 ticket and two $5 tickets, giving one of them to Hick. These machines don't give change. So you have to take in small bills, or plan your purchases. I knew I was getting a $10 Frenzy ticket, and decided to get an extra $5 ticket for myself when I got Hick's. Thus the $20, rather than using my smaller bills.

The machine sucked in the $20. I touched the screen for my Frenzy, but nothing happened. Huh. Maybe it was out. Or jammed. Even though usually the picture of that ticket is dark when it's out, or it says JAMMED across the front of it. I touched the $10 ticket on the next row. A Millionaire Riches. Still nothing. Then I saw that the box showing the amount of money put in was at $0.00. NO WAY! I'd just put in a $20! I inserted a $5, which the machine spat back out. THEN a box popped up that said, "Cash box malfunction. Ask for help." NOOOOOO!

Of course there were two women in line at the nearby service desk. There's NEVER anybody there, unless it's other workers, gossiping. But today, there were two customers. I gave Weirdo 89er a wide berth. He still had his eye on me. I skirted him to get to the service desk, and a cashier turned to look at me. He was a new one to me. Early 20s, tall, pudgy, glasses.

"I put a twenty in that machine, and it's not giving me anything back. It says 'malfunction.' Is the service desk where I should tell?"

That dang Millennial gave me the "uh ih uh" singsongy "I don't know" noise. Thanks a lot, bud.

The first lady asking for service was buying a money order. Okay. Good for her, paying her bills like a responsible person. Even though it was taking up a lot of time that I was wanting to use for getting back my lottery $20. I kept glancing at the machine, lest it spit my money back out and someone... *cough, cough* Weirdo 89er...go take it. But the money slot was still flashing red.

The next lady needing service was cashing a paycheck. Okay. Good for her. Working for a living. But THEN she and the store servicer started a conversation about a mutual friend and what she was doing now. Oh, the joys of living in Backroads. I checked on my machine again. Weirdo 89er was still standing in front of the first machine. Looking around. Not buying. Just eyeing my broken machine like some nefarious casino ticket-casher ready to abscond with ill-gotten gains. The red light was flashing in the money slot, but the message on the front of the screen had disappeared.

I finally got my turn at the service counter. I pushed my own long white beard aside stepped up and tried to pretend I wasn't in an urgent hurry to get my money back. I explained what happened. Servicer got her key and headed over. We both had to detour around Weirdo 89er.

As we walked up to that machine, I saw a FRENZY TICKET LAYING IN THE TRAY!

"This wasn't here when I left! I pushed on it, but it never gave me a ticket."

"Well, you have ten dollars left. See?" She spoke as if I was a rank amateur at this lottery business.

Of course. Now the machine said I had $10 credit still in the machine. What in the Not-Heaven? I wasn't taking any chances. I knew I'd already pushed that Millionaire Riches ticket, so I just pushed it again. Nothing.

"See? That's what it did before! LOOK! It says CASH BOX MALFUNCTION!" I giddy with I'm-right-ness.

Servicer kind of muttered, and opened the machine with her key. As she swung the door open, the screen showed my Millionaire Riches ticket dropping. But no ticket came out. Servicer fiddled with the cash box. THEN, totally unrelated to her fiddling, I'm sure...a Millionaire Riches ticket fell onto the floor.

"Oh. Looks like that's my ticket. I'm even now. That's good enough for me." Even though Servicer offered to pick it up (that's her job, you know, service) I politely declined, and grabbed it myself. I hope Weirdo 89er enjoyed the show.

Yeah. All that trouble for these two tickets.

I counted my $20 blessings and headed for Casey's, where I got a ticket for Hick, which was a loser. My Golden Ticket from the first machine won $30, and the Millionaire Riches that I had not intended to buy won $15. Not a profit day, but it was only a marginal loss.

It could have been worse. Moneywise.

Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday #74 "Down Beaver Creek Without a Paddle"

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book-Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to convince you to fake-buy my fake book. This week, prove that you're cool. That you're not a drip. Give Val a drop in the bucket for her latest fake book. It's flooding the market, but copies may dry up if you wait too long. Liquidate your assets, forward Val your cash, and we'll get along swimmingly.

Down Beaver Creek Without a Paddle

Babe the Blond Fox didn't know what she was getting herself into when she left her argumentative boyfriend, Paul Bunyan, at home in the woodshed. "I'm just going to cool off for a while, and float down the lazy river. See you later. We'll each have a dozen Buffalo Wings for supper. Go hunt some buffalo! I'm really hungry."

Now Babe has lost her inner tube, and the river is not as deep as she'd expected. Not to mention all these tourists swarming around her with cameras.

"HEY! Watch it! You're going to run into the knees!" Julie tells her husband, who loves motorboating every chance he gets.

"Honey," says Bob. "Those aren't her knees."

Will Bob and Julie go down with the ship? Will Babe dredge up bad memories? Will Paul still be able to get wood when Babe returns? (141 words)

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Fake Reviews for Val’s Fake Book

Old Granny Lady..."It is obvious that we should wait 30 minutes after eating before fake-reading Thevictorian's fake books. She might want to spend more than 20 minutes writing them, too."

David Hasselhoff (the Baywatch lifeguard version, not the drunk eating a cheeseburger)..."With this fake book, Thevictorian is going down for the 74th time. Somebody needs to save her. The floundering has gone on long enough."

Davy Jones..."I have a special locker to keep Thevictorian's fake book in."

Davy Jones, the Monkee..."I'm not a believer (daydream or otherwise) in Thevictorian's fake-writing talent. I'd get on the last train to Clarksville to avoid fake-reading one of her fake books. They inspire me to look for a couple of songwriters to pen my latest idea: Another Unpleasant 'Val is Done' Day."

A Mob Boss who shan't be named..."Jimmy Hoffa is the lucky one. He'll never have to read this fake book. Thevictorian is a prime example of why somebody should be sleepin' with the fishes instead of fake-writing fake books about rivers that might have fishes in them."

The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker..."Rub a dub dub, we'll not share out tub, with Thevictorian, you see! She's yakky, she's tacky, her fake writing is hacky...hope she washes out to sea!"

Baby, thrown out with the bath..."I don't know how Thevictorian keeps her head above water. Her fake writing pulls fake readers down like a whirlpool, she's more full of poop than a morning Pamper, and she sucks at pacifying her angry fake-readers."

That Bridge..."When Thevictorian comes to me, I will not let her cross! Her fake writing must be contained. I'll do my bit geographically. No way will I allow her work to span the globe. A suspension of belief is necessary to imagine how she even got a fake-book deal. Let's hope her collapse is imminent."