Showing 1 - 7 of 7 posts found matching keyword: james

A series of murders have been committed in one of the seedier quadrants of the space station. We have been assigned to investigate.

This is my space station. My partner is Obo. My name Kesko. I carry a badge.

We were directed by witnesses to the scene of the crimes in a portion of the station which has recently seen a dramatic increase in reports of theft. A thievery ring was suspected.

We had barely entered the area when we were accosted by pair of aggressively threatening space goblins. I attempted to diffuse the situation, but they refused my telepathic communication. After goblins ignored a secondary verbal warning, my partner subdued them with force. I confiscated their weapons to prevent them from being reused.

My partner and I proceeded to investigate the corridor the space goblins had come from. The first door in the corridor was closed. We declared ourselves and our official business but received no response. My partner heard some noise behind the door, and we entered by force.

Room was a storage room occupied by a single unregistered human vagrant. Although initially rude, the vagrant (identifying himself as "Bruxo" but presenting no identification) eventually recognized our authority after a little telepathic persuasion. Vagrant claimed ignorance of any murders but agreed that goblin activity was a growing problem.

In response to further questioning, he tipped us to a creature deeper in the station which he said may be working with the goblins. Warning that the creature is "immune to fire," he offered us a weapon to aid us in subduing it. Weapon was taken from a sealed crate in the storage room. Vagrant was unable to prove ownership. I was suspicious; If he had a weapon that could defeat said creature, why give it to us instead of using it himself? When pressed, vagrant said he was "just trying to help." I declined weapon per department regulations re: accepting potentially stolen goods.

(Note: My partner did take possession of vagrant-offered grappler, a tool she judged potentially useful should we need to descend into the guts of the station. Tool to be returned to the vagrant at such time as we return for a follow up investigation re: potential weapons theft.)

We continued our search of the corridor. Corridor ended in some sort of engine room. On close inspection, I determined that the engine reactor was functioning smoothly, though I lacked the technical understanding to know what it did or exactly how. Partner and I judged it safe to proceed through the room to continue pursuit of space goblin origins.

As we passed the reactor core, we were ambushed by a previously undetected entity that had been lurking within. The unknown and unidentifiable entity appeared as a humanoid comprised of pure energy. Like the goblins, it also resisted telepathic communication. Energy creature moved to touch me. It's hand passed through my chest. I felt a chill, but was otherwise unharmed. I tried to back away. It pursued, touching me a second time again causing discomfort but not harm.

My partner moved to separate creature from me with her department-issued doshko. The doshko passed through the creature in the same manner its hand had passed through me.

I used a telepathic strike to repel the creature to no apparent effect. Creature responded by redirecting energy from the reactor into a controlled explosion aimed at me. I was incapacitated.

My partner issued a verbal warning and fired a warning shot at the creature with her department-issued rifle. Energy creature phased its hand through partner's weapon. It overheated and shorted out. Partner was incapacitated.

Energy creature was unharmed.

Add two more murders to the series.

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Only one team showed up to play in the annual Georgia/Missouri game. Luckily for Georgia fans, it was Georgia. Final score: Missouri 0, Georgia 27.

Missouri 0, UGA 27

Above see the blue lights rolled out for the Veteran's Day ceremony at halftime. You know, this was the sixth home game of the 2019 season and I have yet to see an opponent's band on the field. Do schools not have bands anymore?

My guest for the evening game was Friend James (aka the man who paid me to make this), who had never attended a football game before. I spent most of the game explaining it, which was fine. With only one team on the field, there wasn't that much to see.

Not that I'm complaining about the Bulldogs pitching a shut out, mind you. It was just cold — very cold — and it would have been nice to have something to jump up and down about.

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I had a friend over to the house for an afternoon of gaming yesterday, and I very graciously offered him a Coca-Cola. He poured an entire 12-ounce can into a glass with ice... and then he only drank half of it! He poured half a Coke down my sink! Oh, the humanity!

If that's the game he wants to play, so be it. You'll never sink my battleship now, asshole.

Southern Hospitality only extends so far.

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Today was a UGA home game. The Bulldogs played Samford in Sanford Stadium at 7:30pm. However, I wasn't there to see it. Instead, I had to spend the day on Tybee Island with Mom.

She seeks sea shells by the sea shore.

Don't get me wrong. I love Tybee. (And I love Mom.) Tybee is a charming coastal town with some fantastic scenery. (And Mom is Mom.) I'm happy to report that most of the island survived Hurricane Irma just fine, though plenty of scars from last week's storm were still visible everywhere. But it wasn't Tybee's beauty or Irma's wrath (or Mom's Momness) that brought us to the Georgia coast. No, we were here to attend friend Brian's beach wedding in the shadow of Tybee's historic lighthouse.

Mom is a big fan of former Secretary of State George Marshall

Mom rented a wonderful house at 117 Cedarwood Drive, and she, Audrey, July, and I used it as a base of operations for our weekend stay. Mom frequently visited the beach (just a few hundred yards to our north) to collect shells, each time leaving Audrey behind to rue Tybee's draconian "no pets on the beach" policy.

Bring me back a pizza!

Sadly, I somehow managed not to take any pictures of the groom or bride, Veronika. For that matter, I don't have any pictures of groomsmen friends Ken, Keith, or Michael, either. The wedding party didn't show up on the beach until after the wedding officiant warned the attendees not to take pictures because that was the wedding photographer's job. Instead, you'll just have to be satisfied with this screen grab from the lovebird's official wedding website.

You know it's true because it's on the Internet.

In fact, the only picture I have of the wedding was taken by friend James. (James was one of my few friends in attendance who wasn't actually in the wedding party. Matt was the other. Why was I not in the wedding party? I'm sure it had no small part to do with my vowing to Brian after Keith's wedding that I would never wear anything dressier than jeans to a wedding again. "Except mine?" Brian asked. "Even yours," I answered. That's what I like about Brian. He listens.) James couldn't resist disobeying the order not to take any pics, but he somehow still managed not to get the wedding party. (Reminder: "Never do what James does.")

My wedding photo

I haven't attended a lot of weddings. I don't like them. Yet I found this one left an especially bittersweet taste for many reasons, not the least of which was that Brian was the last of my single friends likely to get married. From this point forward, we're all more likely to reunite at a funeral than another wedding. That's an uncomfortable thought, though it's better than imagining the possibility that I may have to sit through yet another wedding ceremony.

Thanks to Irma, there is much less dune area to be fined in.

Good luck, Brian and Veronika. Do me a favor and be so happy together that we don't have to do this all over again, ok? Thanks.

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I'm the round one center right

I recently joined some old friends for dinner. We set out for Olive Garden, but when Brian discovered the wait at Olive Garden would be 25 minutes, he insisted we head to P.F. Chang's, a restaurant I'd never been to before. It took us 10 minutes to get there. Fortunately, their wait was only 15 minutes. Thanks, Brian!

I'd never eaten at a P.F. Chang's before. I doubt I will again. Not that there was anything wrong with the food, but the service left something — almost everything — to be desired.

The woman who led us to our table handed us menus, introduced herself, and said she'd be our waitress. Excusing herself, she said she'd return shortly to take our drink order. She wasn't gone sixty seconds before another fellow came along, introduced himself, and said he'd be our waiter. Whatever.

The dude made some small talk with James, who is always desperate for more attention, and then took our drink orders. James ordered a Diet Coke with lemon, Brian ordered unsweetened tea with lemon and sweeteners on the side (because Brian), Mike ordered sweet tea with lemon, and I said I'd have what Mike was having. Pay attention; there will be a quiz later.

James ordered an appetizer of pork dumplings. The waiter apologized that they were out of pork (!) so James accepted a substitution of vegetable dumplings. Finally the dude leaves to get our drinks and appetizer while we continue perusing the entree menu. (I'm amazed you're still reading this, but hang in there.)

The waiter returns and apologizes again. It seems that there was some confusion and he is not our waiter, but he promises us that he has placed our appetizer and drink orders. He leaves, and moments later the original woman arrives with our drinks. No lemons or sweeteners. As she hands them out, she apologizes and tells us that there has been some confusion, and she will indeed, truly be our waitress. She then apologizes again, explaining that the restaurant is out of pork. Would we like vegetable dumplings instead? Sure, whatever. We place our entree orders. And could we get lemons for our drinks and sweeteners, please?

So we sit and wait for lemons, sugar, and vegetable rolls. A manager drops by our table. He apologizes for the confusion, then he apologizes because the restaurant is out of pork. Would we like some vegetable dumplings instead? Eyes roll. Brian, who I've seen chew out hotel managers and customer service representatives for lesser infractions, again politely asks for sweeteners for his tea. Proving why he's the man in charge, the manager materializes some sugar packages before leaving. I chastise Brian. "You just missed your last, best chance to get lemons."

Soon, the waitress returns with Mike's soup. She also proves me wrong by producing lemons. It's anybody's guess what happened to our appetizer. When asked whatever happened to our dumplings, she says, "I'll check," which is waiter-speak for "what dumplings?" At this point, I figured the wait staff was performing a vaudeville routine for us.

Eventually, we are served our entrees. No sign of dumplings. They're looking for them. "They disappeared from the window," our waitress explains cryptically. I decide that our dumplings are smarter than we are, and have probably headed back over to Olive Garden. The waitress promises that we will not be charged for the food we never got. Very polite of her.

It isn't until we've all gotten down to the business of eating that our waitress brings us a plate of vegetable dumplings. "No charge," she promises. Mike is brave enough to take a bite and declares them "okay." Hooray?

In the end, I left a $4 tip on a $17.92 bill, because I felt sorry for anyone who has to work in such a madhouse. I should probably thank them. In addition to making a meal out with my friends a very memorable affair, they also convinced me never to eat at another P.F. Chang's. Brian, next time we'll just wait for that table at Olive Garden.

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Yesterday I attended James' birthday at Medieval Times. I look so happy to be there.

Walter goes to a birthday party.

While I'm showing pictures, the wedding pictures from last week came in. I look so happy to be there.

Walter goes to a wedding.

Walter only has two expressions: scowling and this, my all purpose face which I call "not scowling."

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At the suggestions of my "friend" James, I ran my last blog post through a series of automatic translators (English > French > Spanish > English) just to see what would happen. This is the result:

Remember when I posted this little piece of history in the life of Mrs. WC McBride returns April 18? Well, it seems that there may be sentenced to home.

The Newnan Times-Herald reported today that the house at 14 Robinson Street was destroyed in a fire at home after a storm on Tuesday night. The house at 14 Robinson was listed as the home address of Ms. McBride on his death certificate, 1924.

These stories have led to the revelation that the majority of grandparents who live close to call McBride House, though the house was built in the late 1840 by John Evans Robinson (hence the name of the street) before moving to Cardwell William McBride. It turns out that my mother called the Hatchett House, as was held by the Hatchett family for most of the last century. Anything that is called, it seems that most of Newnan was aware of the 2-story colonial-style white house.

(To illustrate the kind of town Newnan, Georgia, is John Robinson Cates, son of John Robinson Evans, was the Newnan Rexall Pharmacy pharmacist with the October 7, 1953, issue of It's your life. John Robinson Cates married too. Eva Arnold, the sister of my maternal grandmother Everybody relates to the world. this is like shooting in Newnan)

Is it a coincidence that two weeks after published in Virginia "Jennie" McBride Hardaway, his house burned down? Obviously the answer is no. Take care, readers the blog! My blog is so powerful, can not be responsible for causing havoc!

Google Translate. Because if you can't make fun of a house fire, what can you make fun of?

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To be continued...