Team Member X : “John, do you know how to insert a watermark into a PowerPoint?”
John: “No. But I know how to put a mushroom stamp on a hooker's face. Will that help?”
I've got it!
I was driving. Brett was in the passenger seat. Russ, with his always present cup of iced tea, and Woody were in the back seat. We were driving around and looking for girls. So basically we were just driving around. The car was Dodge 600ES. It had everything. Digital dashboard. Tape deck with auto play. Power windows. Power locks. It was a sedan, but it was stick shift. And it talked. From “Your door is ajar” to “Your oil pressure is low. Prompt service is required.” We called it The Spy Car.
I was third in line for the spy car so I got it around 1989. By then, a lot of the James Bond stuff had stopped working. Digital dash only came on in metric. Tape deck needed a pencil jammed in it to work. Power windows only worked ½ the time. Power locks only worked 1/6th of the time. The voice had stopped annoying us two year prior. But we still called it the Spy Car.
Brett had bottle rockets. This wasn’t unusual. As we drove around neighborhoods, he’d fire one out the window saying, “This is my last one.” Fifteen seconds later, “This is my last one.” I tried to roll up his window with the master controls, but they were not functioning on that day. We all shouted for him to quit, but he didn’t. He finally said, “This is my last one,” and he was right, though he didn’t know it at the time. As he went to poke the lit-fuse rocket out the window, it clipped the door frame and rebounded back into the car at his feet.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! (We all scrunched our bodies as far as physically possible from the passenger seat. I couldn’t see, but I’m sure Russ and Woody were clasping each other in a girlish hug of fear. It's also pretty tough to drive stick scrunched up in to a fetal ball. With neither of my feet on the pedals, the car started to shudder and jerk.)
Brett put his sneakers on top the rocket. “Don't worry! I've got it!” He shouted.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. CRACK!
The rocket shot up from under his feet and up the dash and in front of the glove compartment and it hit the ceiling and shot back down between the passenger seat and Brett’s back. Now wedged, the rocket blew pinkish fire on to the seat and Brett’s back. He leaned forward and the rocket shot off, disappearing somewhere in the car and, with a suggestion of muffled silence, exploded.
Even with all the windows open, the car was filled with acrid smoke. The car managed to stall to a stop. Everyone was bailing out of the car. I looked over and the passenger seat had a small oval of fire, eerily growing larger. I slapped it out with my hand. I quickly learned that burning passenger seat is comprised of fire and hot melty plastic that sticks to your hand and burns like napalm. Well, napalm jr.
While I was having a chemistry lesson in the front of the car, Russ was putting Brett’s shirt out. During this whole ordeal, Russ had managed not to spill his large cup of Baskin Robbins ice tea. As he exited the car, he saw that the back of Brett’s shirt was on fire. He calmly threw the entire contents of the cup on to Brett’s back, dousing the flames. Brett turned around and said, “Thanks for saving my life Russ.”
No, he didn't say that.
“Thanks for putting out my shirt that was on fire and on me at the same time.”
Not that either.
“Fucker! You ruined my shirt!”
See, Brett was wearing a one of a kind, Bowling Green, 1989 Doyt L. Perry Stadium Night Game t-shirt. Bowling Green University spent about $50,000 for huge portable lights to illuminate the football field and play a night game. Brett bought a shirt and he was very proud of it.
Brett was not aware of the fist sized hole burnt into the back of his shirt. He was also not aware of the fist sized 2nd degree burns on his back. In less than five minutes, he was very well aware of the burns. He’s got a scar there that he never gets to see.
I got out of the car and walked to the other side. We were all a bit shocked and forgot to beat the shit out of Brett. My car was sitting in the middle of a side street. Doors open with only the smell of the smoke left. I reached down a felt a pain in my ass region. I pulled my fingers back and there was blood on them. A quick inspection revealed that a chuck of my ass was gone. A small chuck by ass standards, but still. When Brett leaned forward in the car, the rocket must have shot over and between my ass and the car seat where it exploded. Inspection of the front seat revealed a little red stick poking out of a small blackened crater.
When we tallied up the losses it came out to:
One shirt (ruined, though I think he kept it)
One passenger seat top part (later covered in the taxi driver bead stuff)
One driver’s seat bottom part (matching taxi driver bead stuff)
One glass of ice tea
One pair of yellow shorts
Part of my ass
We got back in the car and drove to Monica’s house. Her mom patched Brett up and I used a lot of gauze and the white cloth tape in the privacy of the bathroom to patch myself up. We spent the rest of the afternoon swimming and thinking about what it would be like to have sex with Monica.
I told my folks a partial truth lie. Friends of friends (not our friends, honest) had been setting off fireworks and one ended up flying into the car. The perfect story. They didn’t believe it for a minute.
I was third in line for the spy car so I got it around 1989. By then, a lot of the James Bond stuff had stopped working. Digital dash only came on in metric. Tape deck needed a pencil jammed in it to work. Power windows only worked ½ the time. Power locks only worked 1/6th of the time. The voice had stopped annoying us two year prior. But we still called it the Spy Car.
Brett had bottle rockets. This wasn’t unusual. As we drove around neighborhoods, he’d fire one out the window saying, “This is my last one.” Fifteen seconds later, “This is my last one.” I tried to roll up his window with the master controls, but they were not functioning on that day. We all shouted for him to quit, but he didn’t. He finally said, “This is my last one,” and he was right, though he didn’t know it at the time. As he went to poke the lit-fuse rocket out the window, it clipped the door frame and rebounded back into the car at his feet.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! (We all scrunched our bodies as far as physically possible from the passenger seat. I couldn’t see, but I’m sure Russ and Woody were clasping each other in a girlish hug of fear. It's also pretty tough to drive stick scrunched up in to a fetal ball. With neither of my feet on the pedals, the car started to shudder and jerk.)
Brett put his sneakers on top the rocket. “Don't worry! I've got it!” He shouted.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. CRACK!
The rocket shot up from under his feet and up the dash and in front of the glove compartment and it hit the ceiling and shot back down between the passenger seat and Brett’s back. Now wedged, the rocket blew pinkish fire on to the seat and Brett’s back. He leaned forward and the rocket shot off, disappearing somewhere in the car and, with a suggestion of muffled silence, exploded.
Even with all the windows open, the car was filled with acrid smoke. The car managed to stall to a stop. Everyone was bailing out of the car. I looked over and the passenger seat had a small oval of fire, eerily growing larger. I slapped it out with my hand. I quickly learned that burning passenger seat is comprised of fire and hot melty plastic that sticks to your hand and burns like napalm. Well, napalm jr.
While I was having a chemistry lesson in the front of the car, Russ was putting Brett’s shirt out. During this whole ordeal, Russ had managed not to spill his large cup of Baskin Robbins ice tea. As he exited the car, he saw that the back of Brett’s shirt was on fire. He calmly threw the entire contents of the cup on to Brett’s back, dousing the flames. Brett turned around and said, “Thanks for saving my life Russ.”
No, he didn't say that.
“Thanks for putting out my shirt that was on fire and on me at the same time.”
Not that either.
“Fucker! You ruined my shirt!”
See, Brett was wearing a one of a kind, Bowling Green, 1989 Doyt L. Perry Stadium Night Game t-shirt. Bowling Green University spent about $50,000 for huge portable lights to illuminate the football field and play a night game. Brett bought a shirt and he was very proud of it.
Brett was not aware of the fist sized hole burnt into the back of his shirt. He was also not aware of the fist sized 2nd degree burns on his back. In less than five minutes, he was very well aware of the burns. He’s got a scar there that he never gets to see.
I got out of the car and walked to the other side. We were all a bit shocked and forgot to beat the shit out of Brett. My car was sitting in the middle of a side street. Doors open with only the smell of the smoke left. I reached down a felt a pain in my ass region. I pulled my fingers back and there was blood on them. A quick inspection revealed that a chuck of my ass was gone. A small chuck by ass standards, but still. When Brett leaned forward in the car, the rocket must have shot over and between my ass and the car seat where it exploded. Inspection of the front seat revealed a little red stick poking out of a small blackened crater.
When we tallied up the losses it came out to:
One shirt (ruined, though I think he kept it)
One passenger seat top part (later covered in the taxi driver bead stuff)
One driver’s seat bottom part (matching taxi driver bead stuff)
One glass of ice tea
One pair of yellow shorts
Part of my ass
We got back in the car and drove to Monica’s house. Her mom patched Brett up and I used a lot of gauze and the white cloth tape in the privacy of the bathroom to patch myself up. We spent the rest of the afternoon swimming and thinking about what it would be like to have sex with Monica.
I told my folks a partial truth lie. Friends of friends (not our friends, honest) had been setting off fireworks and one ended up flying into the car. The perfect story. They didn’t believe it for a minute.
HolyJuan's Top Ten Movies
Here are my Top Ten movies in no particular order, except for number 11 which ended up in a three way tie for not making the top ten list.
Big Fish
The Matrix
The Royal Tennenbaums
Princess Bride
Say Anything
Léon
Blade Runner
The Shawshank Redemption
Raiders of the Lost Ark
Aliens
And in a tie for eleventh:
Terminator 2, Rushmore and Life Aquatic
Big Fish
The Matrix
The Royal Tennenbaums
Princess Bride
Say Anything
Léon
Blade Runner
The Shawshank Redemption
Raiders of the Lost Ark
Aliens
And in a tie for eleventh:
Terminator 2, Rushmore and Life Aquatic
Bridge to Terabithia is a Sack of Ass
Miss Sally and I stayed in last night and watched “Bridge to Terabithia.”
*Please stop reading now. I’m not a reviewer and I am really not that intelligent. What I am about to say is going to be rantful and include a lot of swear words and it also might be unintelligible, even after editing. It will also include details and spoilers about the movie. If you plan to ever watch this debacle, stop reading now and check out some porn instead.*
What a fucking crock of horseshit. On at least three or four levels I am completely fucking pissed that Bridge to Terabithia was ever created. Damn you Mr. Director and your little buddies Mr. and Mr. Scriptwriter. Assholes.
Here are the basics:
-This movie was well reviewed and it takes a lot for a Fantasy movie to get good ratings.
-I’d seen the trailer for this film and it seemed very interesting. Again, Fantasy movies are usually pretty shitty.
-I want to have sex with Zooey Deschanel.
-I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for boy meets girl movies where there might be a Pit of Despair or similar.
That being said, I was tricked and deceived and screw you movie people.
First off, this “Fantasy” movie has about seven minutes of fantasy in it. There’s a mutated squirrel, a bunch of metal bugs and a troll. Oh! I forgot to mention the Shadow Lord who wisps in and out with a jingle of keys. Not once, except at the very, very end of the movie does the plot slip into a 100% fantasy world and by that point I was so pissed that I didn’t care. I think the credits actually start rolling over top the world. In the classic fantasy flick The Neverending Story, there was a small amount of time spent in the “real” world and a great amount of time spent in the “fantasy” world. “Bridge” is the exact OPPOSITE. I wouldn’t be so pissed except that the trailer for the film is 75% fantasy. As a matter of fact, if you watch the trailer, you’ve seen every bit of fantasy in the film.
THEY KILL OFF THE GIRL. Oh my god the just make her disappear. The cheapest shot in the movie business. (OK, this is based on the book, but you are allowed to change the story.) What really sucked was I was still waiting for the full immersion into the fantasy world when she winds up dead in the stream. What a load of crap. There was some incredible opportunity for her character to be “missing” and for him to fight his own demons to find her in the world. She could have been in a coma and he could have brought her back from the other side. But no. She’s dead. I was sad for half a second and then I was just angry. Assholes. Killing someone off is at the top of the list of BS movie tricks next to a writer not being able to figure out what their characters should say so they whisper it and the audience cannot hear it. (see Lost in Translation.)
But as I said, they make the girl lead character disappear. Really disappear. She is never in the movie again except for a fleeting moment at her wake where a flash of light shoots across the screen. The boy can’t find her in the fantasy world. They don’t even hint that it was her that laid the logs across the river. And in the end of the movie when we are finally shown the fantasy world, she is no where to be found. What a steamy heap of bullshit. There was some terrific opportunity for the audience to leave with a little bit of respect, but they just forgot about the audience in the eight million dollar CGI film ending with credits.
Zooey Deschanel does not get naked.
On top of all that, all the adult characters are unbelievable. Not a problem in most fantasy movies where you only see them for a minute. In this film, we have to watch them for ninety minutes. Uncaring mom. A farmer who doesn’t have anything more than a greenhouse. Two writer parents who were torn straight from Cliché Monthly Magazine. Bullies who only understand violence.
This film had a lot of opportunities to be inventive and outstanding. The two lead actors worked well before they killed 50% of them off. The “fantasy” world had so many possibilities. I love to see bullies get their comeuppance in clever ways and this movie failed at that as well. So many failings. So many fucking failings. Assholes. Breaking my heart for nothing.
I’m going to go watch Big Fish and cry like a little girl.
*Please stop reading now. I’m not a reviewer and I am really not that intelligent. What I am about to say is going to be rantful and include a lot of swear words and it also might be unintelligible, even after editing. It will also include details and spoilers about the movie. If you plan to ever watch this debacle, stop reading now and check out some porn instead.*
What a fucking crock of horseshit. On at least three or four levels I am completely fucking pissed that Bridge to Terabithia was ever created. Damn you Mr. Director and your little buddies Mr. and Mr. Scriptwriter. Assholes.
Here are the basics:
-This movie was well reviewed and it takes a lot for a Fantasy movie to get good ratings.
-I’d seen the trailer for this film and it seemed very interesting. Again, Fantasy movies are usually pretty shitty.
-I want to have sex with Zooey Deschanel.
-I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for boy meets girl movies where there might be a Pit of Despair or similar.
That being said, I was tricked and deceived and screw you movie people.
First off, this “Fantasy” movie has about seven minutes of fantasy in it. There’s a mutated squirrel, a bunch of metal bugs and a troll. Oh! I forgot to mention the Shadow Lord who wisps in and out with a jingle of keys. Not once, except at the very, very end of the movie does the plot slip into a 100% fantasy world and by that point I was so pissed that I didn’t care. I think the credits actually start rolling over top the world. In the classic fantasy flick The Neverending Story, there was a small amount of time spent in the “real” world and a great amount of time spent in the “fantasy” world. “Bridge” is the exact OPPOSITE. I wouldn’t be so pissed except that the trailer for the film is 75% fantasy. As a matter of fact, if you watch the trailer, you’ve seen every bit of fantasy in the film.
THEY KILL OFF THE GIRL. Oh my god the just make her disappear. The cheapest shot in the movie business. (OK, this is based on the book, but you are allowed to change the story.) What really sucked was I was still waiting for the full immersion into the fantasy world when she winds up dead in the stream. What a load of crap. There was some incredible opportunity for her character to be “missing” and for him to fight his own demons to find her in the world. She could have been in a coma and he could have brought her back from the other side. But no. She’s dead. I was sad for half a second and then I was just angry. Assholes. Killing someone off is at the top of the list of BS movie tricks next to a writer not being able to figure out what their characters should say so they whisper it and the audience cannot hear it. (see Lost in Translation.)
But as I said, they make the girl lead character disappear. Really disappear. She is never in the movie again except for a fleeting moment at her wake where a flash of light shoots across the screen. The boy can’t find her in the fantasy world. They don’t even hint that it was her that laid the logs across the river. And in the end of the movie when we are finally shown the fantasy world, she is no where to be found. What a steamy heap of bullshit. There was some terrific opportunity for the audience to leave with a little bit of respect, but they just forgot about the audience in the eight million dollar CGI film ending with credits.
Zooey Deschanel does not get naked.
On top of all that, all the adult characters are unbelievable. Not a problem in most fantasy movies where you only see them for a minute. In this film, we have to watch them for ninety minutes. Uncaring mom. A farmer who doesn’t have anything more than a greenhouse. Two writer parents who were torn straight from Cliché Monthly Magazine. Bullies who only understand violence.
This film had a lot of opportunities to be inventive and outstanding. The two lead actors worked well before they killed 50% of them off. The “fantasy” world had so many possibilities. I love to see bullies get their comeuppance in clever ways and this movie failed at that as well. So many failings. So many fucking failings. Assholes. Breaking my heart for nothing.
I’m going to go watch Big Fish and cry like a little girl.
The INSERT key stinks
When I started my job, I received the standard desktop computer, monitor, keyboard and mouse.
As part of my regimen when starting a new job, I removed the INSERT key from the keyboard.
Keyboard
After INSERT removal
It popped right off and I keep it in my desk drawer for pranks and for when I have to replace it once I get fired.
I'm not really sure what purpose the INSERT button serves other than to screw me up when typing. With these sausage fingers of mine, when I go for the DELETE key, I sometimes slip over and hit the INSERT key. When Word goes into typeover mode, I'm usually eight to ten letters in before I notice. I immediately forget when the hell I was typing so I have to go in and UNDO until I get back to where I was in the first place. It's best just to get rid of the INSERT key.
The moral to this story is that on Wednesday, I came back to my desk after a meeting and this is what my keyboard looked like:
Freckled Jenn had bought me a gag gift while she was traveling and wanted to drop it off. I was not at my desk when she stopped by and she left it in the little keyboard nest I had created earlier.
It is a perfect fit. What's great is that the bottom of the PORNO key is flat (it's got an adhesive back that I have not peeled off) so that it does not trigger the INSERT mechanism. I can leave it there until I get fired.
As part of my regimen when starting a new job, I removed the INSERT key from the keyboard.
Keyboard
After INSERT removal
It popped right off and I keep it in my desk drawer for pranks and for when I have to replace it once I get fired.
I'm not really sure what purpose the INSERT button serves other than to screw me up when typing. With these sausage fingers of mine, when I go for the DELETE key, I sometimes slip over and hit the INSERT key. When Word goes into typeover mode, I'm usually eight to ten letters in before I notice. I immediately forget when the hell I was typing so I have to go in and UNDO until I get back to where I was in the first place. It's best just to get rid of the INSERT key.
The moral to this story is that on Wednesday, I came back to my desk after a meeting and this is what my keyboard looked like:
Freckled Jenn had bought me a gag gift while she was traveling and wanted to drop it off. I was not at my desk when she stopped by and she left it in the little keyboard nest I had created earlier.
It is a perfect fit. What's great is that the bottom of the PORNO key is flat (it's got an adhesive back that I have not peeled off) so that it does not trigger the INSERT mechanism. I can leave it there until I get fired.
Past Secret
Hi! Do you have a deep dark secret you'd like to tell but cannot because you fear retribution from your family, peers or neighbors?
Please let me tell your story. If you've got one, please e-mail me at holyjuan@gmail.com.
If you have a question for Ask HolyJuan, you can send it to that same address.
Please let me tell your story. If you've got one, please e-mail me at holyjuan@gmail.com.
If you have a question for Ask HolyJuan, you can send it to that same address.
Bathroom Trickery
I poop. Sometimes at work. Sometimes it is pretty stinky.
My office is in a building where other guys use the bathroom too. Enough so that every other time I use the bathroom, there is a good chance that someone is going to be in there when I walk in or come in right as I am walking out. Our bathroom only has one pisser and one shitter so it is pretty close quarters in there.
Every guy in the building knows that there are other stinky poopy other in the building. When you find one, you mention it to your other guy buddies. They usually have a story about the stinky guy.
I do not want to be known as the stinky guy.
Sometimes after a night out with Shorty and a quick stop at White Castle, I am the stinky guy the next day. To combat this, I have a simple regiment.
If I walk in and someone is at the pisser, I act as if I am going into the stall just to pee. When they leave, I let loose and get the hell out. Chances are no one will be coming in as I am leaving. The next guy that walks in gets a surprise and can only place the blame on who he and his buddies think the stinky guy is.
If I walk in and the bathroom is empty, I try to get in and get out. If someone starts walking it, I move my feet as far as possible to the side so that they cannot see my shoes. Shoes are the dead giveaway. You’ll be walking down the hall and see a guy with brown loafers with the dangly things on them and realize he was the stinky guy from last week. I wear converse so I’m easily spotted. Keep quiet. Keep shoes far to the side. Wait till they leave. Wait thirty seconds. Run!
Now, here’s the tricky one. If I walk in and no one is in there, I drop trough and listen for guys walking in. If I finish before anyone walks in, odds suggest that someone will be coming in any second. I stand up, walk to the urinal and fake pee for a few seconds. If someone walks in to the cloud of retch, I can act as if I am just an innocent pisser who walked into an all ready polluted bathroom. You share a half second of silent sorrow with the guy who walked in, wash up and leave. Let him take the blame.
If you are the stinky guy, don’t even try this. We all ready know who you are. Please continue to take the blame for us other schmucks and continue to wear those awful brown loafers.
(And to you women who claim this article doesn't apply to you, you are wrong. If you have to poop, poop in the men's bathroom. Problem solved.)
My office is in a building where other guys use the bathroom too. Enough so that every other time I use the bathroom, there is a good chance that someone is going to be in there when I walk in or come in right as I am walking out. Our bathroom only has one pisser and one shitter so it is pretty close quarters in there.
Every guy in the building knows that there are other stinky poopy other in the building. When you find one, you mention it to your other guy buddies. They usually have a story about the stinky guy.
I do not want to be known as the stinky guy.
Sometimes after a night out with Shorty and a quick stop at White Castle, I am the stinky guy the next day. To combat this, I have a simple regiment.
If I walk in and someone is at the pisser, I act as if I am going into the stall just to pee. When they leave, I let loose and get the hell out. Chances are no one will be coming in as I am leaving. The next guy that walks in gets a surprise and can only place the blame on who he and his buddies think the stinky guy is.
If I walk in and the bathroom is empty, I try to get in and get out. If someone starts walking it, I move my feet as far as possible to the side so that they cannot see my shoes. Shoes are the dead giveaway. You’ll be walking down the hall and see a guy with brown loafers with the dangly things on them and realize he was the stinky guy from last week. I wear converse so I’m easily spotted. Keep quiet. Keep shoes far to the side. Wait till they leave. Wait thirty seconds. Run!
Now, here’s the tricky one. If I walk in and no one is in there, I drop trough and listen for guys walking in. If I finish before anyone walks in, odds suggest that someone will be coming in any second. I stand up, walk to the urinal and fake pee for a few seconds. If someone walks in to the cloud of retch, I can act as if I am just an innocent pisser who walked into an all ready polluted bathroom. You share a half second of silent sorrow with the guy who walked in, wash up and leave. Let him take the blame.
If you are the stinky guy, don’t even try this. We all ready know who you are. Please continue to take the blame for us other schmucks and continue to wear those awful brown loafers.
(And to you women who claim this article doesn't apply to you, you are wrong. If you have to poop, poop in the men's bathroom. Problem solved.)
Food shopping
I went shopping tonight. It was not the fun shopping where I meet Erik out for drinks first and then go shopping second. In the winter, you can shop first and then grab a drink with your car trunk acting as a refrigerator. In the summer, you have to shop after drinks or else the milk gets warm and goes the way of the cottage cheese. When I shop after drinks, Greg is more likely to get fruit roll-ups.
Tonight though, I just went shopping.
But I was reminded that when we were kids, mom did most of the shopping. We always had diverse meals and it seemed that we never got tired of what we were fed. On the same note, mom never bought anything fun.
We loved it when dad went shopping. He’d come home with frozen waffles and honey with the honeycomb still attached. You’d help bring the groceries in and there would be a frozen turkey in the middle of July. Beans in a plastic bag that you had to soak for twelve hours. Brown eggs. Spam. It was like the carnival except with the four food groups plus a mysterious new canned food group that was either La Choy or canned brown bread. (Yes, there is such a thing as canned brown bread.)
Now that I do most the shopping, I wonder if I am a Mom shopper or a Dad shopper.
I think I’ll head to Dad’s this weekend and take some photos of the pantry. I bet there is still food coloring from 1976 in there when we made the Bicentennial cookies. Right there next to the bag of beans and the Deviled Ham.
Tonight though, I just went shopping.
But I was reminded that when we were kids, mom did most of the shopping. We always had diverse meals and it seemed that we never got tired of what we were fed. On the same note, mom never bought anything fun.
We loved it when dad went shopping. He’d come home with frozen waffles and honey with the honeycomb still attached. You’d help bring the groceries in and there would be a frozen turkey in the middle of July. Beans in a plastic bag that you had to soak for twelve hours. Brown eggs. Spam. It was like the carnival except with the four food groups plus a mysterious new canned food group that was either La Choy or canned brown bread. (Yes, there is such a thing as canned brown bread.)
Now that I do most the shopping, I wonder if I am a Mom shopper or a Dad shopper.
I think I’ll head to Dad’s this weekend and take some photos of the pantry. I bet there is still food coloring from 1976 in there when we made the Bicentennial cookies. Right there next to the bag of beans and the Deviled Ham.
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