By Brad
Early Friday morning mother Michigan lost one of her favorite sons. Scott Nykamp began his journey to the east coast and toward hopefully a better life feeling the cold steering wheel of his beloved truck.
Many arrangements have been made in honor on the Coyote Kid, including a gathering last Wednesday at the local Lyons Club entitled the Women Who Have Slept With Scott. Among the throngs of overly friendly women with the unofficial titles of single, truth be told all of the women were currently with some one but looking for someone better, was “that one chick with the fake tits”. Tits expressed her sadness for the departure of her “soul mate” saying, “I’d never have thrown that lamp at him if I’d known it would have ended up like this”.
Other Nykamp honors will start early Saturday morning when the local Boy Scout troop will kill twenty-seven stray cats by firing squad in Ely Park. All shooters will be wearing aviator sunglasses in a tribute to Mr. Nykamp’s alleged alias Johnny Drago. It will be attended by several of his friends and family. Among estimated twenty two thousand people expected to attend many are anxious to see two of Drago’s accomplices. Most will be looking, but most likely will not recognize Vincent Blackshadow, who has been in hiding ever since his run in with Grand Rapids police a little over a year ago. Drago’s other longtime friend, Commodore Nedward Leslie is expected to arrive in a stretch limo fashionably late, as is the custom of his homeland.
Many sad faces will be looking for the same look that once gleamed in the eye of the amateur pit fighter sometimes late at night, but that will no longer be an option. With its terrible economy, poor weather, and little to no attractions outside of Michigan Adventure, it is easy to say that Michigan is reeling after Scott’s departure. Many blame Jennifer Granholm, some blame the comfortable obesity of the state of Michigan, but this writer happens to believe that the blame falls on each and every one of us. Mr. Nykamp you will be sorely missed.
Tags: Scott
Jan 29, 2010 • Nostalgia
• • • MS • • •
By Mike
Cold Air
The morning air brushes past my face–
but it refuses to move on.
It stings as it begins to move through my
nose and mouth, past my tongue.
I exhale.
I move on.
Strong
Where goes the strong one?
Into eternity I would guess.
Blown back again, not so missed.
Maybe forgotten. One day remembered.
Walk away; the night will remember.
Tags: Poetry
Jan 25, 2010 • Literature and Fiction
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By Larry
A&P
by john updike
In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits. I’m in the third check-out slot, with my back to the door, so I don’t see them until they’re over by the bread. The one that caught my eye first was the one in the plaid green two-piece. She was a chunky kid, with a good tan and a sweet broad soft-looking can with those two crescents of white just under it, where the sun never seems to hit, at the top of the backs of her legs. I stood there with my hand on a box of HiHo crackers trying to remember if I rang it up or not. I ring it up again and the customer starts giving me hell. She’s one of these cash-register-watchers, a witch about fifty with rouge on her cheekbones and no eyebrows, and I knowit made her day to trip me up. She’d been watching cash registers forty years and probably never seen a mistake before.
By the time I got her feathers smoothed and her goodies into a bag — she gives me alittle snort in passing, if she’d been born at the right time they would have burned her over in Salem — by the time I get her on her way the girls had circled around the bread and were coming back, without a pushcart, back my way along the counters, in the aisle between the check-outs and the Special bins. They didn’t even have shoes on. There was this chunky one, with the two-piece — it was bright green and the seams on the bra were still sharp and her belly was still pretty pale so I guessed she just got it (the suit) — there was this one, with one of those chubby berry-faces, the lips all bunched together under her nose, this one, and a tall one, with black hair that hadn’t quite frizzed right, and one of these sunburns right across under the eyes, and a chin that was too long — you know, the kind of girl other girls think is very “striking” and “attractive” but never quite makes it, as they very well know, which is why they like her so much — and then the third one, that wasn’t quite so tall. She was the queen. She kind of led them, the other two peeking around and making their shoulders round. She didn’t look around, not this queen, she just walked straight on slowly, on these long white prima donna legs. She came down a little hard on her heels, as if she didn’t walk in her bare feet that much, putting down her heels and then letting the weight move along to her toes as if she was testing the floor with every step, putting a little deliberate extra action into it. You never know for sure how girls’ minds work (do you really think it’s a mind in there or just a little buzz like a bee in a glassjar?) but you got the idea she had talked the other two into coming in here with her, and now she was showing them how to do it, walk slow and hold yourself straight.
She had on a kind of dirty-pink – - beige maybe, I don’t know — bathing suit with a little nubble all over it and, what got me, the straps were down. They were off her shoulders looped loose around the cool tops of her arms, and I guess as a result the suit had slipped a little on her, so all around the top of the cloth there was this shining rim. If it hadn’t been there you wouldn’t have known there could have been anything whiter than those shoulders. With the straps pushed off, there was nothing between the top of the suit and the top of her head except just her, this clean bare plane of the top of her chest down from the shoulder bones like a dented sheet of metal tilted in the light. I mean, it was more than pretty.
She had sort of oaky hair that the sun and salt had bleached, done up in a bun that was unravelling, and a kind of prim face. Walking into the A & P with your straps down, I suppose it’s the only kind of face you can have. She held her head so high her neck, coming up out o fthose white shoulders, looked kind of stretched, but I didn’t mind. The longer her neck was, the more of her there was.
She must have felt in the corner of her eye me and over my shoulder Stokesie in the second slot watching, but she didn’t tip. Not this queen. She kept her eyes moving across the racks, and stopped, and turned so slow it made my stomach rub the inside of my apron, and buzzed to the other two, who kind of huddled against her for relief, and they all three of them went up the cat-and-dog-food-breakfast-cereal-macaroni-ri ce-raisins-seasonings-spreads-spaghetti-soft drinks- rackers-and- cookies aisle. From the third slot I look straight up this aisle to the meat counter, and I watched them all the way. The fat one with the tan sort of fumbled with the cookies, but on second thought she put the packages back. The sheep pushing their carts down the aisle — the girls were walking against the usual traffic (not that we have one-way signs or anything) — were pretty hilarious. You could see them, when Queenie’s white shoulders dawned on them, kind of jerk, or hop, or hiccup, but their eyes snapped back to their own baskets and on they pushed. I bet you could set off dynamite in an A & P and the people would by and large keep reaching and checking oatmeal off their lists and muttering “Let me see, there was a third thing, began with A, asparagus, no, ah, yes, applesauce!” or whatever it is they do mutter. But there was no doubt, this jiggled them. A few house-slaves in pin curlers even looked around after pushing their carts past to make sure what they had seen was correct.
You know, it’s one thing to have a girl in a bathing suit down on the beach, where what with the glare nobody can look at each other much anyway, and another thing in the cool of the A & P, under the fluorescent lights, against all those stacked packages, with her feet paddling along naked over our checkerboard green-and-cream rubber-tile floor.
“Oh Daddy,” Stokesie said beside me. “I feel so faint.”
“Darling,” I said. “Hold me tight.” Stokesie’s married, with two babies chalked up on his fuselage already, but as far as I can tell that’s the only difference. He’s twenty-two, and I was nineteen this April.
“Is it done?” he asks, the responsible married man finding his voice. I forgot to say he thinks he’s going to be manager some sunny day, maybe in 1990 when it’s called the Great Alexandrov and Petrooshki Tea Company or something.
What he meant was, our town is five miles from a beach, with a big summer colony out on the Point, but we’re right in the middle of town, and the women generally put on a shirt or shorts or something before they get out of the car into the street. And anyway these are usually women with six children and varicose veins mapping their legs and nobody, including them, could care less. As I say, we’re right in the middle of town, and if you stand at our front doors you can see two banks and the Congregational church and the newspaper store and three real-estate offices and about twenty-seven old free-loaders tearing up Central Street because the sewer broke again. It’s not as if we’re on the Cape; we’re north of Boston and there’s people in this town haven’t seen the ocean for twenty years.
The girls had reached the meat counter and were asking McMahon something. He pointed, they pointed, and they shuffled out of sight behind a pyramid of Diet Delight peaches. All that was left for us to see was old McMahon patting his mouth and looking after them sizing up their joints. Poor kids, I began to feel sorry for them, they couldn’t help it.
Now here comes the sad part of the story, at:least my family says it’s sad but I don’t think it’s sad myself. The store’s pretty empty, it being Thursday afternoon, so there was nothing much to do except lean on the register and wait for the girls to show up again. The whole store was like a pinball machine and I didn’t know which tunnel they’d come out of. After a while they come around out of the far aisle, around the light bulbs, records at discount of the Caribbean Six or Tony Martin Sings or some such gunk you wonder they waste the wax on, sixpacks of candy bars, and plastic toys done up in cellophane that faIl apart when a kid looks at them anyway. Around they come, Queenie still leading the way, and holding a little gray jar in her hand. Slots Three through Seven are unmanned and I could see her wondering between Stokes and me, but Stokesie with his usual luck draws an old party in baggy gray pants who stumbles up with four giant cans of pineapple juice (what do these bums do with all that pineapple juice’ I’ve often asked myself) so the girls come to me. Queenie puts down the jar and I take it into my fingers icy cold. Kingfish Fancy Herring Snacks in Pure Sour Cream: 49¢. Now her hands are empty, not a ring or a bracelet, bare as God made them, and I wonder where the money’s coming from. Still with that prim look she lifts a folded dollar bill out of the hollow at the center of her nubbled pink top. The jar went heavy in my hand. Really, I thought that was so cute.
Then everybody’s luck begins to run out. Lengel comes in from haggling with a truck full of cabbages on the lot and is about to scuttle into that door marked MANAGER behind which he hides all day when the girls touch his eye. Lengel’s pretty dreary, teaches Sunday school and the rest, but he doesn’t miss that much. He comes over and says, “Girls, this isn’t the beach.”
Queenie blushes, though maybe it’s just a brush of sunburn I was noticing for the first time, now that she was so close. “My mother asked me to pick up a jar of herring snacks.” Her voice kind of startled me, the way voices do when you see the people first, coming out so flat and dumb yet kind of tony, too, the way it ticked over “pick up” and “snacks.” All of a sudden I slid right down her voice into her living room. Her father and the other men were standing around in ice-cream coats and bow ties and the women were in sandals picking up herring snacks on toothpicks off a big plate and they were all holding drinks the color of water with olives and sprigs of mint in them. When my parents have somebody over they get lemonade and if it’s a real racy affair Schlitz in tall glasses with “They’ll Do It Every Time” cartoons stencilled on.
“That’s all right,” Lengel said. “But this isn’t the beach.” His repeating this struck me as funny, as if it hadjust occurred to him, and he had been thinking all these years the A & P was a great big dune and he was the head lifeguard. He didn’t like my smiling — -as I say he doesn’t miss much — but he concentrates on giving the girls that sad Sunday- school-superintendent stare.
Queenie’s blush is no sunburn now, and the plump one in plaid, that I liked better from the back — a really sweet can — pipes up, “We weren’t doing any shopping. We just came in for the one thing.”
“That makes no difference,” Lengel tells her, and I could see from the way his eyes went that he hadn’t noticed she was wearing a two-piece before. “We want you decently dressed when you come in here.”
“We are decent,” Queenie says suddenly, her lower lip pushing, getting sore now that she remembers her place, a place from which the crowd that runs the A & P must look pretty crummy. Fancy Herring Snacks flashed in her very blue eyes.
“Girls, I don’t want to argue with you. After this come in here with your shoulders covered. It’s our policy.” He turns his back. That’s policy for you. Policy is what the kingpins want. What the others want is juvenile delinquency.
All this while, the customers had been showing up with their carts but, you know, sheep, seeing a scene, they had all bunched up on Stokesie, who shook open a paper bag as gently as peeling a peach, not wanting to miss a word. I could feel in the silence everybody getting nervous, most of all Lengel, who asks me, “Sammy, have you rung up this purchase?”
I thought and said “No” but it wasn’t about that I was thinking. I go through the punches, 4, 9, GROC, TOT — it’s more complicated than you think, and after you do it often enough, it begins to make a lttle song, that you hear words to, in my case “Hello (bing) there, you (gung) hap-py pee-pul (splat)”-the splat being the drawer flying out. I uncrease the bill, tenderly as you may imagine, it just having come from between the two smoothest scoops of vanilla I had ever known were there, and pass a half and a penny into her narrow pink palm, and nestle the herrings in a bag and twist its neck and hand it over, all the time thinking.
The girls, and who’d blame them, are in a hurry to get out, so I say “I quit” to Lengel quick enough for them to hear, hoping they’ll stop and watch me, their unsuspected hero. They keep right on going, into the electric eye; the door flies open and they flicker across the lot to their car, Queenie and Plaid and Big Tall Goony-Goony (not that as raw material she was so bad), leaving me with Lengel and a kink in his eyebrow.
“Did you say something, Sammy?”
“I said I quit.”
“I thought you did.”
“You didn’t have to embarrass them.”
“It was they who were embarrassing us.”
I started to say something that came out “Fiddle-de-doo.” It’s a saying of my grand- mother’s, and I know she would have been pleased.
“I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” Lengel said.
“I know you don’t,” I said. “But I do.” I pull the bow at the back of my apron and start shrugging it off my shoulders. A couple customers that had been heading for my slot begin to knock against each other, like scared pigs in a chute.
Lengel sighs and begins to look very patient and old and gray. He’s been a friend of my parents for years. “Sammy, you don’t want to do this to your Mom and Dad,” he tells me. It’s true, I don’t. But it seems to me that once you begin a gesture it’s fatal not to go through with it. I fold the apron, “Sammy” stitched in red on the pocket, and put it on the counter, and drop the bow tie on top of it. The bow tie is theirs, if you’ve ever wondered. “You’ll feel this for the rest of your life,” Lengel says, and I know that’s true, too, but remembering how he made that pretty girl blush makes me so scrunchy inside I punch the No Sale tab and the machine whirs “pee-pul” and the drawer splats out. One advantage to this scene taking place in summer, I can follow this up with a clean exit, there’s no fumbling around getting your coat and galoshes, I just saunter into the electric eye in my white shirt that my mother ironed the night before, and the door heaves itself open, and outside the sunshine is skating around on the asphalt.
I look around for my girls, but they’re gone, of course. There wasn’t anybody but some young married screaming with her children about some candy they didn’t get by the door of a powder-blue Falcon station wagon. Looking back in the big windows, over the bags of peat moss and aluminum lawn furniture stacked on the pavement, I could see Lengel in my place in the slot, checking the sheep through. His face was dark gray and his back stiff, as if he’d just had an injection of iron, and my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter.
Tags: Afghanistan Coming of Age Gold John Updike Loss of Innocence Morality Obama Oil Companies Poetry Stream of Conscious Whitman
Jan 19, 2010 • Literature and Fiction
• • • MS • • •
By Mike
ENG 371WR:
Writing for Nonreaders in the Postprint Era
M-W-F: 11:00 a.m.—12:15 p.m.
Instructor: Robert Lanham
Course Description
As print takes its place alongside smoke signals, cuneiform, and hollering, there has emerged a new literary age, one in which writers no longer need to feel encumbered by the paper cuts, reading, and excessive use of words traditionally associated with the writing trade. Writing for Nonreaders in the Postprint Era focuses on the creation of short-form prose that is not intended to be reproduced on pulp fibers.
Instant messaging. Twittering. Facebook updates. These 21st-century literary genres are defining a new “Lost Generation” of minimalists who would much rather watch Lost on their iPhones than toil over long-winded articles and short stories. Students will acquire the tools needed to make their tweets glimmer with a complete lack of forethought, their Facebook updates ring with self-importance, and their blog entries shimmer with literary pithiness. All without the restraints of writing in complete sentences. w00t! w00t! Throughout the course, a further paring down of the Hemingway/Stein school of minimalism will be emphasized, limiting the superfluous use of nouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, conjunctions, gerunds, and other literary pitfalls.
Prerequisites
Students must have completed at least two of the following.
ENG: 232WR—Advanced Tweeting: The Elements of Droll
LIT: 223—Early-21st-Century Literature: 140 Characters or Less
ENG: 102—Staring Blankly at Handheld Devices While Others Are Talking
ENG: 30—Advanced Blog and Book Skimming
ENG: 231WR—Facebook Wall Alliteration and Assonance
LIT: 202—The Literary Merits of Lolcats
LIT: 209—Internet-Age Surrealistic Narcissism and Self-Absorption
Required Reading Materials
Literary works, including the online table of contents of the Huffington Post’s Complete Guide to Blogging, will serve as models to be skimmed for thorough analysis. Also, Perez Hilton’s Twitter feed. – Continue Reading at McSweeneys…
Brad, as a concerned future parent, I have to wonder at what point will you begin teaching based on this course outline?
Jan 12, 2010 • Humor
• • • MS • • •
By Brad
I know I haven’t been on here a whole lot lately, but I still want to contribute whatever I can. So, here is a poem I wrote after work one day while walking to my car. Not my best one but I liked it. I recently sent three of my poems in to a WMU contest with the help of Larry. I haven’t wrote any new ones in about three weeks though. Either way here it is.
Walking to my car after work
I walk out into the crisp fall air
With the confusing swagger of a person
Who doesn’t belong
Not at that time
On that sidewalk
In front of that building
Not at all
Like a cigarette burn
On a fifties film reel
Shown in health class
I spoil the ruined for those
Not paying attention
I haven’t felt this important in years
And yet
When I do it again tomorrow
I know it won’t feel the same
Tags: poetry poems brad work
Jan 11, 2010 • Literature and Fiction
• • • MS • • •
By Larry
To Tess Lynch (wherever you are…)
IF you are reading this: You have found us. This (minorspeculum.com) is our little sliver of Cyber Space. Four out of five of us live in a snow capped (about 3 ft. right now) bubble inside of a glove. We all want the Cubs to win the series.
About the Authors
FHF = Facial Hair Factor (Volume * Surface Area / Location + Shape)
Jared FHF = 0.0 (clean shaven)
Attributes/skills:
Spend money
Various lawyerings
19 acts of identity fraud on this website alone!
Is a real man, if there ever was one
Communes with a Goddess
wants: ivy league law school acceptance
needs: answers to be found in Dexter season five next fall
aspirations: work in television
Brad FHF = 6.7 (sparse goatee)
Attributes/skills:
8th grade English teachings
Poetry slam
Hasn’t read this site in days
Prefers Monday Night RAW to Friday Night Smack Down
Home owner
wants: writings to be published
needs: MORE Earlytimes
aspirations: replica Wrigley Field back yard
Mattner FHF = 3.8 (wicked ‘burns)
Attributes/skills:
Coffee table build
Only author with a picture of himself
Pet owner X3
LEGO pirate ship
Bass guitar slap
wants: Libertarian views taken seriously
needs: Thomas Deneau to pay for bathroom remodel
aspirations: foray into politics
Scott FHF = 9.1 (full beard capable)
Attributes/skills:
“…knew a guy once…”
“Crash” reference
NO weaknesses
Oscar® trivia
Coyote kill
wants: Elizabeth Shue (only if she’s into anal)
needs: employment
aspirations: share a house with Larry in the Hampton’s
Larry FHF = 8.9 (full beard capable)
Attributes/skills:
In a fake band
Summon night foxes
Shows potential
Owner of a lonely heart
Band name generator
wants: Cursive to perform “The Ugly Organ” in its entirety live if I ever see them
needs: The Blood Brothers to re-form
aspirations: share a house with Scott in the Hampton’s
That is all. Welcome to the greatest mother-fuckin page on Earth.
Tags: fake dinner party conversations
Jan 10, 2010 • Humor, Minor Speculum
• • • MS • • •
By Mike
I admittedly lean heavily towards libertarianism as my own political philosophy; and this is not because I enjoy the suffering of the less well off, but because I believe self reliance and self determinism are principles that define American culture; it would seem to me that the United States and her people have benefited greatly from the results of these ideas. Those who know me know that I am far from the upper echelons of wage earners, thus I might experience a greater benefit from some other philosophy if I were to embrace it, but at what cost to my principles and the whole notion of self determinism, those thing that in my mind make us most a product of our citizenship?
But don’t confuse the advocate of said philosophy with an individual lacking the compassion to aid those in need; it is in fact a philosophy designed to produce the greatest amount of prosperity, as defined by the individual, for those with the drive to improve their livelihood, though this does not always produce favorable results. Those in need could be given a helping hand by their neighbor, not through government intervention or interaction, but through community organizations, charities, churches etc. with their outreaches designed specifically for this purpose. In this way, an individual may put the product of their labor to whatever purpose they wish, be it for personal or community gain and reep the benefit of said investment either emotionally, monetarily, or in whatever other form it may come.
People of another philosophy might convince you that it is impossible to cater to so many people of ill fortune without that societal bedrock, government taking control. In this scenario that product of labor, our property, which might have been donated for the purposes of societal welfare, is instead taken yearly from those who earn the most to be distributed around to those in need through welfare, various health benefits, food programs, education, etc. While this seems entirely fruitful, beneficial, and downright compassionate on its surface, programs like this are rarely any of the above.
Reducing the value of production results in greater harm than if it had been done voluntarily simply because it reduces the incentive to increase one’s earnings when taxed based on those earnings. In this situation, then, there is little incentive to maintain production, or hire new workers if the idea is to stay within a certain tax bracket and potential employees will be left out of work.
These programs also reduces the incentive to earn for those who take advantage of said government programs as benefits given add to income. When an individual qualifies for said benefits of $8,000 a year at an earning level of $15,000 they will be less likely to take a position which would allow them to earn $20,000 but would disqualify them from all benefits. In this scenario, there is little choice but to stay in poverty as the immediate benefits are greater than the long term potential of earning more.
Governments are not in the business of protecting the interests of the least of society; they are in the business of maintaining and gathering power. If that takes assurances of welfare, then they will continue to spend themselves into oblivion to gain the necessary votes. Hence Mr. Franklin notes:
When the people find that they can vote themselves money, that will herald the end of the republic.
Simply put, a philosophy that would encourage the government to maintain system of high taxation, that would rob an individual of their property, in order to gain a little assurance of security and welfare, provide little choice or future prosperity as liberty and opportunity slowly erode.
So what is better: teaching someone a sense of self reliance, skills, and the ability to use all of this together with the possibility of failure, or to simply take from those that are well off to be distributed in an endless cycle to those that inherited a sad standing in life?
Tags: Libertarianism Welfare
Jan 08, 2010 • OP-ED, Politics
• • • MS • • •
By Nykamp
HARTFORD, MI- There was never any doubt that the one thing Brad Manning wanted to see in his lifetime was peace on our spectacular planet, Earth, the third planet from the sun. What is in doubt is the location of his human remains, and whether they are a whole unit, or if they are in little pieces, like the peanut bits found in Jiff crunchy peanut butter.
“I don’t know man, I’m just so fucking nervous right now,” says long-time friend Scott Nykamp, adding, “I just hope he’s fucking alive man, because, man, it would suck so bad if he wasn’t, ya know?” Yes, Mr. Nykamp, we know.
It’s hardly an understatement saying that Brad Manning was the most beloved sunuvabitch in Hartford. A first-year middle school English teacher, Manning has always vowed to give back to the community. However, he’s been so charitable recently that his friends were wondering what was next.
Lawrence Larsen II was also a close friend of Brad’s. Recently they had conjured up the blue prints to form the Hartford Literary Society, a movement set forth in motion by none other than Brad Manning. Larsen agrees in regards to the recent philanthropic antics of Manning:
“That fucking guy, Jesus Christ, he’s just been too fucking good lately, too fucking good. When he told me about QUEER (Quest to Unite and Evaluate Equality Relations), I could tell he was serious. The dude was so hot for QUEER, and how can you really blame him.”
No one knows precisely where Brad started his venture, where he planned to go on his second or third stops, or even his eighth stop. However, his close friends have identified the following as potential stops: Little Rock, Arkansas; Ciudad Juarez, Mexico; Baltimore, Maryland; and Spain.
Director/writer/actor Quentin Tarantino was a long-time friend of Manning’s, and they frequently vacationed together, quietly, at a top-secret location on the Pacific Northwest coast. Tarantino’s take:
“I can recall one of the last true conversations I had with Bradley. We were discussing some of the characters of my films, because he truly loved many of the characters of my films, and we discussed 16 of his favorite characters. He thought that Jules was just such a profound man, the way he decided to walk the earth. That really resonated with him; he just thought that (etc.).”
Brad Manning’s only fault as a man was that he cared too much. It is an utter, disgusting, pig-fucking shame that he can’t remain with us all, for the entirety of this miraculous nation, preserved for all to cherish, like a precious metal displayed at the Smithsonian.
NOTE: If anyone has any information in regards to Brad Manning’s whereabouts, please contact the Hartford Police Department, who will transfer you directly to the Van Buren County Sheriff’s Department, who will then immediately patch you into the nearest Michigan State Police Post. If that post is still staffed, they will contact the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who has been working relentlessly on this case since January first.
Tags: Manning Scott
Jan 04, 2010 • Humor, Nostalgia
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