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The Last Word


Bazza

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Re: The Last Word

 

Yeah, I rarely see meat products at a farmer's market. There's a (famous) public market in downtown Seattle, where there is a butcher or two, but their stuff is kept under glass. Same with the cheese sellers. The fish (and the seafood vendors are famous and prominent) is on ice and in the open, but the traffic is great enough there's none of the flies-on-it stuff you mention.

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Re: The Last Word

 

Oddly, I've never been to one of those. When we go to a Japanese restaurant, we get sushi/sashimi. At one of those we go to, you can sit at the bar and watch them prep it, but we never have. One of things you have to forego with kids.

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Re: The Last Word

 

After the fire in my apartment, I went for fire jokes, sometimes very obscure ones. Now, I wasn't there when the fire happened (which is good, since it started in my bedding), so my reactions were different. OTOH, if I smell smoke, I won't sit still until I identify the source.

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Re: The Last Word

 

We were there when the fire happened, and my night owl tendencies paid off, because we were wide awake. We rescued the cat (the one who's gone missing this week :( ), got out of there, helped neighbors out of their apartments, called 911, and waited for something to happen.

 

All that happened, really, was three miserable months living in a friends' living room, a move to the other side of the Mason-Dixon, and a cat who runs and hides when he hears a fire alarm.

 

And lots and lots and lots of financial problems.

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Re: The Last Word

 

. . . I was visiting my bro. We sat watching golf, late at night -- something like one in the morning. Tiger was biting. Last hole:

 

". . . Do you smell smoke?"

 

*snf snf*

 

". . . Naah."

 

Putting is taking place.

 

". . . You really can't smell smoke?"

 

*snf snf*

 

". . . Now that you mention it . . . You didn't burn the popcorn, did you?"

 

"Nope."

 

We walk around his appartment, trying to find where it smells the worst. Bro ends up in the hallway, peeps out through the aptly named peep hole.

 

"Dude!"

 

The stairwell is thick whith white smoke. He steps out and starts yelling fire, and rings on the neighbour's doors, while I haul out my phone to call 112 for the fire department.

 

My phone's batteries dies halfway through. I ask the lady next door if I can use her phone to call 112 again. She reluctantly agrees. V. mysterious.

 

Turns out someone set fire to some clothes on the laundry room. And that someone was, for all intents and purposes, the lady next door. They caught her pretty quickly -- she only had time to do it again one more time.

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