This Is Where I've Been...This is Who I Am  

AtomicArtist0 45M
5236 posts
7/16/2006 5:44 pm

Last Read:
3/23/2008 8:48 pm

This Is Where I've Been...This is Who I Am

As promised, here are my writings on my trip to Portugal. I have so many stories to tell and I found myself wishing this format would offer the opportunity to post more than just one small picture. Consider each of the following paragraphs as small snippets of stories that can be expanded with more perhaps in another venue. They seem disjointed at first glance, but they all link together in some way. Admittedly, this post may be long, but if you make it all the way through to the end, you will know more about my family and culture than I have ever written about here. As the self proposed “Man of Mystery” who chooses to exclude many personal matters in my writing, you may find this as a rare treat. Not to worry…I still promise sexual imagery and weird humor to keep you reading along. To give the eye a break and to differentiate between stories, each passage will alternate between red and green, the colors of the Portuguese flag. With that said, I hope you enjoy. Ask me questions on any of it and I’d be happy to answer.

My dad, brother and I finally arrived in Portugal at my grandmother’s house and we determined which rooms we would stay in. To everyone’s surprise, I picked the smallest room.
“Why you no like-a one mais big?” grandmother asked in her accented broken English. It seemed presumed that my younger brother would get the small room.
“No, this one is great”, I said. It was the room my aunt used to occupy as a kid and therefore deemed unsuitable for a grown guy like me. “I like…um…small spaces.”
It was partially true. I did well sleeping in those daunting coffin racks while I was in the Navy; the confinement caused a few other men to scream into the night. But this was not the main reason for picking the smallest room.
The real reason was the small room was the one with the least amount of traditional good ol’ Catholic guilt. The other rooms were chock full of it. It really puts a damper on any masturbatory night time shenanigans when there is a nearly life-sized Jesus wallowing in his own misery on a giant crucifix across from your bed. He died for your sins, after all. The pictures of dead, sainted relatives glaring disapprovingly at you as you defile the bed sheets don’t help much either. It’s a wonder anyone gets laid out here. At the end of two weeks, I didn’t engage in as much night time shenanigans as I thought I would, but at least I gave myself the option. As far as I’m concerned, Jesus and our dead relatives can all stay in the other room with my brother as he dreams fondly of his boyfriend in the still of the night.

They paraded us down the narrow, winding streets of the small village of my father’s birth as old souls came out of their little homes to stare in awe at how much we’ve grown. Phantoms, they called us, as apparently my father, brother, and I look like long dead relatives from generations before.
We pretty much make the local news whenever we arrive here. We’re Americans, after all and more importantly, my brother and I are grandchildren of the greatest man who ever lived, according to these people.
They kiss us, once on each cheek, in accordance to tradition and are generally happy to see us but the conversation was always the same. Why hadn’t my stupid father taught us any Portuguese? Its true, I didn’t know much, my brother even less, but enough to get the gist of everything. Even though I understood most of what was said, I was content to just not talk and smile, just like the village idiot. Let them say what they want. They discussed how big my chest is, how flat my tummy has become. As my hands are not calloused, they presumed that in the states, I was probably as rich and important as a doctor or lawyer. Not really, but a guy and a village can dream.
My father’s school mate came running out of nowhere and threw herself at me, rattling of something or other in her sing-song way. Her arms wrapped fully around my neck and she practically wrapped her legs around me as well. Her crotch thrust against my hip and her hands caressed my face and my hair. She kissed me in an almost traditional manner except the second kiss landed on the corner of my mouth and not my cheek. “Cara lindo” she said passionately. A little close for just being one of my dad’s school mates, don’t ya think?, I thought. I held her hands to keep them in check. She saw it as a sweet, loving gesture and I saw it as…quit feeling me up in front of my dad, cripes!
“She was always a little slow”, my father explained later. “She’s very affectionate, but she doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s harmless. We’re all pretty protective of her here.”
As everyone else talked, she smiled up at me, closely studying my face, our arms wrapped around each other, our hands held. I smiled back. We both smiled like two village idiots in embrace.

For reasons unknown to me, there seems to be a lot of Chinese shops in Portugal. While they may be disbursed in various locations, they all seemed to have a common mission…that being to sell weird crap to tourists. There you can get, amongst other things, lipstick, polyester pants, irregular shoes, light bulbs, mousetraps, nudie playing cards, lobster bibs, thongs, and the tackiest item I’ve ever seen…
…an ashtray shaped like a foot with a naked woman straddling it. She was sucking on the big toe, only the big toe was shaped like a penis. Oh yeah, she was also inserting a banana into her vagina for some reason. This was too depraved not to contemplate its intent. Briefly I tried to come up with a list of folks I know who either smoke or enjoy extremely tacky doo-dads and thankfully my mind turned up blank. It was probably for the best, really. You’re all better off without it.

As I seem to be fluent in all things low-brow and naughty, I call him The Big Black Cock and I imagine others do as well. I don’t know his entire history but he appears on everything from coffee mugs to dinner plates to large statuettes. Found in almost all Portuguese homes, he’s the beloved and stylistically painted black rooster with a large crescent shaped red comb on his head. Secretly I think he’s ugly and ridiculous, but we’ve learned not to state this opinion as he is a prominent symbol and national treasure. As I sleep, his likeness stood poised proudly atop the kitchen cupboard while his real life counterpart crowed loudly outside. This must have been his idea of a cruel joke at 4:30 AM. National treasure, my ass! Still, everyone loves their big black cocks.

In accordance to tradition, my grandmother wears all black to mourn and honor the death of my grandfather. Usually the old widows wear shapeless black dresses and kerchiefs on their heads, but untraditionally, my grandma makes the mourning widow look good with styling, black Capri pants and cute tops. Gold jewelry and accessories accentuate against her bronzed skin and her hair is done up in a pretty modern style unprecedented for an old lady. It’s a look that says…sure my husband is dead, but I’m still a kept woman and you ought to live up to my standards if you think you can step into my husband’s shoes.
She also cooks well, insists that you eat a lot and swears like a trucker in two languages. The cooking and the force feeding are all in accordance to Portuguese tradition, but I’m not too sure about the incessant swearing.
“Why you no eat-a mais? I cook-a this for you… you no eat-a for nothing! Jesus Christ shit-a! Toma mais arroz”, she said while scooping more rice onto my plate. “Caralho”, she added.
“CA-RAL-HO!!”, she shouted again, accentuating each syllable and being sure to roll her R properly. We had no choice but to chuckle aloud over our rice and beef.
On TV, the English goalie caught the ball kicked by a Portuguese soccer player thereby once again preventing a homeland score.
“JESUS CHRIST SHIT-A! Chupa Caralho! Stupid-a man!”, she shouted. My brother and I laughed. Chupa Caralho means suck a cock in Portuguese. Now you know where I get it from.

The Portuguese won a very important game against the English on the way to the World Cup. I don’t follow sports very well, but this was an interesting time to be in Portugal nonetheless. Most of the Portuguese soccer players allegedly make more than any American athlete. Some had one word celebrity names and all were good looking, vane men that the entire world adored with the U.S. apparently being the only country oblivious to them.
There was a lot of drunken love that night. You mix a lot of booze and the fact that Portugal just won a major game and all of a sudden everyone thinks you’re the best guy ever. Everyone cheered in the streets and on the news, beautiful women lifted their shirts to bare their breasts. A small truck loaded with about twelve guys careened through the streets of our village seemingly breaking all the laws of weight capacity and physics…not to mention laws of drinking and driving. They slapped the roof and sides of their truck, waving the Portuguese flag and chanting loudly…PORT-U-GAL! PORT-U-GAL! PORT-U-GAL!
Ultimately, Portugal came in third place behind France and Italy but in that corner of time in the world, for that moment, it was nice being everyone’s best guy ever.

Granted Europe and frankly most of the world have more liberal views on sex and nudity than those of us in the U.S. After all, there were bare breasts on the news, on all the beaches and most shampoo and lotion commercials featured shapely women fully nude and rinsing off in the shower. Still, I had to marvel at some of it. In many cafes there were those joystick-claw machines where, with a coin and a bit of luck and skill, a kid can try to maneuver the claw to obtain a prize. Amongst the prizes were the usual stuffed animals, yo-yos, and paddle balls, but disbursed among the other more innocent prizes were also vibrators, thongs, and lesbian porno videos. How could the filler of this machine and the proprietors of these cafes think, for even a minute, that these prizes were acceptable gifts for any kid, even decidedly liberal-minded ones? The machines had bright lights and cute dragons on them to attract a young clientele.
I watched a ten year old drop a coin into the machine and maneuver the claw only to barely miss the toy truck he had wanted and also just missing grasping the lesbian porn by a mere fraction of an inch. Damn it! I would have given him twice what he paid for either prize.

Unless you had cable, there were only four channels on TV…that’s one more than they had the last time I was in Portugal, so there was progress if you can call more TV progress. Each channel sported the finest in Portuguese entertainment…that being failed, short-lived sitcoms from the U.S, American movies that are years outdated and Brazilian soap operas. The Portuguese love their soaps…the American programs, not so much. I sat there, watching and not really retaining much, but I was hoping that their entertainment and culture was not as shallow and superficial as it had seemed. The female characters always seemed over-the-top, rich and overly hot. They wore lots of gold and make-up and stunning, glittering cocktail dresses, even when just sitting around the house. Their lips were huge, and severely botox injected and their augmented breasts heaved, spilling out of their dresses and in some cases, their nipples peeked from their clothing, seemingly oblivious to them or the plot of the story. In contrast, the comic relief were these male characters with painted on scruffs on their faces and disheveled clothing similar to that of a hobo clown. They were as silly as the Mexican bumble-bee man from the Simpsons, these comedic hobos conversing with overly made-up, rich starlets. The comedy was simple and rather slapstick and the laugh track gave it a poor quality, but the drama and lighting was that of a soap opera. I was confused and hoped that what was being said was deeper and more intellectual than what I had imagined, but the slide whistle sound effects whenever someone slipped and fell lead me to believe otherwise.

Europeans smoke everywhere…the mall, the beach, the movie theatre, during children’s puppet shows or during birth at the maternity ward, it really doesn’t matter. As an American and a non-smoker, this takes some adjustment as we have gotten to a point where if someone lights up in a restaurant, we all gasp in shock and stare at the offending party until someone escorts them off the premises.
There was a time my brother and I got drunk at the carnival and got into some bumper cars and enjoyed Europe’s blatant disregard for personal safety. Somebody was smoking while in their bumper car and accidentally flung their lit cigarette haphazardly into the air as my brother and I broadsided them at full speed. Everyone else was a drunk as we were. It was great fun.
I saw a lot of bare breasts and thongs on the beach. Being an American, this also takes some adjustment, but one I was much more willing to undergo. One girl sat topless on the beach smoking, holding her cigarette, in that uppity way Europeans do, with an unintentional expression of smug contempt on her face. She was thumbing through a fashion magazine where everybody wore tight pants and looked at the camera with an equally smug contempt. Between the smoking, toplessness, fashion mag and her smug expression, I surmised that she was having a decidedly very European moment.

It was too easy to view Portugal and its culture as a sociologist studying the world around me, but not an integral part of it. It was foreign to me, I’m an American after all. I have a certain look and way of dress that was different from theirs, but more noticeably, THEY had a different look and way of dress that wasn’t like mine. It was a proud culture of short men with big, hairy chests, bronzed, sun-ripened skin, calloused hands and funny hair. I was as far removed from this strange culture as an outside observer could ever get until catching a glance at myself in the mirror while naked just after a shower. Gazing back at me was a traditional Portuguese man with maybe a little bit of counter-culture, artistic flair. I am just as short and barrel-chested as they are, I decided. My chest, hairy like theirs, my facial features were just the same and while not as bronzed, I figured that another couple weeks in this Mediterranean sun and I’d be as indistinguishable as the rest of them. A little farm work would toughen these hands, my hair is just as funny as theirs, and had I have chosen a different life, I could have played soccer with these muscular legs of mine. This foreign culture is mine to keep as it is ingrained in half my DNA. Suddenly, I wasn’t a sociologist studying a strange culture from afar. This culture is mine…this is where I’ve been…this is who I am. Forever and always. It just took a mirror for me to realize it.

The cancer took my granddad quickly a couple of years back. One minute he was up to his usual mischievous self, drinking port and cracking off-color jokes with his friends and the next a dizzy spell had him falling face first off his bicycle and onto the street. His friends…the entire village, actually came to his aid. His name uttered throughout the town and quickly enough everyone was there. He insisted he was alright and joked that only his cigar he was enjoying was demolished in the fall. Even though they all were a community of ancient farmers, hunters, and wine growers, they knew better and they knew that soon enough they would brace for a new era…and era without their beloved man. When a man of his caliber suddenly falls in the street, no one takes it lightly. No one but him…always the jokester and charmer. It only took a couple of months after that.
He is not buried but rather lies in the family above ground crypt. His casket, in plain view, sits on the second tier just below where my great-grandparents occupy. He has a luxurious, red shroud draped over his coffin. The tier beside him sits empty and awaits my grandma while two more below him sit empty awaiting…whomever. The tiers remind me of the coffin racks I used to sleep in while in the Navy. Outside the crypt, lies the rest of the village cemetery. Each headstone has photos of the deceased and their names. There were a lot of new additions here, more so in the past few years than ever before. I rubbed my hand over the top of a headstone and swiped up a thick layer of grit and dust that covers everything in this Old World village. Even our rent-a-car that was shiny and blue the first day we brought it here now had a thick layer of gritty film as if it was some ancient archaeological find that we had just dug up. The source of all this mess loomed largely on the horizon over the cemetery like an ever-present industrial beast watching over everyone. The cement factory was erected here about ten or fifteen years ago…a relatively new addition when taken in consideration how long generations have existed here without it. It was put there by eminent domain, swiping homes, farms, and vineyards and digging into the hill where allegedly some very important and fiscally valuable fossils are now being chewed up and refined into cement.
Sure, my granddad lived a long, joyous life but there were a lot of new additions to this cemetery, many of them very young. You have to wonder if this cement factory caused the cancer that killed my granddad and many of these people. The villagers toil and wonder why God’s will has taken their loved ones from them so vehemently, but they live on as tradition dictates. In the states this would be a class action law suit where possibly an entire community wins and prospers, just like in the movies, but here there is no such luck. Symbolically, the cement factory and its dust looms heavily over the cemetery and this entire little town and I feel helpless to do anything about it. Maybe I should have been the fancy lawyer these villagers presume I am, thanks to my un-calloused, un-worked hands. Maybe I could have done something to help out if I were anything but an artist.
Later, on what would have been my granddad’s birthday, we celebrated a life and not a death with Port wine and laughter. It was assuredly what he would have wanted. We raised our glasses to the night sky and the star that was named after him and drank our wine under the Old World moon.

cuteNEway 41F

7/16/2006 7:23 pm

It sounds so relaxed and wonderful! I want to go now

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/16/2006 11:02 pm:
it is quite beautiful there. You'd love it there, I think, even with is trials and tribulations. I wanted to portray a story of life, love and death...and life again as a cyclical entity and I hoped to have pulled that off. Thank you.

PrincessKarma 43F
6188 posts
7/16/2006 10:06 pm

It's hard, sometimes, to sit astride two worlds... theytry to make us think we can only live in one, when in truth we are part of both, and both are part of us.

The Big Bang was the mother of all orgasms.PrincessKarma

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/16/2006 11:09 pm:
very true. most of us live in so many different worlds. I'm lucky enough to have two (and more) that are so diverse.

PrincessKarma 43F
6188 posts
7/16/2006 10:08 pm

P.S., Voce dormeu sem o Cristo na pared? Doces sonhos!

The Big Bang was the mother of all orgasms.PrincessKarma

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/16/2006 11:13 pm:
do I sleep with Christ on the wall? is that what you asked? no, not if I can help it. I have to look up a couple of the little words there and I'll be back to answer. Told ya I wasn't so good.

Transblucency 44M

7/16/2006 10:32 pm

A beautifully written post there, Atomic. Loathe though I am to meddle with its delicate clocksprings, I have to take issue with one thing you wrote:

The comedy was simple and rather slapstick and the laugh track gave it a poor quality, but the drama and lighting was that of a soap opera. I was confused and hoped that what was being said was deeper and more intellectual than what I had imagined, but the slide whistle sound effects whenever someone slipped and fell lead me to believe otherwise.

It might seem that way to a foreigner, but I believe that Portguese TV takes a similar tack to German TV. These 'sketches' are actually intricate Hegelian dialectics. One character (the 'straight man') will present his thesis in the form of an ontological statement, the 2nd character then presents the antithesis. Then, when the two positions have been sufficiently deconstructed, the slide rule indicates a satisfactory synthesis.

The laugh track is added for irony.

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/16/2006 11:21 pm:
thank you for commenting and THANK YOU for the insight on foreign TV. I was really hoping there was something more to it but as I sat there not understanding much, visually it didn't seem hopeful. there was a scene where these guys were playing poker in church at a funeral. It seemed very crass and funny and I wished I knew more of what was going on. You're insight is much appreciated. So...did you follow the world cup? What did ya think? It seems all in all the Portuguese were rooting for Italy. everyone there seemed pretty happy when they won.

rm_AnOddGirl 57F
3469 posts
7/17/2006 12:05 am

My maternal grandmother thought that Portugal was the best place in Europe, alas I've never been, may have to add it to my Italy/Greece itinerary!!!

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/18/2006 6:12 pm:
Its a beautifully dynamic Old World place. I could only scratch the surface with these little snippets. An entire book can be written just on this trip alone.

PrincessKarma 43F
6188 posts
7/17/2006 10:15 am

Ummm... "You slept without a Christ on the wall? Sweet dreams!"

Hope that helps... We both need to practicve, huh.

The Big Bang was the mother of all orgasms.PrincessKarma

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/18/2006 6:31 pm:
thanks for clearing that up. see, I get the gist of everything but not quite. Thats why my stories of Portugal are confused little snippets that somehow make a whole.

OboesHonedIambs 62F

7/17/2006 6:52 pm

This is frelling gorgeous. I loved those lines "This foreign culture is mine to keep as it is ingrained in half my DNA. Suddenly, I wasn’t a sociologist studying a strange culture from afar. This culture is mine…this is where I’ve been…this is who I am. Forever and always. It just took a mirror for me to realize it."

Thanks for a wonderful read!

Instant Human -- Just Add Coffee

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/18/2006 6:33 pm:
wow. not only gorgeous but frelling gorgeous. Thank you, that means a lot. Welcome here and please do come back again as I have so much more where that came from.

Looking4sex44240 54F

7/17/2006 9:26 pm

welcome back, thanks for the story.

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/18/2006 6:34 pm:
no, thank YOU. You seemed to have lost your top. Daddy like.

multitasksextoy 58M  
3511 posts
7/19/2006 6:18 pm

Sounds like you had fun.Maybe?

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/19/2006 6:53 pm:
yes. I had a great time. I could write an entire book on just this trip alone.

skyking412004 53M
5363 posts
7/19/2006 6:28 pm

I put off reading this for several days, not because it was long, but because I knew it would leave me feeling melancholy. There was a lot more humor than I thought there would be. As I was reading, I kept thinking of little tidbits to respond with. unfortunately, you just kept adding layer after layer and by the time I was done I couldn't remember what it was that I wanted to say. I was left feeling very satisfied. Kind of like the feeling I get after eating a really good meal. ///// I did want to say that you could play like Steven Seagal and kill all the dastardly men running the cement plant. You would have to be careful not to get caught. After all, they do make cement, and there is an ocean nearby. Next time you write something this engrossing, I'm taking notes.

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/19/2006 7:10 pm:
you put reading this off for several days because you thought it would make you feel melancholy? Why is that? There is no indicator anywhere that says it would. now you feel like you've had a satifying meal. See, you could have felt that way days ago and be begging for more by now. thats ok, I wait several days to post again even though I currenly have three full posts written. one is about a mustache, the other about the 50 states and the third about a hot chick who turned up missing. its my way of keeping you bitches waiting and craving more. btw, I used to have a ponytail, so getting all Steven Segal on the cement factory would have been easy...if it wasn't for the fact that they have that one super-hero, Concrete.

skyking412004 53M
5363 posts
7/19/2006 9:04 pm

_____There are people who won't even know who CONCRETE is. I vaguely know. I've never read him. How are you with "The Tick"? SPOON!!!

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/19/2006 11:05 pm:
I don't read Concrete either...or any comic books...but i know of them. i do like the Tick, though. Spoon!

MissAnnThrope 56F
11488 posts
7/20/2006 5:23 pm

This probably isn't the wisest advice I've ever given, but if the factory isn't living up to clean air standards, which are more stringent in most of Europe than here and the government won't do a thing... Have you thought about contacted ELF? As I said, probably not the best advice I've ever given.

Now about that ashtray... How could you NOT buy that ashtray? It sounds like the ultimate in tacky souvenirs! Now I want to go there, just to pick one up.

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/22/2006 11:43 am:
Portugal is about 40 years behind the rest of Europe in a lot of ways. Some of it has to do with the fact that they were never attacked during the world wars so never had to rebuild and they had an official in office who kept a long reign of status quo. Portuguese laws, from what I've gathered, are pretty strange and are written to protect the rights of large corperations...(hmmm, sounds familiar) but I'm willing to try. Its possible they're already investigating the situation, but what is ELF?

LustyTaurus 48M  
21253 posts
7/23/2006 10:21 am

I read every word in here Atomic...thanks for sharing it. Your Grandmother sounds just like mine...passionate about life and a no BS kind of woman.

AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/23/2006 12:06 pm:
thanks for discovering this one. it really means a lot to me that people see also this side to me. My grandma is a hoot. very passionate about life indeed.

mm0206 68F
7767 posts
7/29/2006 10:56 am

I also read every word and was shaking my head as you philosophized on their life and land...
I am glad you are an American.
We are richer for having you here.


AtomicArtist0 replies on 7/29/2006 11:30 am:
thank you dear for coming back around and reading this. I missed you not being around. I was so naughty in my writing since you've been away.

velvetgrrrl 39F

8/9/2006 2:58 pm

Do you know what got me the most? The lack of Jesus on a stick. That struck closer to home more than you would know. I'm one of seven children in a very decidedly catholic family. Including stints in my early years as well as high school in Catholic Schools. The idea of a martyr looking down on me from his deathbed (as it were while I finger myself till I squirt all over my hand almost, but not quite, makes me feel the ultimate urge to get down on my knees in forgiveness and explain its practice for when I choose to procreate, I swear. I could always say it was an accident I was trying to scratch my ass and i missed but somehow I don't think the Lord would believe me in any case

Hell is when u should have walked away, but u didn't.

AtomicArtist0 replies on 8/11/2006 8:37 pm:
Catholic guilt is a funny thing, isn't it? And not entirely uncommon here. So you can see why I was so apprehensive to masturbate in front of a guy who apparently dies for my sins. It would be like masturbating in front of the ghost of Abe Lincoln. Just not a good idea.

always1deringf 47F

3/3/2008 6:53 pm

I have a strange connection to Portugal. My parents went there when they were young. They took a whole bunch of beautiful pictures, which I now own. They are in a box and I haven't figured out what to do with them. But they are special. I am memorized by the colors, on the boats, roofs, the water and people's expressions...

Thanks for a slice of your reality. It's over a year later, I'm ready for the book. Can I have an advance copy?

AtomicArtist0 replies on 3/3/2008 10:52 pm:
heh! I haven't written the book yet. First I have to give good reason for the general public and for people who don't know me to want to read about me. And thats what I'm trying to do in the art world.

christylovesfun 43F  
16362 posts
3/21/2008 1:39 am

I don't think it was disjointed at all. The anecdotal approach is a really effective narrative device, imo.

good read!


Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety. Other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies. For vilest things
Become themselves in her, that the holy priests
Bless her when she is riggish. ~~ from Antony & Cleopatra

AtomicArtist0 replies on 3/21/2008 2:21 am:
thank you. this was good to write. say, I just checked...we both live in Seattle. cool!

christylovesfun 43F  
16362 posts
3/23/2008 3:42 pm

yes, we both live in seattle!

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety. Other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies. For vilest things
Become themselves in her, that the holy priests
Bless her when she is riggish. ~~ from Antony & Cleopatra

AtomicArtist0 replies on 3/23/2008 8:50 pm:
muah hah hah hah!

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