Dylan Bolin

I don’t know about you, but I love Irish Cream.  This time of year, I add it to nearly every liquid I ingest.  What follows is the greatest recipe for home-made Irish Cream that I have ever known:

Add the following to a blender in this order:

1 cup bourbon or whiskey (this recipe works best with “Windsor Canadian Whiskey”)

3 whole eggs

¼ tsp (teaspoon) coconut extract

1½ cups whipping cream

1½ Tbs (Tablespoon) chocolate syrup

1 can (14oz) Eagle Sweetened Condensed Milk

Blend for 1 minute, refrigerate and enjoy.

Before you enjoy, do me a favor:  This recipe was passed down from a man by the name of Tommy Pietrzak.  Tommy was one of the kindest, gentlest, coolest guys ever to walk the Earth.  Before you take your first of many, many sips, give a little toast to Tommy; he’ll hear it.  And if you pass this recipe on, please include these final instructions.

Here’s to you, Tommy, and God bless us, everyone.

-Dylan

Last night, while I was walking to a smokey, underground bar where a few friends and I planned to gradually poison ourselves, I passed a storefront gym.  Through the large windows, I could see several workers-out gradually making themselves healthier. 

I paused to watch them for several minutes which, despite my applause and words of encouragement which I’m sure they couldn’t hear, seemed to make them a little self-conscious.  That’s when I wondered:  For whom are the large windows intended?  Were they intended for passers-by to look in, or were they intended for the patrons of the facility to look out?  Was it sanctioned voyeurism, or inspiration for the exercisers?  I’m sure that both sides felt like they were participating in some sort of prison visitation.

To be fair, I do the same thing at the windows of restaurants.  I’ll pause, press my hands against the plate glass window and hungrily eye their entrees.  When I’m on the other side, I like to hold my meal up to the glass so pedestrians can vicariously enjoy the food.  What are windows if not implicit access to the other side? 

At any rate, I apologize if I made anyone uncomfortable.

-Dylan

Hello friends. 

I’m writing this having gotten exactly fifteen minutes of sleep last night, so forgive me if the tieping is strangely.  If you’re in the Milwaukee area, you know that a wicked batch of thunderstorms rolled through last night, and if you have a dog (even the most laid-back, laissez-faire kind) chances are it affected him/her.  That was certainly the case at our house.  Our four-year-old Pit/Lab mix, Bailey went through more stress than that of the original Mercury astronauts.

In an attempt to help her and any of your dogs who might be storm-phobic, I did some research.

It’s still just theory as to why dogs react the way they do to thunderstorms and perhaps not the same way to, say, planes, trains or automobiles.  One theory is that, like many humans, they genuinely enjoy John Hughes.  Behaviorists (behaviourists to our European friends) aren’t sure whether they (the dogs, not the behaviorists) are reacting to the flashes of lightning, the sound of thunder, wind, rain, etc., but some dogs begin reacting up to 30 minutes before the storm arrives, leading some to believe that they are even reacting to changes in barometric pressure or the ionization of the air.

Certain dogs are predisposed to be thunderstorm-phobic more than others.  Collies, Shepherds, Hounds and other working and sporting breeds tend to react more so than others.  This is likely because their genetic make-up dictates that they react quickly and surely to stimuli, and the stimuli of a thunderstorm can be overwhelming.  

Rescue dogs (like ours) also have a similar predisposition.  Shelter dogs are more likely to have had scary or unpleasant experiences prior to being adopted making them highly sensitive.

But what to do about it?  According to my research:

• Don’t panic.  It’s very important that the human stay calm.  And even though the situation may be extremely frustrating, it’s also important that the human not lose his/her temper and scold the dog.  In the un-nuanced mind of a dog, this will only reinforce that there’s something to be afraid of.
• Don’t try to soothe the dog with baby talk or lavish affection.  Again, this will only reinforce the behavior.  Essentially, you’re saying:  “Good boy; be terrified!”
• Provide a safe, isolated space where they can “den.”  The bathroom, a closet, under the bed.  Let them know that it’s there and let them ride it out on their own.
• Put the dog on a leash and walk him/her through the house.  Have them perform behaviors that you’ve taught them and reward them accordingly.  Redirecting the dog’s focus (and yours) can work wonders; plus it provides normalcy amidst chaos.
• When it’s not storming, there’s something called “systematic desensitization.”  This involves gentle reminders of the storm (like a C.D.) and rewarding the dog with treats and affection when there is no sign of anxiety.
• Drugs.  As a last resort.  Consult your veterinarian.

 I hope some of these tips help.  Again, I did this research mainly for our family, but maybe it can help yours, too.  And judging by the Doppler radar, we might get to try them very soon.

Good Luck.

-Dylan

Friends, I’ve always made it a point to continue learning as an adult.  And what’s great about learning as an adult is that your free to choose what it is you want to learn.  The downside is, just because your interested in something does not necessarily mean that that something is interested in you. 

For instance, I’m interested in having someone leave a box of money on my lawn every Monday while I do little more than launch M&M’s from my belly button into my mouth for eight hours a day.  Thus far, nobody’s offered to help me realize this dream.  But you can’t have it if you don’t ask, right?  

Well, there is one interest that had been on my mind for some time, and recently, I decided to pursue that interest.  That is how I came to know the Milwaukee Westside Harlequin Rugby Club.  While I had never played, I fell in love withthe game of Rugby back in 2003 when I began watching that year’s Rugby World Cup, and I knew from that moment that I wanted to give it a try. 

Rugby has yet to catch on in the U.S. like it has in the rest of the world, but take my word for it, it’s only a matter of time.

Rugby began in an English town named, oddly enough, Rugby.  Legend has it that, in 1823, a student at Rugby school by the name of William Webb Ellis was playing soccer with some other boys.  He then picked up the ball and began running with it, and, in doing so created an entirely new game called Rugby.  Coincidentally, he was also the first child diagnosed with ADD.   Whether or not the legend is true, England did use it to claim the game as their own in the same way that we decide who gets to ride shotgun; by calling it. 

While I didn’t know it at the time, in the Wisconsin Rugby Union, the Milwaukee Westside Harlequins is a Division II team.  Joining a Division II rugby team to learn the game from zero, is a bit like joining the Navy Seals just to get a little exercise.

At first, the game of rugby can appear as barely controlled chaos, especially to the football-trained eye of Americans.  When describing the game to the average American, the minute you mention the 22-meter line, you can see their eyes glaze over, but it’s really quite simple once you learn a few of the laws and a little vocabulary. 

First of all, a meter is basically a yard.  In football, you score a touchdown by crossing the goal line.  In rugby you score a try by placing the ball across the try line.  That didn’t make a lot of sense to me either.  It seems to me that all the “trying” occurs well before the try line.  The try line should be called the “Hey, looky there, you finally made it!” line.  But the American football term, “touchdown” actually came from Rugby in that, upon crossing the try line, the ball carrier must touch the ball down on the ground before a try is awarded. 

In American football the ball or the ball carrier goes “out of bounds.”  In Rugby it/he goes “into touch.”   You’d think it would go “out of touch,” but the phrase “out of touch” is reserved for 37 year old rookies that try to play with a Division II Rugby club.

I showed up at the first day of Harlequin practice dressed in the shirt of the New Zealand national team and matching shorts, shoes and socks to show everyone that I knew a thing or two about the game.  When more and more guys showed up in grass stained sweats and tee shirts, I started to feel like a picture in a catalog.  It was like showing up to a poker game dressed as the Jack of Diamonds.

And then we started to run.  Eager to participate, I ran like Forest Gump.  That’s when I learned the first rule of Rugby, if you’re in front of the ball, you’re out of play.  So I eased off the throttle and promptly went from out of play to in the way.

Practice after practice came and went, and each time I was slightly less clueless than the practice before.  I could tell that, based on my technique, the only position that the coaches would ever consider me for was “injured reserve,” but they never let on.  What I never let on was, while I’m pretty healthy, when God gave me my knees, it must have been during His ceramic phase, and in my late thirties, I don’t think that they’re going to improve anytime soon. 

But despite my unwilling body, my experience with the Milwaukee Westside Harlequins has made me a bigger fan of Rugby than I ever thought possible.  In my opinion, Rugby is the greatest team sport there is.  When a player has the ball, 14 other players literally have his back.  And I say “his,” but Rugby is far from an exclusive boy’s club.  There are some excellent women’s rugby clubs in the area as well, Milwaukee Scylla to name one, and, in the field of women’s High School Rugby, Divine Savior Holy Angels (D.S.H.A.) is one of the best (if not THE best) in the nation.  But this year, the Milwaukee Westside Harlequins are taking a run at it.

In a recent trip to Grand Rapids, Michigan, they defeated their Milwaukee rivals, the Black & White, and were named co-champions along with the Indianapolis Impalas.  Both teams will represent the Midwest Rugby Union in the Men’s Division II National Championship.  The Milwaukee Westside Harlequins’ first match is on May 18th versus the Tampa Krewe in Columbia, South Carolina. 

While the Harlequins will be representing Milwaukee, Wisconsin on the national stage, rugby is a club sport and all the funds to get them there and lodge them while they’re there must be raised by the club itself.  If you are interested in helping by making a donation of any size, you can visit the Milwaukee Westside Harlequins website.  Also, if you’re a business, large or small, and would like your logo or website branded to their uniforms in exchange for a little traveling cash, you can do that, too.  In fact, the boys are so amped up for this tournament, that you might even be able to convince them to tattoo your logo onto their actual bodies (specific location on a sliding pay scale).

Go get ‘em, Quins!

-Dylan

Hiya, friends.  I came across a little brain teaser that I’d like to share with you.  Via this Blog, I will attempt to read your mind.  Ready?

As you scroll down at a leisurely pace, answer the following questions as quickly as you can:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What is:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5+1?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2+4?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3+3?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1+5?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4+2?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, say “6″ as many times as you can in 15 seconds.  Then scroll down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, think of a vegetable.  Hold the image of this vegetable in your mind, and slowly scroll down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keep scrolling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is it a carrot?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ta Da!  If it was, thank you all very much for being amazed.  If not, you did it wrong.

 -Dylan

 

You know, rarely, in polite conversation, is it ever discussed where it goes when we go, but in this Blog, we’re going to go there.  Because today, I’d like to celebrate what I, for one, consider to be a much-maligned municipal service, the Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District or M.M.S.D.  I say much-maligned because it’s a service that we so often take for granted. 

Think about it:  When it comes to feeding ourselves we take responsibility for everything; we take responsibility for shopping, we take responsibility for preparing the food, we take responsibility for eating it, but when our bodies are done with it, that’s when we turn the responsibility over to someone else and expect that it will all be taken care of.  Now, if that someone were just some guy that came to your house every morning with a bucket, let’s call him the Pooperboy, you would thank him profusely and likely tip him handsomely, but because our human waste has no human face, we hate the idea of spending so much as a dime on it’s removal. 

As it is, we assume that when we flush the commode, a magical wizard turns our leavings into flowers and kittens and moonbeams.  Now, we all know that that isn’t true, but very few people stop to consider what does happen.

To do this, I’d like to track the journey of an adorable little guy called Terry the Turd-dle who gets flushed down the toilet of a typical suburban home.  If, like me, you watch a lot of discovery channel, you’ll know that turd-dles often participate in long, inspirational journeys which makes Terry perfect for this example.  So, (flush) down you go, Terry. 

Terry is now paddling down the household wastewater pipe, but, before long, Terry will enter a much bigger pipe.  Because this is the suburbs, it is likely called the sanitary sewer which is separate from the stormwater sewer.  If Terry had been flushed from a home in the city of Milwaukee, he would enter a combined sewer.  From here, it’s on to the water reclamation site. 

In the first stage, Terry and the wastewater around him enters preliminary treatment where screens and grates remove large objects.  If Terry squeezes through, he goes on to primary treatment where, if he’s heavy, he’s a sinker and if he’s light he’s floater, either way, his journey would end here.  But let’s say that Terry, determined little stinker that he is, makes it all the way to secondary treatment.  Here, Terry is attacked by tiny little microscopic “bugs” like bacteria, protozoa and Ryan Seacrest.  These bugs break down a majority of the organic material that remains, and this, I’m afraid, marks the end of Terry the Turd-dle.  But there’s good news. 

After the microscopic bugs eat Terry, they are cooked and dried into pellets and become a fertilizer called Milorganite, which makes your lawn lush and green and perfect for feeding to your next turd-dle.  Sunrise, Sunset.  The water that carried Terry is then disinfected before being discharged back into our Lake Michigan. 

The best of this water is then combined with barley, hops and yeast, and sold for $4.50 a cup at Summerfest.

It’s a tried and true process, but the trick is capturing all of the water and transporting it to either the Jones Island or Oak Creek facilities.  What many people don’t know is that just one inch of rain on M.M.S.D.’s service area equals 7.1 billion gallons of run-off.  Combine this with the wastewater from homes and businesses, and the M.M.S.D. becomes the classic I Love Lucy episode where Lucy and Ethel are working on the chocolate assembly line, and, when the conveyor belt starts moving too fast, end up having to stuff much of the chocolate in their mouths.  Replace the chocolate with sewage and you’ve got a fairly gross, but appropriate image of what the District has to deal with.  What to do? 

Well, you could build a series of strategically-placed tunnels, deep underground and capable of storing over 500 million gallons of this water until the water reclamation sites could get to it.  You could even call it the Deep Tunnel.  And, for entertainment purposes, you could also drop a hapless, part-time radio smart ass into one of them just to see what would happen. 

Well, folks, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that that’s how I found myself at 28th and Hampton, in Milwaukee, waiting at the top of a 320-foot hole in the ground, filling my pants with the future contents of one such tunnel.

 

I, along with M.M.S.D. Public Information Manager Bill Graffin and Geologist and Engineer Don Olson waited for a crane to hoist the ornament-shaped, heavy, metal cage that would serve as our transportation down into what seemed to me, anyway, to be a bottomless pit.

 

To put 320 feet into perspective, the next time you’re downtown, count up 32 sets of windows on the U.S. Bank building.  Now you may think:  What’s the big deal?  People take an elevator up 32 stories every day.  Yes, but the difference between taking an elevator up and an ornament-shaped, heavy, metal cage down is 1) the lack of pleasant elevator music, and 2) the Visitor Safety and Health Orientation Waiver that you need to sign.  Number One on the list was, and I quote:  “Air in the tunnel will be monitored at all times by the designated competent person.”  I know that they’re simply saying that someone is monitoring the air, but the phrase “designated competent person” implies that the “designated competent person” is somehow surrounded by several “nameless incompetent persons.”  This was certainly not the case, so maybe, in the future, they could change the wording on their waivers.   

Another rule dictated that I had to wear a hard hat, safety glasses, a reflective vest and steel-toed rubber boots; the mandatory uniform of the “sandhog.”  “Sandhog” is a slang term used for urban miners; the roughneck guys that excavate underground.  As the old saying goes:  “If it’s deeper than a grave, the sandhogs dug it.”  The sandhogs began in 1872 with the building of the Brooklyn Bridge in New York City, and even participated in World War II when they dug the tunnel in Hogan’s Heroes that ended at the stump outside of Colonel Klink’s barracks.  You can always tell a sandhog by his handsome, rugged face, chiseled physic and his ability to intimidate doughy, part-time reporter guys into writing glowing reviews of the sandhogs in their Blogs.

When the cage arrived, I was surprised to see how small it was.  It could accommodate 2 people comfortably, 3 people uncomfortably and 4 people if you didn’t mind a “Walk of Shame” the next morning.  Maybe that’s what all the protection was about.

After a 30-second descent, we were standing in the Deep Tunnel.  It was a lot like a subway tube if you’ve ever seen one of those. 

Don the geologist was trying to convey interesting information, like the fact that the rock this deep was roughly 425 million years old and was formed back when the area that we know as Wisconsin was actually at the bottom of the ocean and near the Earth’s equator, but it was falling on deaf ears. 

For me, the excited 12-year-old in my brain had already taken over, and I was asking hard-hitting, journalistic questions like:  “Is the tunnel haunted because you disturbed an ancient Indian burial ground?  And Where are all the dinosaur skeletons? And “How does Batman get the Batmobile down here?”  As it turns out, for all of the science behind its creation and the benefits it offers us surface dwellers, the Deep Tunnel is really just a long, deep, dark, dirty hole…and I mean that in the best possible way.

To date, the Deep Tunnel Project has kept over 76 billion gallons of waste water from polluting Lake Michigan, it’s one of the best wastewater programs in the country, but only the overflows make the news, and in this is the M.M.S.D. conundrum.  They could build Deep Tunnels until the overflows numbered virtually zero, but that means higher taxes, and that’s a pretty tough sell.  Whether we consider it a right or a convenience, clean water costs money.

But believe it or not, there are things that we can do personally to dramatically reduce the wastewater that M.M.S.D. has to deal with.  On average, with washing, drinking and flushing, each of us uses about 65 gallons of water a day.  Just two things you can do to conserve water are:  Take shorter showers and turn off the water when you’re brushing your teeth or shaving.  Or, like the sandhogs, you can eliminate showering and shaving altogether.  And if any of the hogs read that, I might be returning to Phase Three of the Deep Tunnel very soon, and this time, my stay will be considerably longer.

-Dylan

I know that you all have been hearing about it constantly, but allow me to be the next to say Happy V.D.  Of course, I’m referring to Valentine’s Day not the other thing.  However, feel free to walk around all day Saturday saying:  “Hello.  How’s your V.D?” and watch people’s faces.

But Valentine’s Day is a holiday unique unto itself.  The anticipation of Valentine’s Day is very gender-specific, by which I mean Valentine’s Day for men is very different than it is for women.  For men, Valentine’s Day is the day of a very important test; like the S.A.T.’s.  And the Valentine’s Day test is unique; it’s a test with no standard questions, only answers and men are just expected to know them.  A man’s score on this test will determine whether he gets into the Harvard of romance, or ends up flipping burgers at McThoughtless.  And who administers this test?  The women, of course.  Screw up fellas, and you’ll find yourself on an endless, Groundhog Day loop of trouble. 

But, never, and I mean never, is it the other way around.  Not once has one of my guy friends ever come up to me, mopey and forlorn and said:  “Valentine’s Day was horrible; Patrice didn’t even get me a card.”

For singles, Valentine’s Day is either empowering or depressing, and for some married couples, Valentine’s Day has an even greater meaning.  And as one half of one such couple, I count myself among them.  You see, for my wife and I, Valentine’s Day is our two-year anniversary (the “Cotton” anniversary).  Two years ago, my then fiancée, Amy and I flew to Mexico as part of WKLH’s Fiesta of Love and were married in a chapel on the beach in Playa del Carmen.

 

The day was perfect.  As per tradition, that morning, Amy and I woke up and went our separate ways.  While my soon to be brother-in-law Matt and I went into downtown Cancun, Amy and her sister-in-law Erika prepared for the big event.  Now, when we were planning the wedding with our planner Raphaela, Amy decided that she wanted to get her hair and make-up done, too.  To hear my wife tell it, the women of Mexico have a very different approach to make-up than American women and, afterwards, she and Erika spent a full half hour stripping away the generously-applied mascara with their fingernails and removing the top seven layers of eyeliner and lipstick with a wet nap.  After all, she was supposed to be a blushing bride, not a Batman villain. 

She and Erika were then whisked away to the wedding site in the comfort of an Escalade.  Meanwhile, I got into my suit, which immediately clung to my sweaty body like toilet paper.  My transportation was a charter bus along with 40 of my closest friends whom I had never met before.  If you tuned in, you know what happened next.  If you didn’t, that’s okay because everything was in Spanish, so if you had tuned in you probably tuned right out again thinking you had the wrong station. 

During the ceremony, Amy and I were frankly a little lost ourselves.  In fact, one of our wedding photos is a priceless picture of Amy and I staring at the magistrate with the same look on our faces that said in no uncertain terms:  “Huh?”  I can tell you that the stress of getting married is doubled when you don’t know what else is happening.  It got to the point where whenever there was a pause, Amy and I quickly said:  “I do” just in case.

 

As it turns out, thanks to our broken to non-existent Spanish, not only did we get married, but we also joined the Mexican army and ordered a Chicken enchilada with beans and rice.  And because we were married in Mexico, this is not only our two-year anniversary here in the United States, but, thanks to a generous exchange rate, in Peso Years, it is our tenth anniversary (the “Tin or Aluminum anniversary) in Mexico.

-Dylan

Hey, I want you to think about your best kiss.  The best kiss you ever gave; the best kiss you ever received.  Do you remember him or her?  Do you remember where you were?  Do you remember deciding that you were going to do it? 

I sure do.  The best kiss I ever gave was to my own forearm.  I was told that the forearm was very sensitive and if you kissed it, you could feel how someone else might feel your kiss.  Plus, my forearm has some very pronounced tendons that kind of look like lips, so it was win-win. 

Maybe you consider yourself a good kisser, but how much do you really know about it?

For instance, did you know that lips are like fingerprints, and that no two lip prints are alike?  Two thirds of couples tilt their head to the right when they kiss.  Are you looking to exercise those hard-to-reach facial muscles?  Well, you should know that a simple peck only works 2 muscles in the face, while a passionate kiss works all 34 facial muscles.  You can tell the truly passionate kissers by their bulging, sinewy faces. 

The average woman kisses 29 men before she gets married.  Now remember, that’s the average.  At one end you’ve got women like Tila Tequila whose mouth has had more visitors than the Smithsonian and whose saliva is a Cajun gumbo of disease.  At the other end, you’ve got your Amish women.  In the middle are the average women that kiss 29 men before they’re married.  To be fair, many of those kisses occur during the Bachelorette Party along with something called “Suck for a Buck,” which I assume raises money to combat Chronic Wasting Disease. 

But what about the guys?

Men who kiss their partners before they leave for work statistically have higher incomes than men who don’t.  So, fellas, the next time you’re planning on asking for that big raise, smear some lipstick across your face and muss your hair.  That’ll show your boss that you’re ready for that corner office.  Heck, why not cut out the middle man?  Have your wife come in and make out with your boss directly.

Plus, kissing releases the same endorphins and neurotransmitters in the brain as running, bungee jumping or skydiving.  So, as far as your brain is concerned, kissing causes exhaustion, fear and panic.  Throw in a little shame, and you’ve got puberty.

But maybe you don’t consider yourself a good kisser, and you’re reading this right now hoping for a little advice.  Don’t worry, friend, Mr. Nimble Lips is typing this very sentence with his mouth alone.  You’ve come to the right place.  All you have to do is follow these tips: 

1.  You have to be kissable.  Make sure your lips are clean and free of debris.  And make sure that your breath is fresh.  Chances are your going to be very nervous prior to the kiss and nervousness can lead to something called dry mouth.  Have something on hand like gum or a breath mint.

2.  Assess the situation.  Is the time right to move in?  Ask yourself these questions:  Is she relaxed?  Is she smiling?  Do you know her name?  Look for the signs that she would be receptive to a kiss like playing with her hair, subtle touching and consciousness.

3.  The timid seldom make history!  Seize her head in your hands and move in!  Open your mouth as wide as you can and flex your tongue so she can see it coming!  (Pound for pound the tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body, and chicks dig muscles.)  When your lips touch hers, suck in slightly to form a seal and then let your tongue explore!  Let it fly inside her mouth like an unmanned fire hose!  Get it in between her teeth; explore every nook and cranny!  From the outside, she should look like a pelican with a fresh fish flopping around in her pouched bill!  See how far back your tongue can go!  When you pull away, don’t worry if you see a thin thread of saliva hanging between you; in many cultures it’s considered a compliment…like belching after a meal! 

Congratulations, tenderfoot, you’ve just given your first kiss, and chances are, after you took her breath away, she ran outside to get some fresh air…and call the police. 

You’re welcome.

-Dylan

I know that, on the heels of the last Blog, you may have the impression that this dream was somehow profound and poignant.  I’ll tell you right now that it wasn’t, but it was a dream nonetheless and I had to write it down.  It’s fragmented and weird like dreams are when recalled.

For some reason, I was late for a job.  I think it was a bartender job.  I was on foot and decided to take a shortcut that happened to be across a corner of a different country.  I didn’t have a passport and I hoped that that would be okay.

There was an office on the border that was similar to the weigh station on the east side of northbound I-94 as you enter Wisconsin from Illinois.  I entered the office and who should be the consulate/border guard but Scott Baio!  I told him that I was just passing through and I didn’t have my passport.  He seemed confused about how to handle it and, as a result, two other office workers, a man and a woman, began to laugh at him.  He began to laugh himself and then pulled out a silver automatic handgun.  He stood up, knocking his chair over and pumped three rounds a piece into his co-workers.  I screamed and ran.  I heard shots coming from behind me and, ahead of me, wood splintered off of the door jambs.

I ran and ran and ran.  I didn’t look back, but occassionally I’d hear a shot.  I eventually arrived at the bar, ran inside and yelled:  “Scott Baio is trying to kill me!”  I ducked behind the bar and waited.  Then I began filling the cooler. 

Analysis, anyone?

-Dylan

How to Rob a Bank by Willy Porter

For those of you who are curious as to the cause of our current banking crisis and/or still have the stomach to hear more, Willy Porter explains it all in this podcast from the Dave and Carole morning show on 96.5/WKLH Milwaukee.  Thanks, Willy.

-Dylan