July 26, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic 

Going my way?

Yup, that pretty much sums up the last few days. In any case, I have a lot of (written) material to edit, pix to post and a new “look” for this blog to tool around with. In the meantime, this is a little project I am working on…

and this is a nice sunbaked pile of dog shit I found on Norman Avenue today.


103 Norman Avenue

I’m in a fightin’ fuckin’ mood

I didn’t wake up in a bad mood this morning, but I sure as hell am in one nasty as fuck mood now. The first day of decent-ish weather to be had in about a week— ruined. Courtesy of the MTA jackhammering up the street…


this dude doing god-only-knows what


while these asshats watched.

sitting ON IT

Foolishly, I opened up the windows of my apartment to get some fresh air (HA!)— and shortly thereafter was assaulted by a noise that sounded like 1,000 chalkboards being scratched by Freddy Krueger amplified through Satan’s very own asshole (with Pete Townsend controlling the volume).

The melee that followed was not unlike something from Mutual of Omaha’s Animal Kingdom: a herd three very freaked-out cats bolted out of the living room en masse to get away from the noise. One of them saw fit to molest one of our female cats in order to make his displeasure (via displacement) known. I close the window and then spend five minutes placating everyone. Except myself.

After experimenting with different music* (to conceal the noise), I finally gave up and went for a walk. This walk netted me (ample) content for my very first Greenpoint crap map and a second-hand encounter with the very kind of person I do not need to be exposed to when I am in a mood: a clueless hipster chick wasting a cashier’s time (and as a consequence, my own, as I had to wait behind her in line).

Clueless Hipster Chick (to clerk): Can I park my bike in here?
Clerk: Uh. Sure.
CHC: Do you have, like small clothes for a dollar? (Behind her is a rack of children’s clothing in plain view.)
Clerk: (?)
CHC: Like doll clothes, you know, cheap?
Clerk: Maybe, try that bin over there.

This was the bin I happened to be going through. As a result, now I had a smelly-ass chick hovering behind me, looking over my shoulder. I went to the back of the store. Eventually I got bored and brought my selections to the register only to discover… she’s still there!

CHC: How much for this?
Clerk: (Utters a price)
CHC: What about this?
Clerk: (Utters another price)
CHC: Can I like, get a discount, if I buy a lot of stuff?
Clerk: (Utters an answer)
CHC: What about this wig?

(Aside: buying, much less wearing, an old wig is gross. Then again, it was probably cleaner than her hair. It was oily and matted. Nasty.)

Clerk: $10.00 for everything.
CHC: Do you take credit cards?
Me (thinking to myself): So help me god I am going to throttle this woman!

After several minutes of negotiation and inanity, the bitch pulls out a wad of bills and pays in cash. I get my turn.

Me: one picture frame (priced at $4.00) and one set of buttons (priced at $1.00)
Clerk: $2.00
CHC: (Throws one nasty look my direction.)

I have worked in public service.
I have worked in sales.
I have also worked in hospitality.

My resume is a patch-work quilt with one common theme: interfacing with the public. There is nothing that a public servant/salesperson/PR hack hates more than some idiot wasting his/her time by drifting into a stream-of-consciousness line (?) of questioning. ESPECIALLY if the transparent (if illucid) motivation underlying it is chiseling away at the price of something.

CHC (and her brethren) are blissfully unaware of the fact that “X” number of people (many being idiots, just like herself) are in line behind her. In my experience, this is the type of person also operates under the (erroneous) assumption that the clerk enjoys conversing with him/her— or finds him/her interesting. We don’t. We are paid to expedite business and be nice— and when the day is over, we stick pins in our ‘troublesome customer’ dolls with extreme prejudice.

Hopefully this squeaky wheel learned that she will not get the grease by being an annoying twit: she’ll get the shaft instead. The quiet, patient, non-haggling customer (with daggers in her eyes) is the one who gets the discounts. While neither asking for nor expecting them, I might add.

Eventually I came home. Upon arrival, I beheld the latest incarnation of our apartment buzzer ‘system’…

Fucking retarded

I’m speechless. Fucking speechless. When I see shit like this (and in my building/’hood I see it with disquieting regularity) I ask myself: at what point does the exertion required (X) to cover up/avoid doing a task (Y) prove to be more effort than actually hiring a professional to fix the problem (Z)?

When (in New York City apartment physics) does X-Y (prove to be) >/= Z? If Stephen Hawking is still asking/fielding questions on Yahoo, I’m gonna ask him.

Otherwise, if this cutesy arrangement proves to facilitate theft (of anything I happen to have delivered to my apartment), I will invoke a force neither Mr. Hawking nor god himself would dare reckon with: the United States Postal Service.

*ELO, Public Enemy, Pearl Jam**, Guns-n-Roses (which worked)

**To their credit, “Go” (from the album Vs.) came very, very close.

Joel Krupnik

July 18, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit, Mission Statement 

If this inferno-esque weather is good for anything, it is this: I can toss up some new stuff on my blog that is long, long, overdue. No blog about dog shit is complete without voicing a few thoughts about Mr. Krupnik.

Like most people, I harbor mixed feelings about him. On one hand, I found his Christmas display hilarious. I also like his ‘stand-up’ attitude about people who do not pick up after their dogs. His assessment of why people choose not to pick up their dog shit is dead on: entitlement. I would also be a liar if I did not mention that he was a major influence regarding my decision to blog about the dog shit problem in Greenpoint— and the city at large.

On the other hand, I do not approve of his methodology, e.g., rubbing dog poo on the owner’s back. If I were in his shoes, I’d probably would have done one of the following:

  1. Bag it, shout at the girl (“You forgot something!”) and hand the bag of doo to her.
  2. Blog it.

One of the (many) things I love about living in New York City— especially Brooklyn— is its citizens’ willingness to call other people on their bull dog shit. If you cannot or will not police your actions, someone else will do it for you. Quickly, concisely and with a piquant type of wit I have not beheld anywhere else.

If I cared to overcome my aversion to crossing the East River, and Mr. Krupnik found my eccentricities tolerable, I bet we’d make good neighbors. I find him a lot more palatable in comparison to some of the folk* in my building, but I am not willing to subject my person to his (potential) wrath. I can easily see my predilection for using power tools (while cranking Britney or Joan Jett** to cover up the noise) as a provocation— and I care not to venture as to where he would shove my cds or tools in/on my body in retaliation. Scary indeed.

Otherwise, I have a number of irons in the fire. As you may have noticed already, I have set up a number of new pages that are bereft of content. Among them are the following:

  1. Shitty Confidential: I created this to house all things that do not pertain to dog shit proper.
  2. Shop Cats: this will be a photoblog featuring (duh) shop cats— and yes, shop dogs— if/when I find them. My reason(s) for creating such a page are as follows:
    1. There has been a spate of animal cruelty here in Greenpoint. Specifically, someone has made it a practice to shoot cats— with a gun— of recent. My well-intentioned, but probably misguided, motivation underlying the creation a page of featuring shop cats is to illustrate that every pet has a name and someone who loves him/her.
    2. They’re cute. (Yeah, I’m soft that way.)

*Like the woman in Apt. #6. She’s a total shitbag and I should know: the way our buzzers are rigged, every sack of pus who comes here (seeking Girl 6’s company/services) hits our buzzer. At all hours. Just in case you are wondering, I have labelled our buzzer— and these folk cannot or will not READ IT. They tap it like the well-trained lab rats (seeking a pellet) that they are.

**If you live in Brooklyn and have not experienced the glory that is Ms. Jett’s song Coney Island Whitefish, spend the 99 cents on i-tunes and get it. I can’t believe my mother let me play this shit on her car’s tape player when she drove me to elementary school.

100?!? (and I ain’t talking degrees)

July 18, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

As a result of my last post (or perhaps despite it), my father saw fit to send me a list Forbes Magazine recently published that outlines the top places to live in the United States. He was kind enough to point out to me that Rio Rancho (birthplace of the cat shit taco) was #56 and New York City was #100. I am certain Forbes’s professionals have lots of numbers to back this assertion up, but they are neglecting one point: at least in NYC the (copious) effluvia to be found are on the sidewalks, not in my food. Sure, this is like arguing the finer points of having gonorrhea instead of syphilis, but this point does, indeed, have merit.

Closing on a note of civic pride, I came across this via Gothamist. Unlike the offal usually to be found on the Internet, this is fantastic. It is totally worth taking the time to read.

My only criticism is that Greenpoint is not represented by anyone who truly exemplifies the caliber of person who lives here (by choice). And I think know I am just the person to correct this imbalance. My credentials are as follows:

  1. I am a surly, small woman with a very, very foul mouth. Some men have elected to tell me that I have a mouth like a sailor. While I suspect that this was intended as an insult, I took it as a compliment. One’s abilty to tell someone to f-off (in explicit detail) or memorize the phone number for the 94th Precinct (718 383 3879) will make you or break you here.
  2. I consume wine like a Frenchman.
  3. I operate a blog about dog shit— and dog shit is to Greenpoint what apple pie, Uncle Sam or Imperialism is to the U.S. of fuggin’ A.: indispensible.
  4. I moved here before the hipster influx. I am too old to be a hipster, but am making excellent progress on my tenure track to becoming an honest-to-god freak.
  5. I have a Polish surname— and although I was born and raised elsewhere, my mother’s poking around our genealogy revealed that my Polish/Lithuanian immigrant forebears made their start in Brooklyn. It is very likely that I live steps away from where they lived over 100 years ago. An interesting turn of events. Or yet another part of the cycle.

Feces… possibly of canine origin…

July 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: Dog Shit, Dung of the Day 

My career (if you can call it that) is one that is firmly grounded in the customer service industry. This is not so much the result of conscious decision-making as it is the consequence of having two degrees in a field that no one on the outside (of the field) gives a damn about: fine art. I find this ironic, as the sophism bullshit I beheld in the many student critiques I have had the (mis)fortune of attending over the years in art school, can does qualify me to work in the upper echelons of public service. There is no better place to learn how to spin shit into Shinola than art school. Period. That said, I do not think even I could (or even care to try to) redress the damage our current Chimp in Chief has unfurled on the international community. So it goes.
While the pay to be had working in customer service is generally poor, as are the working conditions (disgrunted lunatics yelling at you 40+ hours a week), it is not entirely without its benefits.

Case in point:

Having nine months to burn between completing my BFA and starting my MFA, I entered the world of temporary employment. The first (and only) assignment I had was in a workmens compensation unit whose clientele consisted of fast food restaurant employees. This unit had gone through at least five temps (one of which went into labor on her first day and another arrived one day wearing a tiara); I (with my stellar 35 words per minute typing speed) proved to be the right “fit”. The people I worked with were fantastic, by far the best I have ever had encountered— which was a good thing, given the (bull)shit we all had to deal with every day.

It is a commonly held belief that fast food workers are not the brightest bulbs to be found. My experiences at this job did absolutely nothing to refute this. If anything, it (re)affirmed this urban myth in spades. Every day I fielded phone calls and retrieved the new claims that copiously spewed forth from the fax machine. A few of my all time faves are as follows:

  1. An employee who (for reasons one can only imagine) burned his ass with oven cleaner.
  2. A fist fight between two female employees who harbored amorous sentiments towards the store manager.
  3. A drive-thru window employee who got punched out (through the drive-in window) by a customer.

The list goes on and on…

I also handled a lot of inquiries that were erroneously sent to my unit’s office. Customer claims, mostly. I do not think I will ever forget the day I was eating my lunch (Mexican food) at my desk when a call came in: it was a manager asking who he should contact regarding a customer’s complaint of having “explosive fits of diarrhea” after eating his restaurant’s product. After ditching the remains of my lunch in the garbage can, I told him who to call. But this pales in comparison to the following “turd” that circulated in my department.

Per the nastygram I opened from some attorney’s office, it seems that a woman in Rio Rancho, New Mexico bought a take out meal from Taco Culo* and took it home to her family. After taking a second bite into her taco, mamasan discovered a bad taste and “unusual” texture. Not being able to decipher the source of said bad taste or unusual texture on her own, she summoned the professionals: the New Mexico Department of Health. Being the crack professionals that they are, the NMDOH concluded that the foreign object in this taco malo was a “long piece of feces… probably of feline origin”.

My husband and I (collectively) have five cats. Yes, cinco gatos. And to this day I (still) find it incomprehensible that anyone, A-N-Y-O-N-E, would require more than a sniff— much less, more than one bite— of a food item in order to determine that it has cat shit in it.

Which brings me to the “Dung of the Day”. I found this big boy next door to our apartment building. My husband says it’s human, but I’m not too sure. It looks too firm to be bum shit. Enjoy!

fat man

*As it happened, years later my parents moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico. One of the first things I did when I visited there was dine at this very establishment. My mother drove me, as I did not have a valid driver’s license. There was no shit, human, feline, canine, or otherwise, to be found in my food. Then again, I was very, VERY polite to the restaurant staff. I didn’t even complain when they fucked up my order.

liberte, egalite, fraternite… and poopie?!?

July 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit 

Last Friday (Bastille Day) my IT support (READ: husband) knocked around the “back-end” (heh,heh) of my blog. After he made some upgrades, we both got curious and looked at the activity for “New York Shitty”. Neither of us was prepared for the data that awaited our perusal.

Below is a pie chart outlining the top search terms generating traffic to my blog…

pie chart

“Shitty drunk teen girls” (and the men who love them) is a demographic I had never honestly considered. I didn’t even know it existed, to be perfectly frank. Now I know better.

Perhaps that explains the curious amount of hits I am getting from MSN France?

I want to give a “shout out” to my French homies: MERCI! The way this country is going, I’ll probably darken your doorstep soon enough. I’m looking forward to seeing those machines you have that washes garbage off the streets.

Greenpoint Cinderella

July 14, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Crap Map, Dog Shit 

Not too long ago I was a real estate agent. The neighborhoods/areas I specialized in were Chelsea, the East Village/LES, and North Brooklyn. Despite this, I would occasionally get the odd client interested in the Upper East Side. If pressed to give one common denominator to be found among all these folk, I would say it is this: I grew to despise damn near every single one of them.

More often than not, these apartment-seekers were single women, mid-30’s at the very oldest, holding low-to-middle level admin jobs with commensurate pay (READ: chump change). Lest you harbor any notion that I look down upon women (or anyone else for that matter) who work(s) in administration, I do not. I have held numerous administrative positions myself; I understand how hard (and thankless) the work is and how difficult it is to make ends meet with a $35,000/year salary (if that) at your disposal. Do I ever…

For this reason it is quite remarkable that the intransigence, haughtiness, and overall inability to face facts (e.g., apartments on the Upper East Side can be had on your budget, but they are going to be east of 2nd Avenue) these women had was enough to completely alienate me. Much less, sufficient to foster abject hatred from me.

To the best of my understanding, these woman all wanted to live in a safe neighborhood and their concept of a “safe neighborhood” was the Upper East Side. Faulty logic, but comprehensible— even to me. That said, there are numerous “safe” neighborhoods to be found in New York City (some are even in Manhattan), but when I tossed out these possibilities, my ‘clients’ recoiled in a histrionic disgust rarely found outside B-grade horror movies.

It didn’t take too (terribly) long for me to “catch on” to what these women were really looking for (consciously or unconsciously): prestige. It didn’t matter if the apartment was a total shithole, they wanted to hob-nob with the elite. The thought clearly had never crossed their collective minds that the elite may not want to hob-nob with them, but I digress…

Yesterday I had the pleasure of vulgarizing the Upper East Side with my presence. I rarely go past the East River, much less north of 40th Street, if I can help it. But when I do it is always for a damn compelling reason. The reason du jour yesterday was a job interview. The chamber of horrors I beheld strolling the streets of mid-60’s east-side Manhattan made me recoil and ask myself: why in would anyone want to live here? I saw:

  1. A heavily pregnant woman clad in yoga pants and a tank top chattering away on her cellphone while smoking a cigarette.
  2. (Too many) women (old enough to be my mother at least) with faces pulled tighter than Donald Rumsfeld’s asshole. You could bounce a quarter off of ’em for chrissakes!
  3. Filipino nannies pushing humvee-sized strollers teeming with frankenkids.
  4. The remains of Dr. Bartha’s abode…gastastic
    Call me plebian, but I don’t want to live in a neighborhood where people blow-up shit. Even if I am only steps away Hermes or Chanel. I bet the local neighborhood association loves Mr. Bartha. Sarcasm aside, I am sure realtors do: he pulled a Guttman (albeit due to mental illness, not greed) and came damn close to doubling the value of property by doing so. Kudos to Bartha— but I would prefer to keep an arm’s length or more (the East River and straight-jacket) away from him.
  5. Dog shit. Plenty of it. Guess what? Upper East Side designer doggie doo stinks as bad (if not worse than) dog shit to be found in the outer boroughs or *gasp* New Jersey.

Boy was I happy to get my K-Fedtastic-ass* self back to the G-Point. Big Time. I got on the E train at 51st Street with a renewed sense of purpose: get me the fuck out out of here. When I arrived at Court Square, my fairy (angel dust) Godmother was there to secure my passage to the home of Queens (Kings County, DUH).

My fairy Godmother was exquisite. Beyond description (and too dangerous to hazard photographing)— but I will try, nonetheless…

She was about 5’6″, 130 pounds, and of African-American descent. She was clad in a dress (black) that was about 2 inches too long to qualify as lingerie, footless fishnet hose (black), and 4 inch pumps (black). Her person was impeccably groomed and ‘high on life’ or something else. Who knows?

What I do know is that she did a dance while giggling inanely (people walked around her) and the G train appeared. (Undoubtedly conjured from seven sewer rats, regurgitated vodka, and four empty tins of pickled herring in mustard.) And when it did, my Godmother saw fit to “hail” the mighty G train like a cab— as if to say “take my downtrodden sister” home. And it did. I love her.

*One who prospers at the benefit of an another, be it actual or perceived.

A Crap Map is Born!

July 12, 2006 ·
Filed under: Crap Map, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day 

Unless you have been living under a rock (perhaps one volleyed from 34 E. 62nd Street), I’m sure you’ve heard about this guy. I am sure I will regret what I am about to write, but I’m going to write it anyway…

I do not condone blowing up buildings; I really feel for those who lost their homes or were injured due to Mr. Bartha’s hijinks. That said, the tale does say something about tenacity and follow-through: here’s a man who said he was going to destroy his house (so as not to fork over it in a divorce settlement) and he actually did it. In Texas there is a saying: Don’t cut checks with your mouth that you ass can’t cash. He cut and cashed his own “check”. That takes balls. Texas-sized balls.

I’ll forgive the suicide angle. Nobody’s perfect (he’s a doctor, not a demolition expert after all). Besides, Mr. Bartha might want to live after doubling the value of his property. I for one hope some of that money goes towards getting the psychiatrist he so clearly needs.

On that note (tenacity and follow-through), I am proud to offer you the following “Test” Crap Map: Dog Shit on Kent Street. It isn’t a Google Map, but it will do until I (or more likely, my husband the “IT” professional) fix a few very vexatious problems. Admittedly this is long overdue, but upgrades on this blog get done the same way anything in my apartment gets repaired: slow, sloppy, and not up to code.

More to follow…

Finally, some dog shit that doesn’t stink!

July 11, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit 

I found this little gem surfing the internet yesterday. Too bad there are not additional options, e.g., smeared dog shit, dog shit with cigarettes on/in it, dog shit with dirty rubbers, etc.

On a (semi) related note, I also found this bad boy. I wish I had a handle to hold onto and cheering section when I use the bathroom. For now I’ll just have to content with this. People in Japan have all the cool stuff

There is no refrigeration, only Zuul

July 9, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 


Those of you who have seen the movie Ghostbusters or happen to live in a rent-stabilized building in New York City will understand the following tale. The rest of you will probably find it entertaining nonetheless…

My refrigerator died June 19th.

Sadly, I am no “Dana Barrett”. There was neither a hot celloist nor a bonafide demon to be found in my sub-bluechip apartment: just me, my husband, two bouts of food poisoning, a slew of rotten food, TWO defunct refrigerators and a parade of idiots whose mission was to “fix” the problem.

The area code of choice for pure evil is 212. The rest of us, e.g., “718-ers” (or worse, “201-ers”) get the “B” Team: no death, no pillars of salt, no wrath of God shit, just an uneasy feeling in your bowels. Thankfully, God saw fit to invent Kaopectate.

After my refrigerator experience, I’d be delighted to have Zuul reside in there. Especially if it meant my dairy products and produce are protected. Narrow-minded folk would call the aforementioned situation extortion, but I call it insurance. This is New York City after all…

Zuul and I could have worked out an arrangement. When I am asleep, he can conjure up the bowels of hell and do whatever Lucifer/Gozer/Whothefuckever does (in the confines of my refrigerator) for the very reasonable price of $500 per month. Plus utilities. Cash only. No pets. Drug and disease free. NO fatties or uglies.

I would be doing Zuul a favor by letting him have a share in my apartment because it is in such a cool neighborhood. Zuul, being a hell beast, should feel honored that I allow him to share my benzene-laden, struggling artist air. Nothing screams authentic artist like Existentialist angst, student loan debt and rejection letters from potential employers. Carcinogens hereabouts are, as Paris Hilton would say, HOT. Iron lungs and chemotherapy are the new black (lung). Geriatric chic is the wave of the future, so strap on your surgical stockings and colostomy bags hipsters and work the irony!

Zuul would not make much noise. Zuul would leave the toilet seat down. Zuul would not invite his girlfriend to stay over indefinitely. And above all things, Zuul would make damn sure my food is refrigerated at 36 degrees.

I am not so lucky. I live in a craptacular building (in a hot location) whose s(t)uperintendent is either a walking study in laziness or abject stupidity. Probably both.

I got a new (READ: refurbished) refrigerator June 24th and it died July 2nd. July 6th I had the pleasure of having twocount ’emTWO, repairmen futz with it.


The first one (who I will henceforth refer to as “Chong”) seemed to be high (or very mellow). Chong listened to my explanation of how it croaked (the refrigeration section went first, then the freezer) and he diagnosed the problem very quickly. It needed a new timer. Chong rigged it so I could manually turn the timer until he came back the next day to install a new one. As he left I thanked him, and noting the Texas plates on his car, I asked, “Are you from Texas?” Chong’s answer was “Sort of”. Uh-HUH.

Sort of“: either the papers for his person, the car he was driving, or probably both, are “iffy”. Frankly, I don’t not give damn if it means I get an operational refrigerator.


Immediately after Chong left, another man (I’ll call him Cheech) knocked on my door. Cheech said he came to fix the refrigerator. I told him Chong had already been by. Cheech leaves.

I get a call. It’s from the S(t)uper. The St(u)pe tells me that Cheech is going to finish the repair job on our refrigerator. I let Cheech in, and shortly thereafter, he proceeded to do things to this appliance that Chong (stoned, but probably licensed) would look dimly upon. Cheech tore into my poor refrigerator with a ferocity that can only attributed to having a few more— or more likely— a few less, chromosomes. The opening sequence to the movie 2001 is not unlike what I beheld, except this primate had an allen wrench. Scary.


Cheech pissed me off. He needed access to an electrical outlet (so he could use a hairdryer to melt the ice caked on the coils in the freezer— a big “no-no” per Chong). I gave Cheech an extension cord and showed him the outlet. He told me to “plug it in”. *A-hem* I am not the one being paid to “fix” this problem. I will provide tools (necessary by virtue of Cheech’s lack of preparation) but I am no man’s handy tool wench. PERIOD.


That’s when I took a tepid bottle of Ruinite into the living room. I stayed in the living room until I could lower my IQ to the necessary level. Twenty minutes later I was summoned into the kitchen by Cheech. He told me that I must leave the fridge on “X” setting and the freezer on “Y”. “Y” is a demarcation on the dial that the manufacturer saw fit not to designate. (What would General Electric know about appliances anyway?) Cheech’s work was a true ghetto-ass masterpiece: one which, strangely enough, does work. For the time being.

July 7th, 5:00 p.m.: Chong comes by to fix my refrigerator. I tell him that it is fixed, but I suspect that Cheech bypassed the timer. Chong looks at it, tells me that it has a timer, gets royally pissed off, and leaves.

I felt bad about this at first, but then I remembered that Chong took one of my flathead screwdrivers. Now when the timer goes off an annoying noise (a noise not unlike what one would normally attribute to shocking lab monkies or the game “Operation”) is generated for my pleasure. At all hours. I’m getting used to it and almost find it comforting. It’s akin to holding up a mirror to an unconscious person’s mouth to determine whether or not he or she is breathing: shrill noise = a working refrigerator. I still would like my screwdriver back though…

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