ssǝɹddns ɹou ɹɐǝɟ ɹǝɥʇıǝu plnoʍ ʎʇǝıɔos ǝǝɹɟ ʎlnɹʇ ɐ ʇɐɥʇ ƃuıʇnɔolɯnɔɹıɔ suıɐʇuoɔ ǝʇıs sıɥʇ



Wednesday, February 25, 2015

T-Jets

Many, many moons ago, my brother, Ray, and I got into a scrap with a couple of black guys.

When the scrum started, Ray and I were playing Wiffle-Ball, which, in my mind, is next to Godliness.

But one of the black guys, after being shouted and beaten down, yelled, "Boys play with toys," while limping away as he was commanded to do. I never forgot that limp-wristed parting shot, nor did it ever bother me in the least.

Yeah, "boys play with toys". Uh, well, it sure beats "boys" playing with handguns, illicit drugs and prison guards while being converted to Islam.



Toys?

I'm all good with that.

And?

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