OOO Is A Joke

Since my plumber related this chilling anecdote  I was tempted to stick it in the comments of the previous post – but it’s so horrifying I thought it deserved a whole thread of its own:

The plumber – let’s call him Steve, since that’s not his real name – popped around to a block of flats on his way to my place this morning, to quote on a dodgy stove. He and the caretaker, Davo, were enjoying a nice chat – probably about beer, tits and sport, how do I know what blokes talk about? – when Davo started to convulse with a full-blown epileptic seizure. At the top of a flight of external stairs. In the quasi-cyclonic gusty showers we’re enjoying up here at present.

Steve, being a good bloke, attempted to stop Davo from hurting himself while ringing for an ambulance. Not an easy job, because although Steve is a fit tradesman fond of a bit of a surf in his spare time, old mate Davo was more the World of Warcraft with a pizza in each hand type. Finally, Steve heard the comforting sirens of the approaching ambulance.

“You’ll be right now, mate.” He reassured Davo.

Davo was not now all right. A solitary ambo with PeeWee Herman’s physique arrived and, other than his skill in hooking up machines that go ‘beep’, proceeded to be no bloody good at all.

“Just let him go.” Went his advice to Steve, “He’s going to fall. He’s going to die.”

Steve – being more hero than plumber and more super than man – continued to assist poor Davo until a subsequent ambulance with three crew members arrived to lend a hand.

When there’s a crisis, you call emergency services. You’re secure in the knowledge that the professionals who arrive will strive to assist to the best of their abilities, however difficult the conditions. That’s their job. Right?

Lucky for Davo, Steve was there. Next time my family are in crisis, I’ll be tempted to call a plumber.

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64 Responses

  1. Wot’s Steve’s number?

  2. Sounds like the Victorian ambulance service. No, wait. Victorian ambulances don’t come unless you have a referral from a doctor.

    But I’m not going to let that distract me from the big issue. What was Steve doing there, Madam? I thought you fixed the tap yourself? Hmmmm?

    Oh, I get it. Steve is one of those Leathermen, isn’t he? And he’s the “plumber” who’s come to fix your “plumbing”. Good job, Madam. I didn’t know you were hiring entertainment for our drain party! Shall I bring some fivers to tuck into his buttless chaps?

  3. I’m not giving you Steve’s number, Stafford – he’s mine, all mine.

    Sorry to burst your bubble, Catty, but Steve’s a fair dinkum, Bisley shorts (with intact backside) wearing plumber. He was digging a ditch for a stormwater drain. I’m happy to meddle with the kitchen taps, but I’m not going to start digging holes. I might break a nail!

  4. The Boss just broke some nails. He’s building a fence with secondhand timber, and the slats have old nails sticking out of them everywhere. No injuries to the Boss, except for a cut in his ear that managed to drip blood all over his shirt.

    I didn’t dare ask how he managed to cut inside his ear, but it must have upset him – he’s gone out drinking, and I didn’t even think of the crockpot.

    Thread hijack:

    Mayhem just told me that today is “I love u” sister day. In sixty minutes, something will make you super happy, but you gotta tell 10 sisters you love em! A true friend is like a good bra, hard to find, lifts you up, gives you support and is always close to your heart.

    I love you ladies. You’re good bras.

  5. I love you all too – even Greybeard, Stafford and Scott.

    The biological fact that the latter three aren’t “sisters” is transcended by our deep and abiding bonds of faff.

    So are you going to break out the crockpot now you’ve got nothing to lose, Catty – or are you hoping he’ll come back later?

  6. No, I don’t want him to come home. He won’t let me nom in bed. And seeing as I have a bag of peanut M&M’s and a new book, his absence this evening will be no hardship whatsoever.

    Oh, and sorry Greybeard and Stafford and Scott, if you felt left out. I love you guys too. MWAH!

  7. Mmm… new book.

    What is it? Who wrote it? Are there vampires? Is there any plumbing involved?

    P.S. Will you kindly moderate me, over at the corner? I’m in limbo!

  8. Crap. Thanks for the heads up, Catty.
    If my sisters come looking for me, tell them I’m in Libya.
    Or Christchurch.

    Somewhere that nobody would think of going no matter how much scotch and cocaine they’ve got buzzing round their head amplifying their latest psychotic break.

  9. I’ll tell them you’ve gone to Dubai.

    They’ll never notice you, under a burqa.

  10. Ladies (and others), I would have included you in my Sister love text frenzy… but I don’t have your numbers 😦 . Here it is now though 🙂 .

    For the record, nothing good has happened to me all day 😦

  11. Mayhem! You’re back safely – good to see!

    Exactly an hour after you informed me that something would happen in 60 minutes to make me super happy, my littlest kidlet ran up to me in the schoolground and wrapped his arms around me in a giant bearhug. There’s little in the world that can make me happier than that.

    Hey, Quokka, why not send your sisters an address change card, with a Northern Territory address on it? Then you can stay put while they go off to Uluru looking for you. Heh, heh, heh…

    Now, my book awaits. It’s not a new release, Madam, just a new unread book. It’s called The Time Traveller’s Wife. I think they made it into a movie a couple of years ago? (Not sure.) If any vampire plumbers pop up in the plot, I’ll let you know.

  12. Mmm… vampire plumbers.

    I might have discovered the perfect man! All the dark seduction of Bill Compton, while also good with his hands and making gazillion dollars an hour.

  13. Must amend my previous statement… couple of good things DID happen to me yesterday, I got messages of love from some fabulous sister/friends 🙂

    Just ‘cos what I ACTUALLY thought might happen involved money or a job, I shouldn’t be forgetting the really important good things. My Bad!

  14. Money’s all well and good, Mayhem – but it can’t buy you a vampire plumber.

    Luckily, you can lure one in with your rich, tasty blood.

  15. Feeeeeed me, Seymour! Feed me bloooooood!

  16. Something to remember next time Aunt Irma comes to call.

    How did Wednesday happen so fast?
    I’ve got class, have fun without me, kids.

  17. Yeah, I suppose I should go and clean my hovel. Don’t gasp, it happens sometimes. (Not that anyone here notices.) Or maybe I’ll bake a pie instead. They’d notice that.

  18. Have a blast, Quokka, but we can’t have fun without you. All we can do is lurk in the sulking corner and wash our chocolate down with vodka….

    Actually, it’s not bad here at all. Cheers, everyone, then join me in the chorus:

    Little shop, little shop of horrors,
    Little shop, little shop of terror,
    Bop bop bop shuwop

  19. Shall I bring the pie? It’s apple and blueberry. There’s custard, too.

    I should have been cleaning, but I looked at the mountains of crap and thought, naaaaaah.

  20. Catty, you should ALWAYS bring the pie.

    I could be vacuuming and mopping; putting away the laundry; tidying up or renovating my life from the ground up, but I think I’ll start a new library book instead.

    How’s the Time Traveller’s Wife going? It’s an interesting idea.

  21. I didn’t even finish the first paragraph before nodding off. I woke up at 3am, with the book still on my lap. The m&m bag had fallen over, and they’d rolled everywhere. The middle kidlet had crawled into my bed at some stage, and going by the rainbow on her face, she found several of the m&m’s. So, no vampire plumbers yet.

  22. So, I know they don’t melt in your hand… because advertising never lies.

    But do they melt in your bed?

  23. Very little melts in my bed. Anything that tries gets licked up quick smart.

    In case you’re wondering, I was referring to the chocolate coating on Magnum ice creams. There. Now you know why I’ve been forbidden from nomming in bed.*

    (*This isn’t actually true. But if I tell you the real reason I’ve been banned from bed noms, I’ll have to kill you.)

  24. Much as I’d now love to know the true story of the bed nomming, I’m too young to die.

    Okay, I’m thoroughly middle-aged – but the kids need me.

    Speaking of offspring, Elf Boy continues to come out with some amusing statements. He was having trouble with a computer game, and said, “Oh, what a calamity!”

    Sure beats “effing hell”, which is one of his other favourites.

  25. Maybe it’s time to start teaching them useful phrases in foreign languages, like ‘Sacre merde!’

    Meh.
    All this talk of chocolate is making me want some, for breakfast. I nipped out to the Deli at Bulimba the other day to restock on my high quality cocoa (I cannot go back to Cadbury’s, now, having had the good stuff…) and got sucked into the Treat Window. Left with a chunk of milk chocolate rocky road made with high quality ingredients.
    Tasted like lindt chocolate…my goodness that was heaven.

    Although being lindt, I don’t think it would last too long unattended in your bed, Catty.

  26. Unattended chocolate? What a strange (and unpleasant) concept!

    Actually, rocky road has most of the food groups, so it would make an ideal breakfast. Go nuts, Quokka. And marshmallow. And coconut…. Mmmmmm…. coconut….

    But I’ve just realised I have no rocky road for MY breakfast. What a calamity!

  27. I don’t even particularly like rocky road but I’m craving some too. Perhaps you could get a part-time gig writing chocolate reviews, Quokka?

    Meanwhile, I’m furiously cranky for no good reason. I can almost hear the angry blood as it surges through my head. Could this be menopause, do you think?

    I thought hot flushes meant you went red and sweated, not suppressed with difficulty the urge to strangle someone.

  28. I thought hot flushes meant you have a very expensive toilet?

  29. I’d love a self-scrubbing toilet than can detect when a little boy is peeing, but not in the bowl.

    Then it would shout something like “Oi, you with the wonky aim! In here, champ, or clean it up yourself!”

    Should an errant urinator fail to comply, he would recieve a short sharp jolt of electricity to the misguided organ in question. Not enough to endanger my risk of becoming a grandmother one day, just so he’ll learn.

  30. You could always put an electrical current through the floor. Mythbusters proved that electrical currents in tram lines could travel up a steady stream of urine – but they said it wasn’t a strong enough current to kill. So if the boys pee on the floor, there’s your shock therapy!

    I gave my boys some shock therapy of their own. If anyone pees on the floor (or walls, or cistern, or toilet lid etc), they have to clean it up. Properly, with rubber gloves and Domestos. Since that rule was implemented, the toilet room has stayed remarkably clean.

  31. Huh! The Brat used to manage to somehow pee on the BACK of the toilet door….

    Of course he always denied that he was the culprit, and I never managed to fully convince him that (as the only other person in the house), I lacked the necessary equipment to decorate that area with little yellow spots!

  32. Great idea, Catty – I’ll see if I can design some sort of electrified toilet mat. Hell, I’ll google it – it’s probably available in my choice of colours already.

    Not a problem in my house, Mayhem. No-one ever shuts the door, so the back of it is pristine. Even if I do shut the door, the children just barge in at will. Leading to interesting discussions such as that sparked by the following:

    Elf Boy, horrified, “Oh, Mumma! Does blood come out of ladies bottoms ALL the time?”

    Oh well – if he turns out gay I’ll always be the most important woman in his life!

  33. WOOT! Check it out at my place….

  34. So, looks like we’re aiming for dinner or drinks for Mayhem on Friday the 11th of March.

    I’m double booked, but can meet you all a bit later – who’s in?

    Quokka, tonight’s our last cricket match of the season. So please stop doing that rain dance and refrain from all sacrificial offerings. Normal pagan rituals can resume again on Saturday. And how was your first day at clinic? Did your new watch keep you cheery?

  35. Oh dear, another catch up? I’d better scrape the vodka bottles out of the sulking corner.

  36. Soon you’ll be able to catch up with Mayhem whenever you like, Catty.

    Do you think the sulking corner would fit in a PostPack?

  37. Nah. Nothing fits into a PostPack without hitting it with a hammer first. Not good if you’re mailing guinea pigs.

  38. They fit perfectly in a can, though.

  39. Pig in a can. You, Madam, are a genius.

  40. Oh, please.

    * blushes modestly *

    I owe it all to my good friends, Bacon in a Can, Chicken in a Can and Burger in a Can.

    I just thought of another one: Man in a Can! Batteries will be included.

  41. You’ve been browsing the Adult Shop catalogue again, haven’t you?

    • Browsing?

      Hell, I’ve ordered half of the damn thing. Guess who’s getting nipple clamps for her next birthday?

      • Battery powered, I hope.

  42. If man in a can operates the vacuum, the steam mop, and is willing to use the calcium cleaner on the taps, put me down for three. This place looks like a tip after a week of higher learning.

    What’s happening on the 11th of March with Mayhem?
    I’ll have to ask for everyone’s forbearance with blog and twitter slackness. I’ve got weekly homework to hand in for both subjects – case reports – which wouldn’t be so bad if the eportal was fracking well working, and if we were allowed to cheat and use summary abstracts from medline as our references.

    As things stand it looks like I will be spending an unpleasant amount of time stalking the librarian in the UQ biosciences library, and hoping that they never discover I’m enrolled at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Once I made it through an entire year at the PA medical hospital before they figured out I wasn’t one of theirs and they hoofed me out.

    Because I’m doing prac I don’t get semester break, and our lecturers have warned us that if we don’t hand our case studies in on time/they don’t meet her standards, they’ll be failing us.

    Not what I need, so do excuse any absenteeism from faffing.

    Grr. Why do I study?
    I’m insane.
    Oh, wait, the GP has that on record.

    Later, folks, and don’t worry Morgana, I don’t have the strength to do a rain dance today, I’m off on medline researching fracking malaria.

    Week 1, and we get a client with FKing malaria.
    Well, sick from the after effects of it.
    Jaysus H. Christ.

    What the hell ever happened to good old period pain and sciatica?

  43. Malaria?

    Strike me lucky, Quokka. Best bone up on Ebola, Dengue and -everybody’s favourite- Bubonic plague while you’re there, just in case.

    Oh, and don’t forget scurvy – our friend Catty is a pirate, her gums will be bleeding any day now.

    Okay, the 11th of March thing is the Farewell to Mayhem’s Arms – and the rest of her, as well. She writes on her blog that lunch that weekend won’t be possible and then given that she has a job, assorted medics and a hairdresser she’s off for good on the 14th.

    I have Elf Boy’s birthday dinner, but am hoping to join you all after that.

    • I’ve had scurvey. It’s not pleasant. They gave me vitamin C injections until I stopped popping at the seams.

  44. Hm. Fast acting AND deadly.
    I’ll take a vial of each.
    Sounds like just the thing to slip into the water bubbler to meld with the zombie flood plague that’s still doing the rounds.

    Thanks for bringing me up to speed on social events.
    I’ll have to see how I’m going when the time comes, looks like my work load is in the lap of the gods.
    I’ll have to make up my mind then, depending on whether my homework for that week is something nice and research friendly (Please god give me gyny patients) or something the cat dragged in from a war torn mosquito ravaged third world nation.

  45. Oh, poor Quokka. I sincerely hope they don’t give you geriatrics. You can’t diagnose their symptoms, because there are so very, very many.

    How about I send you up a dose of school sores? They’re contagious, so you could smear them on your assignments and put your tutor out of action for a few days.

    Failing that, we could whip around the hat for bribe money….

    The hat with the nits in it….

  46. I’m pretty sure the two flights of stairs up to student clinic were never built to code, which tends to keep the really sick and decrepit people away.
    If I ever get old and have a death wish I’ll crawl to the top of those stairs and then throw away my zimmer frame and step into the next world, Catty.

    Nits are a wonderful idea but there’s plenty to spare here in sunny humid Qld. I got my hair cut today and had to explain to the aghast hairdresser that three days after she last coloured my hair, I’d had to saturate it with banlice thanks to exposure to children and their infestations.

    I did go looking for that stuff that you guys suggested but they were all out of stock, and I tried three different chemists, including two of those pharmacy barns in town.

    Someone has already offered up their child and her skin rash as a test subject. And as one of my teachers once told me, skin patients are the ideal clients because they never die, and they never get better.

    I’ve discovered that the biosciences library is now open 24 hours a day. This’ll be interesting. When I lived in at uni in Townsville, we had a hut called the All Night Reading Room.
    You had to walk through half a km of bush to get there, but it was a peaceful haven away from the steady roar and blur that was college life.

    I’d love to be able to saunter in there at 2am to see what lurks in biosciences at that hour. Covens of goths, vampires and med students, I’d say. The Bloke said that a large contingent of med students fronted up at his office this week and My, they looked like a sickly bunch.

    Then again, 85 hours pw in A&E would make the best of us resemble the undead Zed.

    Busy weekend ladies?
    I’m back to pilates class tomorrow for more foot torture.
    It does seem to be working but it seems most unreasonable to me to have any ailment that can’t be cured with couch time, vodka, and chocolate.

  47. You won’t find any med students in the library at 2 a.m., Quokka. They’ll all be still drinking, or passed out from their previous drinking. It would be noble to think that all their hard work makes med students look pasty and unwell, but sadly it’s more likely the substance abuse and promiscuous sex.

    There’ll probably be some earnest OT, physio and nursing students who work other jobs during the day – and lots of teenage girls with facial piercings and too much black eyeliner trying to look up “How to summon and ensnare the Undead” on Index Medicus.

    Having done my duty in the cricket canteen last night – thanks for stopping the rain, BTW – I have a few play dates to orchestrate and some cleaning I should really do this weekend. It’s just fun, fun, fun! up here.

  48. I’m awake. Staying that way is all I can reasonably attempt today.

    Nah, too hard. I’m going back to bed.

  49. Move over, Catty. I’ll bring the M&Ms.

  50. If you move over some more, I’ll bring chocolate cake.

    We have the chores to do, yet.
    We’ve just been through our saturday morning thing of swim, pilates class, and hydrobath – for the dog, that is. We’ve still got the house, the pool, the cat pens and the garden to sort out, and Uncley Blokesy has to zip off to the Old Coast tomorrow to do lunch with his parents. Which means whatever we don’t get done today I’ll be doing on my own tomorrow.

    Oh well.
    The pilates torture does seem to be helping with my foot.

    Sorry to whine so much about assignments.
    Once upon a time they accepted a bibliography based on references from texts. Now we’re only allowed to use recent research from the medical journals. And we’re not allowed to cite the abstracts, we have to hunt out and photocopy and hand in the entire article from either the med school at herston, or UQ, if they’ve got it.

    Unfortunately most of the relevant research is written in Chinese, or German, so that means that every weekend for the next 16 weeks I’ll be in the library, cursing as I try to find scraps of research that I can twist and contort in some way or other to relate to this week’s random lotto of case studies.

    So sorry Mayhem, I saw your comment on twitter but what I said earlier stands – if I have a really difficult set of case studies that week, I won’t be going anywhere on Friday night. I’m sorry, but this isn’t the kind of thing I can plan for. Its just the way it’s going to be this semester and I’m already getting a lot of comments about ‘Just do it later on’ – and there is no later on.

    So I’ll do my best to get there, but I can’t promise anything.

  51. Making you photocopy the actual articles is a particularly nasty torture, Quokka. In fact, given that you’re not actually even supposed to be in those libraries, I’m not even sure how they can compel you to DO that!

    If it wasn’t for filching references from other articles and text books, I’d never have graduated.

    With any luck you’ll get something easy that you know backwards… like cat scratch fever or zombie pox.

    Meanwhile;

    Mmmm….. M&Ms and chocolate cake.

    I’m rooted. Friend and kids over for MT this a.m., then over to another friend for kids to play this arvo. My jaws are tired from talking. I’m not suited for this hectic social whirl. Its nicer back here in the Hermitage.

  52. We had the playdate rounds this pm, too. *shudder*

    Tomorrow will be worse. I have to go to a party for a child that I really, really, REALLY don’t like. But he’s family, so there’s no wriggling out of it. The little turd will probably break all the other kids’ toys (especially his sister’s), give at least one kid a nose bleed (probably my youngest), push assorted cousins face first off the swings, lick every cupcake on the table, and flip me the bird behind his mother’s back – all the while laughing his manic ferret laugh. I’d have added that he’d dack the Boss, but the Boss has learned from experience to wear tight jeans that can’t be pulled down easily.

    Why can’t the little turd just pick his nose and fart the alphabet like normal boys?

    Oh, well. At least there’ll be cake. Licked, yes, but still cake.

  53. Eew. I’d rather eat celery than licked cake.

    Catty, re: “… fart the alphabet like normal boys” – Really? My boys can’t even burp the alphabet. Should I take them to some sort of after-school flatulence enrichment programme, do you think?

    I wouldn’t want them to lag, developmentally.

    Anyway, I hope you’ve managed to get a little sweet, sweet revenge by way of your present selection. Something that looks fabulous and desirable but is actually made from thinly-glazed recycled shopping bags and will break before he can even get it assembled, perhaps?

    Or maybe Ken, the “I’ll Get Barbie Back, You’ll See” version, with cheap wine aroma and a three-day growth.

  54. Lagging? No way! Don’t worry about your boys, Madam. One sleeps with a zombie, and the other has an army of Lego worshippers. They are far too advanced to be bothered with mere flatulence.

    I gave the birthday boy a science kit that tells you how to do gross experiments, such as how to make fake boogers. It’s a gift that will keep on giving. Mwa-hahahahahahahaaaaaa!

    The good news was I got to the cake before the birthday boy, and managed to snaffle three pieces before he spat on the rest. I did not, however, avoid the penis jokes when the hot dogs were served. No, not from the children. From their mothers. That’s what you get when you go to parties in Bogan territory.

    Would it be overreacting if I move interstate to avoid next year’s party?

  55. No, not at all. I think you should move to the Sunshine Coast – then we can get together for vodka and chocolate every morning as soon as we drop the kids at school, and better foment our plots for world domination.

    Nice gifting, Catty. And can I have the name and shop of the kit? Sounds like something my monsters would adore.

    Now, when you say Elf Boy sleeps with a zombie, you’re not referring to the fact that he prefers my bed to his own, are you? I’ve wouldn’t mind radiating the dark allure of a vampire or she-devil, but I’d hate to think you can smell my undead rotting flesh from Down South.

    I actually achieved something, beyond child wrangling and chief cook and bottle washer duty this weekend. I framed some prints, knocked hooks into the wall and hung them. The only comment I got, though, was from Magic Man “They’re all right, but a picture of me would be better.”

    Nice to know he’s got a healthy self-esteem, I suppose.

  56. Ah, yes, an Icon of Magic Man for his Lego worshippers to bow down before, while he is at school.

    Re: the zombie – I was referring to the ThinkGeek zombie with the removable arms and legs. Or has Elf Boy eaten it already?

    I’ll sound out the Boss about a move up north. He probably won’t be keen, as it is dangerously close to my Mother. *shudder*

  57. Don’t worry about your Mother. Does she drink and play bridge? I know an army of hard-drinking bridge playing seniors up here who can run interference.

    I’d forgotten all about good old “Dismember Me” – he must be entombed somewhere. Typical Elf Boy – he HAS to have something-or-other, loves it for 8 days and then it vanishes, never to be seen again. It would be cheaper and better for the environment if he’d just be satisfied with learning how to fart the alphabet, like a normal boy.

  58. No, no, no, I couldn’t possibly do anything so cruel to you, or your senior troubleshooters. Some people are just too much trouble – and my mother is their queen.

    When I were a lad, we didn’t have all the fancy toys kids have now. We’d make our own fun without toys. We learned sign language, which came in handy for swearing. (Also for cheating in exams, and later for picking up deaf guys at nightclubs). There were tadpoles to catch – I murdered about a million of them, thanks to my less-than-stellar tadpole mothering skills. There were lean-to’s to be built in bushland, although Mother always managed to find me. *sigh*. But my favourite was whistling through my thumbs. I’d cup my hands tightly together, then blow between my bent thumbs. If you wiggle your fingers, you can make different notes. It sounds a bit like an ocarina. I tried to teach the kidlets over Christmas, but they gave up after three seconds and went back to their Wii. Huh. Kids today.

  59. Ah, those were the days. I lived on an army base so mostly we’d fashion crude weapons and aim them at the RAF kids.

    I can fingerspell but I wish I knew Auslan… not for cheating in exams, mind you, it’d only be used to hit on deaf boys in nightclubs. No point picking up a bloke you can’t nag at, is there?

    Just tried your thumbarina and couldn’t get a note. Still I’m a pretty hopeless whistler. For at least three decades I’ve tried and failed to whistle through my fingers, newspaper-boy style.

  60. Same here. Looks like we won’t be able to hail any taxis in New York, then. Which will mean either walking everywhere, or leaving the Big Apple off the itinerary for our fa(c)t finding tour of the US.

    I’m voting for leaving it off. I hate walking, and besides, there’s no fat in apples.

  61. You can PUT fat in apples, though. Think of a baked apples, full of juicy, spiced sultanas dripping with melted butter, served with cream and ice-cream.

    Or wrap fat AROUND apples: apple pie; apple turnover; apple danish.

    Not to mention that apples can be used to make cider.

    Now I want to visit NY, get drunk and eat a whole apple strudel. Dang.

    BTW, Janet needs commenters on her blog for nett.com.au http://bit.ly/fMPlPV

    Get faffing, troops!

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