You Never Know

Many years ago my grandfather-- his real name was Irving but everyone called him Itchy-- developed a nagging backache. It grew in intensity until finally he went to a doctor; the diagnosis was lung cancer. Still an optimist at 78, Itchy wasn’t bitter but he was perplexed; as he put it, “How did I get lung cancer? The only thing I ever smoked was salmon.”

Since his illness was not aggressive, Itchy was able to live life as usual for quite a while, and his only complaint was that my grandmother’s snoring kept him awake. (Of course, to hear her tell it, she hadn’t closed her eyes for a minute the whole night.) When his worsening condition required a short-term hospital stay, Itchy gave it a positive spin, reasoning, “What could be bad? At least I’ll get some sleep.”

Finances dictated a semi-private room. Despite the drawn curtain between the room’s two beds, one fact concerning his roommate quickly became apparent: the guy had the hiccups. In fact, the elderly man had been hospitalized because he had been hiccupping non-stop for several weeks. The annoying sound came at regular and short intervals, and continued round-the-clock.

After his first sleepless night, my grandfather said, “I have cancer, and they put me in with hiccups? What, they don’t have someone with a bad heart, or maybe a brain tumor? Where am I, the comedy ward?”

My grandmother was outraged, and let everyone within earshot know it. She paraded around the hospital corridor grousing, “How can they do this to him? He’s got Cancer! He should be with someone who’s also very sick, not someone with the hiccups!”

Despite vowing years earlier to disagree with my grandmother at all costs, I secretly felt the same way. After all, one time as a teenager I had had the hiccups for five straight hours, and it was no big deal. It seemed unfair that my grandfather, in the hospital for some horrid procedure to drain fluid that had collected in his lungs, was sleep-deprived because of this Hiccup Man!

It was not a good situation, and I begged my parents to fix it. My father said, it’s not possible, he’ll be out in a few days, he’ll get used to it. My mother said, what can we do, they have no place to move him, just leave it alone. But being brash and 21, I went to the nurse’s station and requested a change be made. “I mean, he has cancer! Don’t you have any other cancer patients he could be with? Maybe you could substitute someone with a more serious, quieter disease?”

The next day I arrived during visiting hours to find Itchy eating breakfast, the Hiccup Man absent and the room blessedly silent. Aha, it had worked! I fixed it! Feeling quite proud of myself, I said, “So, I see they moved your annoying neighbor.”

“He died. I’ve got cancer, and I’m sitting here with orange juice and scrambled eggs. He had the hiccups, and he’s gone. Like I always say, you never know.”

Itchy lived another year, plenty of time to tell that story many times.

Withering Woodstockers

Despite weighing more than ever, thus naturally occupying more space, I am now almost completely invisible. You’d think that would qualify me as a bona fide super heroine, but actually quite the opposite is true: I am an ordinary female, age 62, but just like that witch in the “The Wizard of Oz,” I’m melting. Not really, but even if I were nobody would raise an eyebrow.

I started noticing this lack-of-being noticed phenomenon about ten years ago, but it wasn’t complete until I hit 60. Then zap, I was gone. Since then, I truly believe I could publicly disrobe and turn very few heads, except in winter, when I might get on the news for braving the elements.

I am still visible to people who want to sell me something or need a favor. For example, my dog still sees me, as do both my cats, especially first thing in the morning when I am hands-down the most popular person in the house. The mailman starts to smile and wave a lot beginning around the 10th of December. And naturally my banker always gives me a hug with each new deposit, but that’s completely understandable in today’s volatile financial environment.

I do not feel personally persecuted; after all, women my age who are a whole lot better-looking than I am are disappearing like flies. A good indicator of this trend is People magazine, where young actresses you’ve never heard of display their latest tattoos and designer duds and divulge their fabulous diet and makeup secrets, but you never catch a glimpse of Diane Keaton or Bette Midler or Cher or Sally Field or Goldie Hawn or all those other formerly-fabulous women who are exactly my age.

Why is this? I have reduced it to an easy-to-comprehend mathematical formula: Fear of Death (X) + Love of Money(Y) = Sex Sells. From the moment you get up in the morning, talk of sex dominates, and I don’t just mean around my house. According to the media, it’s all anyone thinks about, cares about, talks about, writes about and makes movies about. With the temporary exception of the hottest political superstar of the week, naked bodies and pierced belly buttons scream out at you from the TV, Internet, or newsstand, along with those ads for Viagra and Cialis and my personal favorite, Extenz, a penis-enhancement product “guaranteed to grow several inches on a certain male member.” (Hmm, which member I wonder, could it be? Harry Reid?)

Some of my friends are fighting this inevitable invisibility. For example, one just had injections of some “plumping liquid” that will allegedly stimulate collagen growth so her wrinkles will fill out. Several have had facelifts, making it difficult to determine how they really feel about aging. But despite their smooth faces, the neon signs above their heads that says, “Don’t hate me for being menopausal” makes them invisible too.

You may wonder, what’s the big deal? Well, while I’m not an aging movie queen clinging to an adoring public, it would be nice to command a waiter’s attention without having to stand on a chair and wave, or have a salesperson offer help or even just take my money, or get a response to a job application. (My age on paper makes me invisible as well.) During my heyday I was regarded as a witty conversationalist and somewhat off-the wall artiste, popular in fact with all sexes and genders. But as I age, I notice fewer and fewer offers coming from more and more people. And this is even with coloring my hair; God only knows what life is like for all those gray-haired ladies.

To his credit, my husband always sees me, at least when he is in town, off the phone, not checking his email or Googling something, and is hungry. I suppose if I had grandchildren they would adore me, since I would shower them with gifts and affection, but that doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.

There are a lot of women out there who have great ideas, wonderful insights, and to-die-for recipes to be handed down for future generations. Please don’t shut them out just because they’ve lost their sparkle.

High School Daze

By the time you’re my age—lets just say I’m a baby boomer and leave it at that—high school is a dim memory, if and when you think about it at all. Still, if you’re like me, random moments pop into your head, and when you trace them back they lead you to something that happened in the 9th or 10th grade, or thereabouts.

I experience those pop-ups from time to time, and they get me wondering about some of my former classmates: did they actually grow up to lead productive lives? For example, I wonder about Lois S., a ditzy girl who was also confused about so many things. While we were studying sea life in science class, Lois couldn’t quite grasp that sponges are living creatures. She wondered--should she be feeding the ones they had at home? That aside, the real sticking point for her was the fact that the ones her mother had in the kitchen were pink and yellow and green and blue, and didn’t seem to move at all, but the ones we saw in science class were all spiny brownish blobs. Later that same year Lois was confused about sexual reproduction. When asked what species reproduces through asexual binary fission (that’s splitting in half, in case you’ve forgotten), Lois responded after careful thought, “Could it be us?”

Actually, many girls were in the dark about sexuality back then. In the eighth grade it was mandatory for us to attend a weekly “health” class, sexually segregated since back then, nice boys and girls discussed the ‘facts of life” apart from one another. (This was in the 1960s, when the word “virgin” did not automatically bring to mind an airline.) Lynn R., cheerleader and head “popular” girl, was always going steady with someone, so I assumed she was super-sophisticated in the ways of the world. But in the first class, in response to the teacher’s asking if we had any questions, Lynn ventured: “If a girl and boy each take a bite from opposite ends of the same banana at the same time, you get pregnant, right?” (Grammar was also not her forte.)

Perhaps most famous in the annals of our high school’s memories involved our biology teacher, Mr. Gizzy, whose frequent spot quizzes struck fear in everyone hoping for a passing grade. One day, after a particularly tough quiz left us all groaning, Mr. Gizzy said, “Come on kids, that was nothing, it was just one of my little quizzies.” A boy in the back, I believe his name was Ricky but I can’t be sure, said, “Well, if that was one of your quizzies, I’d hate to see one of your testes!” Silence ensued, while the unintended meaning of his words registered, and was followed by deafening laughter. Mr. Gizzy’s wife, another teacher at our school, took a lot of ribbing over that one for years.

And so, sometimes I wonder: Did Lois learn that the pink and blue sponges do not require feeding? Did Lynn ever have children, and if so, was fruit involved? Are the Gizzies alive today, and do they still laugh over his “little testes”? And most of all I wonder, if you said “testes” in a classroom of ninth-graders today, would they even notice?

Blah Blah Blah

Yesterday I blah blah blah-ed in the morning, and then yada yada yada, doop-de-dooped all afternoon. Blahdety blah, gab gab, me me me. I then did this and that, not to mention the other! Me, mine, ours yours, I'm on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter and iPhone.

People are so caught up with their own lives. It's always, "Me, what happened to me, I did this and then I did that." Ever notice how few people ask you questions? And then there are the blogs! So many blogs, so little time. Obama this Obama that. What about Tiger Woods? So many mistresses, so little time. Can you believe that he did this and she did that? Love love.

Of course, have a nice day.

Boys will be boys......

Last night we had our first true snowfall since moving to Maine. Our house is surrounded by trees, and we woke to a virtual wonderland this morning: lacy filigree hung from all manner of pine trees, decorative shrubs and varied bushes. The peacefulness was astounding...or at least it was for the first hour of the day, before my husband decided to fire up his favorite new toy: Enter the snow blower.

So now, in addition to the piercing sound of the chain-saw when we are visiting our rural home in New York's serene Hudson Valley, we have the noxious gas fumes and insistent whirring of the snow blower here in Maine.

I am hopeful that at the upcoming climate summit in Copenhagen, they will outlaw Mitch Rouda.

"Funny People" Ain't

Last night I watched a movie I had been waiting for with great expectations: "Funny People" received raves from all critics, and was hailed as a "HILARIOUS" comedy by Rolling Stone magazine. And you figure if those stoners liked it, there must be a few good laughs.

Wrong. In fact, it was seriously depressing, the make you want to go to bed without dinner, cry into a pillow kind of depressing. The protagonist, played by Adan Sandler (who usually cracks me up even just standing still) plays a famous comedian who learns he is DYING of LEUKEMIA. He has NO FRIENDS, in fact not one human connection. No pets, either, just a foreign maid who appears in one brief scene and seems not even to know him. Ha, ha?

We are forced to watch his miserable empty life get worse by the minute. Exploiting his medical condition, he has sex with his ex-girlfriend who is now married to someone she hates. All the supporting characters--other comedians who are also not funny-- have miserable lives too. Ha, ha ha?

Besides death and disease and loneliness, the dialogue centers around one thing and one thing only: Sandler's penis, a.k.a. dick, cock, schlong, and how big, thick and long it is. (Goes to show you, guys, that penis size does not equal happiness.)

Movie critics need to get real, or get paid more, or get paid less by the movie distributors, or something! Bottom line: If you are considering suicide and need something to get you to jump off that ledge or pull that trigger, this movie is it!

P.S. He lives.

It's so O.J.

Oh dear, yet another celebrity icon has been revealed as human! This latest one is Tiger Woods, the golf guy. Until now, I thought the most interesting thing about him was his name. I mean, for a black guy he sure is white bread.

But now we learn several new pieces of information that have made him more like the rest of us, even though he earns a million dollars a week or some figure just as ridiculous. (I forget what it is, but I remember that, hearing it on the news, I gasped.)

I am not at all curious about his marital infidelity, which is no longer shocking to most Americans because it is so common, but rather about his wife, who is apparently a tad unstable; no wonder he's been cheating! She smashed the windows of his Cadillac with a golf club? Freud would have a field day with that one. Poor dear, she probably got sick of it being "golf, golf, golf," 24 hours a day; I know I would. But still, it wasn't the car's fault! (I tend to anthropomorphize.)

Nevertheless, I for one hope they do everyone a favor and get divorced, and the sooner the better. The country cannot survive another "beloved black sports figure married to a beautiful white woman with occasional violent marital spats" fiasco, and this one seems perilously close already.

Meanwhile, who knew golfers even have sex?

One Man's Ceiling...

Michael Jackson, although still quite dead, made the news today. While living, he wore a rhinestone-studded golf glove on TV, and it quickly became his trademark. This past Saturday that very glove was auctioned off for $350,000. Including taxes and fees, the new owner, a Chinese fellow from Hong Kong, paid $420,000 for the item.

I learned this from today's Wall Street Journal, just across the page from a story detailing the increase in suicides in our country in 2008. "Financial pressures outpace depression" as the main reason for the rise in suicides, according to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline director.

Things sure are screwy here, and by here I mean on our planet, not just the good old USA. Friends say I am too negative, they ask why must I dwell on bad things, why don't I ever look at the bright side?

Okay, fine. The new owner of that glove must have a lot of money! And now Michael Jackson's parents and children will have more money too! I imagine the auction house that handled the deal made out quite well, so I guess things really are good here after all. What recession?

As for those suicidal folks, I have some advice that my ex-husband always offered up when I was down in the dumps: "Cheer up!" (Ultimately I followed his advice, which is how he got to be my ex-husband.)

Here We Go Again

Christmas is coming, and once again everyday life is turning red and green. Just this morning I saw a TV commercial that claimed eating a bowl of Campbell's soup would bring the festive air of the holidays right into my home! (I tried it at lunch today, but nothing happened, which is odd, since when they made the soup on TV, Santa came down the chimney and right into the living room fireplace.)

As far as I can tell, the only thing vaguely Christian or Godlike about Xmas is the "religious" postage stamp offered by the US Postal Service. As always, they offer two versions: the cutesy reindeer/Christmas tree/ribbony-wrapped gifty-one, or the Virgin-Mother-cradling-baby-Jesus. Other than that, it's the same old merry-go-round: Shop early, hurry in for discounts, two-for one, lowest price, 'tis the season, happy spending, open early until midnight, holiday savings on must-have gifts, more values mean more Christmas.

At every turn we are urged to participate in "the joy of giving," to "give the gifts that impress for less," and, my personal favorite which I saw today in a Sears ad, "charge it and enjoy 18 months of no interest." Imagine, you can still be paying off this Christmas long after next Christmas!

As I've said before and will no doubt say again, this is the time of year when I most appreciate being a Jew.

Taken by a Photograph

I am somebody's mother. I certainly didn't stop being me when I had a child, and I am now more me than ever, since he has grown and lives on his own.

Which brings to mind my own parents, whose lives are now over. Regrettably, I never regarded them as anyone but my parents. Surely once in a while I realized they had friends and did things with other people that had nothing to do with me, but for the most part it was how they related to me that mattered the most. I rarely considered the lives they led before I got here.

Then there is this photograph. That's my father sitting on the hood of the car. Behind him, my mother leans against the car like some gangster's moll, smoking a cigarette. Almost jarring and thus intriguing, there is a bottle of milk on the running board. For some reason, it looks like a Sunday afternoon.

And that other guy, my father's best friend, who I remember always being around as I was growing up. I called him Uncle Jack, even though there was no blood tie. Something in this photo makes me wonder about his relationship with my mother.

If ever there was a photograph like the one Jackson Browne "found inside a drawer" in his haunting song, "Fountain of Sorrow," this one is it for me. The people in it fascinate: They look interesting and alluring and alive, I wish I could hang out with them for awhile. Sadly, they're all dead now, hopefully together and listening to jazz somewhere in another dimension.

I hope your kids--and mine-- don't miss finding out who we are before it's too late!

Is This a Great Country or What?

I heard an ad on TV this morning that said Sarah Palin has electrified America! Her new book has not even been released yet and it's already a best-seller! One question immediately popped into my mind: Sarah Palin can write?

All kidding aside, I happen to be very well-connected to someone who once was at a party with someone who used to work in publishing, and she gave me an advance copy of her book's Table of Contents. I am happy to share it with you here:

Chapter 1/ Dressing for Success: How to Look Cute After 40
Chapter 2/ Newspapers, Magazines and Periodicals: Who Needs 'Em?
Chapter 3/ "Aw, Shucks" and "Back Atcha": Using Country Expressions for Personal Gain
Chapter 4/ Finding the Silver Lining: Showing Off Your Retarded Child
Chapter 5/ Toddlers to Teens: Birth Control Tips for Every Age
Chapter 6/ Heavens Above: Russian Skies Are Right Over Me!
Chapter 7/ Decorating Odd-shaped Rooms: That Tricky Oval Office
Chapter 8/ Health Care: Guys Do Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses!
Chapter 9/ Giant Career Boost: Tina Fey Owes Me Bigtime!
Chapter 10/ Old Grizzlies Never Die: The Real John McCain

I can't wait to get a copy myself. I'm guessing it will be in the Humor section of your local bookstore soon.

Memorable Movie Moments

Remind me in my next life to become a dentist. These guys have it made! Sure, they have to put up with actually doing the work, which at best seems fairly disgusting, but they make tons of money doing it and they can basically say what they want and you gotta believe them. Sort of like car mechanics, they have access to the goods, and you need the goods to function.

Today I visited a periodontist--let's call him Doctor X- for the first time in my life, but he made it seem like I should have come years ago. Apparently I have a dire situation that threatens my very existence, and if I don't act very soon it could lead to an infection that could go to my eye or my BRAIN! (Okay, Doc, where do I sign?)

So for $1,400 he will fix this bad situation. What really sucks big time is that this particular situation is in a tooth that has already cost upwards of $4,000, paid out to other dentists who had their own turns with it, and now Doctor X is going to pull it and throw it in the trash! Did I mention he is German and I am Jewish? So what, you say? Did you see "Marathon Man"?

After I stopped sobbing I called my husband, out of town in Chicago on business, and he said this is not worth killing myself over, which I mentioned as being a possible course of action. Next I called my son to cheer me up, since he is one of the few people on Earth who can, but he was too busy to talk to me--there was loud music in the background. He said he would call back. He has not.

The worst part is that I will undergo this horrible torture, to be followed in three months by more of the same involving bone grafts and sinus lifts, and I will get over it, and I will die anyway, sooner or later, dental implants and all.

I sure could have used that phone call from my son. Kids!

How to Sell Newspapers

Lately the "news" is full of old stuff. Isn't that directly the opposite of news? I mean, isn't news supposed to be NEW, as in "this just in" and "hot off the press?"

Instead, today's purveyors of news are all aflutter over Roman Polanski's alleged crime of rape that took place 30 years ago; even the victim is bored to death hearing about it. Then actress Mackenzie Phillips, the talentless offspring of former head "Papa" John Phillips, is running off at the mouth and in print about her 10-year-long rape by her dead dad we barely remember. Larry King gave her an hour on TV to exploit her own tragic past. (Grrrrrr, I'd like to snap his suspenders.....)

And now Elizabeth Smart, the sweet-faced Mormon child plucked from her sleeping family in 2002 (say what you will, but no weirdo got near my kid when I was around) is back in the "news," finally ready to thrill us with accounts of the "daily rape" she endured seven years ago, by the nut-job who took her.

This trend got me thinking: As everyone knows, shrinking newspapers are folding daily--ha ha, no pun intended--while unemployed reporters troll Craigslist.com in search of a livlihood. So to improve sales, why not start calling them "oldpapers" and print salacious stories from the bad old days? And FYI, if you want to sell papers, relax your standards a little!
Consider the possibilities: Imagine waking up to these headlines in tomorrow's Daily Olds:
OJ Kills Ex-Wife and Friend (Who Maybe Was Gay)!
Princess Di and Lover Dead: Was She Preggers?
Teddy Drowns Mary Jo: Oh Really, Is That All?
Jacko's Child Might Really Be His (and Could be Gay)!
Kirstie Alley Gains 50 Pounds, Possibly Oprah's!

Just remember, you read it here first.

As the World Turns...Against Us

"I've never really had a disappointment like this," said Ken Rudd, a 33-year-old salesman from Evergreen Park. "This is one of the saddest things I've ever seen."

What could he be talking about? Did he just find out his wife gave birth to a stillborn infant? Were his parents murdered during a home invasion? Maybe it was that he got passed over for a promotion, or one of his kids was diagnosed with cancer? Uh, his dog had to be euthanized? His tax return caught fire before he had a chance to mail it in? No, it was...Chicago getting passed over for the 2016 Olympics!

WTF? Either this man has been blessed with a worry-free life or he is an idiot. Who cares where the Olympics are played, other than the participating athletes and of course, Barry and Michelle Obama and Oprah Winfrey?

That trio had visions of dollar signs in their heads already, enough to cause them to fly to Copenhagen (gee, I wonder who paid for that trip Air Force One, its double decoy plane, and the plane carrying Obama's bullet-proof limo made?) to make the pitch to the IOC.

If the city of Chicago had won, they might have had added some intriguing new sports:
1. Running from the Gangs
2. Running from the Police
3. Getting Tasered by the Police
4. Outing Sleazy Politicians
5. Finding a Decent Pizza

Congrats, Rio!

Pass It Forward...or Don't

Like me, you probably get lots of unwanted email all the time. What I really hate are the lists of jokes, usually not funny and almost always from Democrats, with titles like "Ten Ways You Know You're In Menopause" or "How to Tell If Your Man is an Idiot." I always delete those unread.

Then there are the chain letters, telling you to add your name and send it to ten people you know in the next five minutes or you will contract a horrible disease or suffer some misfortune. Bravely, I ignore those too.

But tonight I got one of those chain letters from a close friend I like and respect, asking me quite sincerely to send it to 12 other women I like, and do so in 15 minutes. There was stuff about fulfilling dreams and life being a journey or some such sentiment; to be honest I didn't read it closely, but it said to make a wish first, and I thought in the off chance magic is real, and despite not knowing 12 women I like, I did it because Diana asked me to--and also, I need all the help I can get, wish-fulfillment-wise.

To those who received it and were offended, I am sorry--just hit delete. But please don't send me an email telling me you didn't do it because you "don't do that." (I already got one of those.) I do not care and I do not need to know.

Anyway, you're the one whose wish won't come true.

The Grim Reaper Strikes Again

Today was a crappy day. I now know for sure that Freeport, where I live, is just another Disneyland but without any rides. For the first time since moving here I went shopping in town and saw that despite all the stores having different names, they are all selling the same thing, just like the Mickey Mouse stuff in the Magic Kingdom!

But what made the day crappy was that when I got home after many long hours in my art gallery, undistracted by customers, I discovered a dead chipmunk lying face up right next to our porch. He was so cute, and looked just like a cartoon character, stretched out with his little paws neatly folded across his chest. There were no signs of foul play, and since my cats had been inside all day I couldn't shout "J'accuse!" at either of them.

Had the little guy suffered a heart attack as he was running home to supper? Perhaps his family is wondering where he is even now, keeping his dinner warm, hours after my neighbor Bob helped me dispose of the body. (Okay, Bob did the disposing, I covered my eyes and held open the plastic bag.)

Goodbye Chip or Dale, I lift my glass to you.

Nos for News

No two ways about it, the media sucks these days. It used to give the news, period. Now it gives the salacious news.

For example, concerning the recent (horrid) death of Annie Le, a 24-year old Yale graduate, in New Haven, Connecticut. Her body, we learned from every newspaper and every TV announcer and every Internet story, was found stuffed inside a wall.

Now that word is fraught with negatives. What's the first thing you think of stuffing? A turkey. So to say that is to diminish her even further, as if her being dead is not bad enough!

Other options they might have used do exist, such as saying her body was:
1. placed behind a wall
2. hidden behind a wall
3. inserted behind a wall
4. left behind a wall
5. found behind a wall

But none of those are as sickening as her being "stuffed inside a wall."

Note to self: Cancel all subscriptions and throw out TV.

Happy 9/11

Today it rolled around again, like it does every year; September 11, a.k.a. "9/11." Through the magic of television we again saw the planes, the smoke, the falling bodies, the firemen. The survivors trotted out their stories. And still nothing has been built there, and everyone still says it's a shame.

What a holiday!

Facebook Quizzes: How Low Can You Go?

Which dead Beatle are you?
What would be your redneck weight?
What kind of movie candy would you be?
What disease best fits your personality?
How good a singer would you be on another planet?
How would you commit suicide if only you had the nerve?
If you were a food, how many calories would you contain?
What movie star would you most like to see publicly flogged?
If you were a serial killer, how would you murder your victims?
How would you like to make Rachel Maddow and Keith Olbermann suffer?
If you didn't waste all your time on Facebook, what might you accomplish?

Mean People Suck

When my son was about eight years old, he made a clay paperweight that I keep on my desk to this day. It's a bright yellow, three-dimensional "Smiley Face," with the words, "Mean People Suck" etched into it. (It is the one thing I would save, should my house catch on fire.)

It reminds me of two things:
1. My son was adorable once.
2. Mean people DO suck.

Sadly, the Internet is home to the meanest of the mean. Almost every news item that allows comments from the public is riddled with the most awful sentiments, written by your average Jane and Joe. Somebody died a horrific death? They say, "Good, they deserved it!" No matter what it is, the hateful public can always come up with unthinkable trash. The recent death of John Travolta's son was a perfect example. This wonderful actor who has given us so much pleasure over the years was targeted simply for having an autistic son that died.

The bottom line: bullies graduate from high school and go out in the world and procreate.
Be careful out there.........