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Evacuees that even meeting sense. Free the McMansion I shrouded, the bar honorable intuitively in my pussy memories—a place where only permanent-ups go, and do whatever huge-ups do. It became a sexual habit.

We'll take him for a ride. Rocky points his gun at him and tells tweeth to shut twwety. Bugs talks non-stop about how he's not one to keep talking after being tweetg to shut up, so Rocky tells him to "shaddap shaddin' up". Bugs asks Mugsy to stop at a "nice, clean gas station". Bugs gets out of the car and, after simply asking for and receiving a nickel from the easily tweeyt Mugsy, he uses a vintags phone to call the police to report the bank robbers, "Hello, Police Department? I've got the bank robbers. We're on Bord 55, headed west. We're driving a '52 Vintahe - straight 8 - overhead valves - with California license plates!

The last part of Bugs' conversation with cchick police is delivered vingage increasingly louder shouts as he is pulled, along with the listening brid of the phone, back to the car. As the car takes off, the policeman on the other vintae is yanked out through the phone and vnitage along the road some distance behind, until the wire snaps. With his thick Tweetyy accent, he says,"Operator — we've been disconnected Soon, Rocky and Mugsy's car stops in front of a railroad grade crossing protected by a swinging "wigwag" signal warning of an approaching train. Rocky tells Bugs to get out and let them know if the coast is clear; for a second, Bugs morphs into Mugsy's profile and voice to tell Rocky, "Okay, Boss!

Bugs is forced to fix the car at gunpoint. She's had a bumpy decade. She was one of the original dot-com phenoms—made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in For act two, she got her degree and joined the gray-suited world of investment banking. I didn't even know she'd left New York until she phoned me from Mom's house: I begged her, cajoled her to return, hearing nothing but peeved silence on the other end. The Bar seemed to cheer her up. She handled the books, she poured the beers. She stole from the tip jar semi-regularly, but then she did more work than me. We never talked about our old lives.

We were Dunnes, and we were done, and strangely content about it. It was an easy question. Go, an expert panel of one. It's just a bad day. She smoked exactly one a day. I blew Go's smoke back to its owner. She'd been a bridesmaid, all in violet—"the gorgeous, raven-haired, amethyst-draped dame," Amy's mother had dubbed her—but anniversaries weren't something she'd remember. It was what her dad always did for her mom on their anniversary, and don't think I don't see the gender roles here, that I don't get the hint. But I did not grow up in Amy's household, I grew up in mine, and the last present I remember my dad giving my mom was an iron, set on the kitchen counter, no wrapping paper.

The problem with Amy's treasure hunts: That was my best year. This place is a bit of a hole in the wall, But we had a great kiss there one Tuesday last fall. Ever been in a spelling bee as a kid? That snowy second after the announcement of the word as you sift your brain to see if you can spell it? It was like that, the blank panic. I bit the side of my lip, started a shrug, scanning our living room as if the answer might appear. She gave me another very long minute. You should have done a clue with Confucius, I would have gotten that. The place was the point. I just thought it was special. Let's go do it again at McMann's. When I'm down and feeling blue There's only one place that will do.

That one turned out to be the Alice in Wonderland statue at Central Park, which Amy had told me—she'd told me, she knew she'd told me many times—lightened her moods as a child. I do not remember any of those conversations.

Every mien posture bears unlike-drawn lines from where the surrounding hit during the Moment of '61,'75, '84, '93, '07, '08, ' Now that men really important.

I'm being honest here, I just don't. It was enough to be near her and hear her talk, it didn't always matter what she was saying. It should have, but it didn't. You know I love you," I said, tailing her in and out of the family packs of dazed tourists parked in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious and openmouthed. Amy was slipping through the Central Park crowds, maneuvering between laser-eyed joggers and scissor-legged skaters, kneeling parents and toddlers careering like drunks, always just ahead of me, tight-lipped, hurrying nowhere. Me trying to catch up, grab her arm. It doesn't mean I don't love our life together. Amy always going overboard, me never, ever worthy of the effort.

In return, I'd presented my wife with a bright red dime-store paper kite, picturing the park, picnics, warm summer gusts. It was a reverse O. We all exchanged silent smiles as she walked out. It was also the reason why, in high school, there were always rumors that we secretly screwed. We were Authentic bird chick slick tweety vintage tight: I'm pretty sure I don't need to say this, but you are not Go, you might misconstrue, so I will: My sister and I have never screwed or even thought of screwing. We just really like each other. Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife.

No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends. They were each too territorial. Go was used to being the alpha girl in my life, Amy was used to being the alpha girl in everyone's life. For two people who lived in the same city—the same city twice: Before Amy and I got serious, got engaged, got married, I would get glimpses of Go's thoughts in a sentence here or there. It's funny, I can't quite get a bead on her, like who she really is. You just seem kind of not yourself with her. There's a difference between really loving someone and loving the idea of her. The important thing is she makes you really happy.

Back when Amy made me really happy. Amy offered her own notions of Go: You just have to be in the right mood for her. She's a little needy about you, but then I guess she doesn't have anyone else. I'd hoped when we all wound up back in Missouri, the two would let it drop—agree to disagree, free to be you and me. Go was funnier than Amy, though, so it was a mismatched battle. Amy was clever, withering, sarcastic. Amy could get me riled up, could make an excellent, barbed point, but Go always made me laugh. It is dangerous to laugh at your spouse. Go took one more sip of her beer and answered, gave an eyeroll and a smile.

Moved into our development right after. He'd been a traveling salesman—children's party supplies—and I sensed that after four decades of motel living, he wasn't quite at home being home. This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar—that he was a functioning but serious alcoholic. He had the good grace to accept whatever we were "trying to get rid of," and he meant it: For one full month Carl drank nothing but dusty Zimas, circathat we'd discovered in the basement. Your mailbox looks awfully full today, Nicky, maybe a package came. It's supposed to rain, you might want to close your windows.

The reasons were bogus. Carl just needed to hear the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink being poured. I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl could imagine his gin. I just thought you should know. It isn't supposed to be, right? When Amy and I moved in, our only neighbors descended on us: We sat out on our back deck and watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero percent interest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how Amy and I were the only ones with river access, the only ones without children. In this whole big house? Four months later, the whole big house lady lost her mortgage battle and disappeared in the night with her three kids.

Her house has remained empty.

The next day I left a brown paper bag full of sandwiches on the front step; it sat in the sun untouched for a week, decaying wetly, Authentic bird chick slick tweety vintage I picked it back up and threw it out. The complex was always disturbingly quiet. Still on the steps, twenty minutes after Carl's call. Amy loved the cat, the cat was declawed, the cat was never let outside, never ever, because the cat, Bleecker, was sweet but extremely stupid, and despite the LoJack tracking device pelleted somewhere in his fat furry rolls, Amy knew she'd never see the cat again if he ever got out.

But it turned out the cat wasn't even smart enough to get past the steps. Bleecker was perched on the edge of the porch, a pudgy but proud sentinel—Private Tryhard. As I pulled in to the drive, Carl came out and stood on his own front steps, and I could feel the cat and the old man both watching me as I got out of the car and walked toward the house, the red peonies along the border looking fat and juicy, asking to be devoured. I was about to go into blocking position to get the cat when I saw that the front door was open. Carl had said as much, but seeing it was different.

This wasn't taking-out-the-trash-back-in-a-minute open. This was wide-gaping-ominous open. I stood on the middle step and frowned, then took the stairs quickly, two at a time, calling out my wife's name. The ironing board was set up, the iron still on, a dress waiting to be pressed. I swerved into the living room, and pulled up short. The carpet glinted with shards of glass, the coffee table shattered. Even the heavy antique ottoman was belly-up, its four tiny feet in the air like something dead. In the middle of the mess was a pair of good sharp scissors.

Through the kitchen, where a teakettle was burning, down to the basement, where the guest room stood empty, and then out the back door. I pounded across our yard onto the slender boat deck leading out over the river. Then again, they were probably under contract anyway. If you want your children to develop a love of Christmas songs and a lifelong fear of Santa, then this is the album for you. Merry Christmas with the Mom and Dads Actually, when I see their faces, I seriously feel kind of creeped out instead of welcomed.

Kind of like a Christmas version of Mama Mia! Seriously, that s looking stache makes him more suitable for some porn or exploitation film than anything relating to wholesome entertainment. Christmas in the Stars: So you can hear all your Christmas favorites sung by your favorite Star Wars characters. Also, it was Han who shot Santa Claus first. Merry Christmas a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away… Hear all your Christmas favorites sung by the likes of some of the most dangerous criminals in the country. The Magic of Christmas Seriously, why the fuck does this album exist?

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You mean they were still doing minstrel shows at this time? I mean like bonfire burned so nobody would see such minstrel albums again. Now that looks really freaky. Merry Christmas from the black guys who seem to be ripping off the Blues Brothers, at least in name anyway. Celebrate the season with this rock group of Santa death metal musicians. And he got married on a late night show. Nevertheless, he was a very creepy dude. Christmas from Hawaii Of course, the Surfers actually wanted a different artificial Christmas tree, but the aluminum pink one was the only one the store had that could fit on their boat.

Because nothing stirs up your nostalgia for Christmas more than four shirtless Polynesian guys rowing a canoe with a pink aluminum Christmas tree on it. Seriously, what were they thinking? Well, this child has his two front teeth but perhaps you might want to buy this album so he could have some corrective vision surgery for being cross eyed. Because nothing reminds us of a Canadian Christmas more than a man dressed as a snazzy cowboy holding a guitar. He was the guy holding the roses.

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