FLASH … Sex Toys-R-Us is Closing

It’s bad enough that Toys-R-Us has filed for “Liquidation” … probably closing all 754 of its remaining stores.  But the worst is yet to come!

The phone at Seriously Absurd hasn’t stop ringing with rumors from the Interstate-Truck-Stop–Hotline … apparently “Sex-Toys-R-Us” is following in the kid focused footsteps of Toys-R-Us.

The battle for sex toy supremacy between e-commerce and brick-n-mortar retailing has reached an orgasmic end.

Amazon’s Jeff Beezos prematurely leaked to Wall Street that it’s always been a “secret desire of mine to wipe the filthy sex-shops off our interstate landscape.”

“Our Truck Stops have become the red light districts of America.”

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Meanwhile … with the closing of T-R-U, parents are outraged that they may no longer get to see, touch and feel toys.

One distraught mother wailed, “How will I be able to know if this is the best toy?  Is it durable?  Will it last?  Does it perform as advertised?  I need some experience before I buy a toy.”

“This is really f**king up my Xmas and B’day plans,” a mother of three told Seriously Absurd.  “For a lousy $30 … ten bucks per kid … I could turn ‘em lose in Toys-R-Us all afternoon.”

“The little savages tore everything apart before they made a ‘buy decision.’  That’s the only way to shop!”

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Though the Interstate’s are still humming with trucks … the real humming is coming from the drivers … and it’s all about what’re they’re gonna do when they stop for fuel?

Fill ‘er up and then leave?

“WTF’s going on?” one driver reported to the Absurders.

“Them sex toy stores are as All-American as the food buffet,” said the driver of a huge red Peterbilt.

He went on, “Ain’t nuthin’ better than those canned Del Monte Blue Lake green beans … fresh from the steam tray.  And the creamed chip beef … cain’t beat it!”

Another driver, brandishing his newer model sex doll stated, “If there ain’t no more toys … I ain’t botherin’ tuh stop.  Don’t print mah name … but mah handle’s, ‘Ah Cain’t Git Enuff.’”

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A female driver, jamming her dildo into her rear pocket said, “If these stores go away, how will I really know if this is the best toy?  Is it durable?  Will it last?  Does it perform as advertised?  I need some experience before I buy a toy.”

She continued expressing real fear that if Sex-Toys-R-Us closes all its shops, truck stops could soon join America’s drive-in theaters … abandoned roadside rolling mounds of green Kudzu.

Sad!

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Just sayin’ …

Seriously Stupid is Alive and Well … For Now

 

The “Non-Thinking-Male-Teen-Near-Human-Species” enters the scene … every cell phone’s locked and loaded … set to take a video later placed on YouTube.

An “I dare you!” is uttered from his subspecies admirers and a “Challenge” is accepted.

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It could be …

“The Gallon Challenge” … chugging a gallon of milk, sometimes more … mostly harmless with a lot of vomiting and “laughing over spilled milk.”

“The Cinnamon Challenge” … throwing a heaped spoonful of powdered cinnamon into your mouth … results in a very dry mouth, hacking, coughing, vomiting and risk of inhaling more cinnamon into your lungs than most folks eat in an Airport Cinnabon.

“The Salt and Ice Challenge” … salt down a body part and then ice it and hold tight … results in rapid freezing leading to frost bite and 2nd degree burns … no vomiting but lots of urging on to “feel the pain” … no hand-churned ice cream to enjoy later.

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But this Tide Pods thing … that’s something else.

I think it has to do with guys’ genetic structure and having to prove exactly how stupid we can be … on any given day.

The “Tide Pods Challenge” … like other YouTube challenges, appears to be mostly a young teen male dominated act of stupidity.

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I can understand a toddler grabbing the highly colorful squishy appealing looking detergent pod and biting into it.  That’s what toddlers do … they satisfy innate curiosity … “Oooh, colorful … tactile … in the mouth it goes.”

And there have been ample tragic news accounts of the dangers and consequences.

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But in spite of all these warnings, the aforementioned male-teen-subspecies soon to be scary adult, responds to the dare by grabbing at least one Tide Pods and popping it into his mouth.

Encouraged by screams of glee while forgetting what little brain power is functioning, the male teen chomps on the chemically loaded pod immediately falling on the floor writhing and screaming for relief.

All cell phones are kept tight on the Grand-Idiot-One who will end up on YouTube and ultimately may or may not end up in an ER.

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Thank the gods adults are around … and some think this isn’t a great Challenge.

Tide has taken to social media using New England Patriot’s Rob Gronkowski as a spokesperson … “Gronk” points out that slurping Tide Pods is more stupid than playing in the NFL without your helmet.

YouTube and Twitter have taken down all video and messaging related to the “Tide Pods Challenge.”

Now, if they could just get behind the stupidity of selling automatic military style weapons, we might be okay.

Just sayin’ …

Surprises in the Middle Seat

Just in case you’ve been locked in a closet for a decade or so, let me “jet” you to the seriously absurd consequences of a seemingly benign federal law which allows air travelers to be accompanied by their “BFF Emotional Support Animals” … think cuddly puppy or fluffy kitty.

But the law’s exploded in the laps of travelers making confinement and … “Honey I shrunk the seats” … just the beginning of a travel “cat-ass-trophe.”

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And, guess what?  For a fee … there’s an entire industry that’ll “certify” anything that’s not a plant as your “ESA.”

These greed-mongers created a system that literally has turned “Fly the Friendly Skies” into a high altitude version of the San Diego Zoo … sans cages!

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There was a time when we all had hopes of meeting a “special someone” in the middle seat.  Now, we’re happy if it’s not an 8’ python, 45 pounds of pot-belly pig, or a mini-pony!

Keep it in a carrier in your lap … or in the seat … that’s okay!  But most of these near-psychotic travelers want their ESA to “experience the flight” cage free!

Oh, Flight Attendant, may I switch to the middle-seat, last row by the toilet?

Puh-leese!

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If I’m flying JetBlue I’d be afraid to munch on my free chips or cookies … especially if there’s a frickin’ Capuchin monkey masturbating at me from the middle seat.

I’ve read that there are folks who have ES turtles … they’re okay.

I’d have a tough time with someone’s ES cockroaches … or wharf rats … the big ones with Manhattan addresses.

Apparently there’s one frequent traveler with a large male duck whose photo pops-up online.  The duck wears a diaper and waddles in the center aisle.  Some folks seem to think he’s “kinda cute.”

Me?  I’ll keep my feelings to myself lest someone sic PETA on me.

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I do think we’re missing an important issue here … that’s the emotional trauma for the animal.

Going through security … do they have to sit in the tub and pass through the machine with your electronics?  Someone could shove a pipe bomb down their duck’s gullet.

How long does it take a turtle to waddle through the upright scanner?

How much radiation can our ESA take?

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Where’s PETA when we need them?  They should be camped at the security lines.

I just read about a young traveler who was denied boarding with her ES hamster … you don’t want to know the decision she made.

PETA could have “rescued” it … that’s all I’ll tell you!

Just sayin’ …

The Three Searchers

Early evening.  Stars pop out in the winter skies over Lebanon, Kansas located in Smith County … years ago determined by someone to be the exact middle of the continental US.

It’s getting closer to Xmas and time is running out for the three men wearing raincoats as they enter Pooche’s, the only bar in this town of 309 people – four more women than men according to the latest census.

As the three strangers push open the door, a rusty dented bell jangles announcing their presence.  At the sound of the bell, three old men and a lone woman, the only inhabitants in the bar, turn their heads in unison toward the strangers in town.

Dour looking, dusty and tired, the three swarthy oily black-haired bearded travelers look left then right before silently passing through the small room.  They take seats on worn cracked Naugahyde covered stools at the end of the bar … right in front of a small manger scene.

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The manger appears to have been left in place all year as witnessed by minute dust bunnies hidden in the crevices of the mini-stable.

The men see the tiny Joseph and Mary gazing skyward with complete reverence.  In a tiny cradle lies a tinier swaddled pink-skinned blue-eyed baby Jesus.  The man at the far left snorts when he sees the pink baby Jesus.

Kneeling in the hay beside the manger slightly outside its confines there is a goat, sheep, donkey and a dairy cow.  The traveler on the far right points out the cow and snorts.

Four angels suspended from bent coat hangers float in the air above the manger.  All four are blowing elongated celestial trumpets.  The middle man tweaks the angels with his finger tips.  The angels clack off each other as they “fly in the sky.”  Dust particles sift through the stale bar air dropping to the manger roof like early winter snow flakes.

The middle man orders three bourbons on the rocks with twists and a splash of water. “Distilled,” he says to the bartender, a younger man in his forties.  “Distilled?” the bartender questions.

The man on the left answers, “Yeh, distilled.  Bottled will work.  Definitely not tap.”

The drinks arrive and the bartender asks with a hint of hope in his voice, “Do you guys want to run a tab, tonight?”  All three shake their heads from side-to-side. The man in the middles says, “We’re traveling.  Moving East.”

As the bartender leaves, the man on the right says to the man on the far left, “You got the tab tonight.  I got the tip.”

The man on the right then reaches under his raincoat past his striped tunic into an ancient animal skin pouch and pinches off a bit of a gummy oily resin that is heavily scented.  He places the substance on a napkin at the bar.  An oily stain immediately appears on the paper cocktail napkin.  A soft sweet aroma rises from the substance.

The man on the far left says, “Myrrh?”  The man on the right nods.  They finish their drinks and silently leave.

Outside Pooche’s they look into the sky trying to decide which direction to go when they spot a brightly lit star in the eastern sky.  “There.  That’s the star … let’s go,” says the middle man.

As they walk down the street they hear shuffling behind them and turn, “You cheap bastards.  What?  No tip?”  It’s the bartender from Pooche’s.

The two men look to the man who paid the tab.  He digs into his purse once again and produces a gold coin and presses it into the extended hand of the bartender who now stares speechless at the three men.

He finally stammers, “Can I … can I help you guys?”

“Yeh,” says the guy in the middle.  “You seen a man and a woman – pregnant – on a donkey around here?  We’re supposed to meet them for a birthday party. We got the gifts but we can’t seem to find them.”

The bartender gives them a blank stare and says, “I think you guys have lost your way.”  He pivots and leaves … headed back to Pooche’s muttering under his breath.

“Xmas … always bring out the crazies.”

That “Special Place” in Hell is Very Crowded!

Ivanka Trump started it the other day with her catchphrase that placed Judge Roy Moore in a “special place in Hell.”

There’s a lot of anger in our world today.  And thanks to Ivanka, pundits, Op Ed’ers, reporters, political contributors … just about anybody and everybody writing/talking about politics in the USA has applied Ivanka’s message about Hell to everyone they want to insult, denigrate or disparage.

Like Ivanka, I have my own list of folks who I think have earned a place in that special residence.

I can hear you now … “Oh, Please Richard … please show us your “short list.”

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#1 … The “Christian Soldiers” who fight assiduously to have “Creationism” taught in public schools … as scientific fact.

#2 … That one smartass in the movie theater who sits behind me, thinks he’s a cinema critic, and insists on a running commentary … stage-whispered for the benefit of all.

#3 … The “science nerd” who made it impossible to remove the following “stickers”:  the UPC code, the “Made in China,” the small price tag that comes apart in 4-6 smaller pieces.  And if you can remove them, the glue residue is there forever.

#4 … The four or five guys who kicked my ass all over the parking lot of Murray’s Mau Mau Lounge in Miami (1963).  Angry and hateful!

#5 … Dickheads who take a cell phone call just as they get to the head of the “whatever-window-in-the-whichever-line” I’ve been standing in for the past 30 minutes.

#6 … Anyone over 18 who still wears a baseball cap backwards.  BTW, it’s a scientific fact that they lose at least 30 IQ points for doing that!

#7 … The person who initiated the procedure of keeping my food under a “heat lamp” and then telling me it’s still fresh … when what he was really doing is refusing to hire more wait staff.

#8 … Anyone who doesn’t appreciate all 31 one of the movies starring Elvis.

#9 … Anyone who sees value in the “collected works” of Gwyneth Paltrow … especially her cook books.

And … now for the drum roll, please:

#10 … Anyone who thinks the “Me Too” movement is a fad rather than the harbinger of lasting socio-cultural change.

Yes … Hell’s getting Moore and Moore crowded.  Who’s on your list?

Just sayin’ …

 

The “War on Christmas” is over!

Ho, ho, ho … “45’s” declared that the “War on Xmas is over!”

My Vision:

“45” appears in front of the National Christmas Tree wearing a flight jacket donning a military cap … arms raised in front of a banner declaring:

“I’ve Put the Baby Jesus Back in Christmas!”

“He-Who-Temporarily-Resides-in-the-White-House” is flanked by representatives from each of the service branches … decked in boughs of holly … and full battle regalia.

There is no Baby Jesus in a manger … no Baby Jesus swaddled in Mary’s virginal arms … no Baby Jesus gifted by Wise Men.

For sure, there’s no Rudolph in the scene.

It’s all about “45.”

My Reality:

Reporters at the Thursday evening National Tree lighting couldn’t help but notice that photos of the crowd size replicated the empty seats of “45’s” inauguration.

Maybe folks were busy with on-line shopping, or filling the malls spending wildly to keep the hot wheels of our economy spinning … eagerly anticipating their “big fat Christmas present” tax cut.

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In lieu of a traditional ginger bread house, FLOTUS Melania opted for a replica of the White House constructed from 300 pounds of dough … featuring her signature wreaths.

Press representatives started a pool on whether the ginger bread White House was “gluten free.”

The Twitter-sphere was swamped with snarky comparisons to past FLOTUS gingerbread White Houses.  I’m glad we have nothing better to do than diss gingerbread houses … the least edible item ever baked.

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At the Friday White House Christmas party for the press corps, “45” took two minutes to address his “friends in the media.”  He then spent another 2-3 minutes shaking hands with the FOX contingency before he left the party.

Noticeably absent were senior cabinet officials … though Kelly, Huckabee-Sanders and Conway did make brief “Merry Christmasy” appearances.

Also noticeably absent was any reference to the birth of the Baby, immaculate conception or concerns about newly dubbed “Turncoat Flynn” … though it was reported that the press practiced saying “Merry Christmas” aloud without fear of repercussions.

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Yes … it’s that time of the year and I’m sure glad that I can run around my neighborhood wishing everyone a Merry Christmas while I …

Search the heavens for North Korean nuclear missiles …

Dodge illegal aliens sneaking into our country because we don’t have a border wall …

Prepare my bank deposit slip for my “big fat tax cut” …

and … BTW “45,” I really am tired of all the winning you promised me … I’m sooo tired of winning!

Just sayin’ …

Grudge Match: God vs Bill O’Reilly

Bill O’Reilly, Fox Broadcasting’s arbiter of moral values and women’s private parts, has had it with God.

“You know, am I mad at God?  Yeah, I’m mad at him,” O’Reilly said in a recent podcast after being outted for his 32 million dollar sexual harassment settlement.

Meanwhile from on high, Heavenly Leakers spread the word … O’Reilly may be mad … but God’s eternally pissed.

After Mr. O’Reilly’s grandstand play … God’s on a mission to teach O’Reilly a lesson for all-time … up close and personal!

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It’s clear O’Reilly’s missed the whole Adam-Eve-Eden-scandal of original sin … man’s falling from grace.

God’s decided that it’s gonna take a good ‘ole fashioned ass whuppin’ to convince the wrinkled-prune-of-a-dried-up-wannabe-sex-symbol, that if your arms aren’t long enough to box with God … you shouldn’t!

Here’s the message delivered to the masses though his Son and manager …  “God’s Ready to Rumble!”

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“In this digital age, we’re not sending Moses to lay down a few simple rules of the road to a wandering ragtag Lost Tribe,” says Jesus.

No clay tablets here … look for a mass worldwide broadcast in 3D on HTV … that’s Heavenly TV to you Heathens, Pagans and non-believers.

“There’s only one way to settle this … and that’s to climb in the ring with the Supreme Gladiator … God the Father.

“Watch God ‘Open a can of Whup Ass’ on O’Reilly for only $6.66 … which includes two pair of 3D glasses.

“Dad just wants to get O’Reilly into the ring with Him.  We’re way beyond a Sunday School lesson with this guy.

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At the prefight weigh in, which was a formality since God has no measureable physical form, the Gladiator Supreme and the One-Who-Denigrates-Women faced off.

God suggested that Mr. O’Reilly, clearly the underdog, review the Old Testament and come to the fight Samson-like … armed with the jawbone of an ass … or emulate David with a few smooth flat river rocks and a sling.

O’Reilly implored God to take this opportunity to show His magnanimity and forgiveness to “Man-Kind” starting with him … Bill O’Reilly.

That produced a laugh from the Almighty One that rocked the heavens and sent O’Reilly scurrying rat-like back to his locker room hidey-hole … for more “locker room talk.”

The last words heard from O’Reilly were … “Tell Him I’ll donate 32 million to any church he wants … I promise.  I swear.  Oh, please God … it’ll be a ‘Deal made in Heaven!’”

Just sayin’ …

The Dead Man Fanny Pack

Did ya miss me?  Huh?  Huh?

So I’m trying to catch-up after almost two weeks of being in digital lockdown thanks to Hurricane Irma.

While “speed reading” thru emails and junk mail … BTW, I love my SPAM mail …  I catch a headline …”Dead Man Fanny Packs.”

I immediately think … blog material!

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First thoughts … is this a Fanny Pack for a dead man, or for the sake of PC’ness … Dead Person?

If so, then said dead person can carry some personal possessions to a Final Destination because, tucked neatly under his final suit jacket at his funeral, he’s wearing a … “Dead Man Fanny Pack” purchased directly from the funeral home for a small added cost.

I like that image.

It’s kinda like the burial traditions of other civilizations where personal possessions accompanied the deceased on their journey forward to the next world … or final resting place.

My Dad coulda used more golf balls for his afterlife trip.  He had a penchant for losin’ them … a terrible golfer.

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Second thoughts … Hmmm, maybe this is a Fanny Pack based on Thomas Harris’ “Silence of the Lambs.”  In addition to the gourmet cook and crazy man, Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lector, he gave us that quintessential serial killer, “Buffalo Bill” … the guy who got off on skinning women to remake “skin suits.”

Fanny Packs made from human skins … “Dead Man” Fanny Packs!

No way … a lotta weird stuff’s sold on the Internet but I think that one’s a stretch.

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By now I’ve turned to Dr. Google for the answer to my way overly fertile imagination.

Turns out that the Dead Man Fanny Pack’s a Halloween promotional item based on the Mexican celebration … “Dia de los Muertos,” or “Day of the Dead.”  Crap … and here I thought I had a rabbit to run that was very seriously absurd.

But I did notice one company selling the Packs was ironically seriously absurd … promoting their Dead Man Fanny Pack with a “lifetime guarantee.”

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Apparently, the only thing serious and absurd about this topic is my brain.  But, then you know that while I only suspect it.

Just sayin’ …

Take that, you turkey!

From Maine to Iowa, and Wisconsin to California, people are reporting vicious unprovoked attacks.  Their attackers lurk in front yards, bushes and trees.

No one’s safe!

After years of exploitation and holiday appearances on gluttonous festive fall tables, it appears that it’s “pay back time” for Americans.  Yes … it’s a matter of revenge and repayment.

After clawing their way back from near extinction to over 7 million strong, the wild turkey has come home to roost … and we’re in their roosting territory!

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Most recently it seems these wild and reckless gobblers are switching roles from the hunted to the hunters.  Just ask the denizens of Stamford, CT.

Connecticut Yuppies, Preppies, and filthy rich have been feeding the wild fowl and now they’re screaming, “Foul!” because turkeys don’t seem to give a “turkey scat” about their social status, cars, or Ivy League credentials.

The Turkeys want their land back and they want it now!  They’re enraged numbers are high enough to scare the whale blotched pants and Lily skirts off all those Preppies!

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Move over, Rover.  Chewing on the mail man’s no longer your sole domain.

Turkeys have usurped your favorite targets … US Postal Carriers.

“Turkey-sperts” – my name for self-appointed Turkey Behavioral Experts – explain that the regularity of postal schedules allows these bird brains to establish a behavioral pattern.

Now, they hide in waiting for their shot at new game … “Postal Hunt-n-Peck!”

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These same “avian-nists” warn people … “When you’re under attack, do not turn and run.  This just makes the turkey ‘bolder.’”

Bolder?  WTF?  How frickin’ bold can a turkey be?

We’re talkin’ big fat feathery birds that gobble better than they can fly.  We’re not talkin’ Grizzly Bears or Bengal Tigers!  It’s 12’ish pounds of feathers armed with a beak and a wattle.

C’mon man – stand your ground!

Stop … take aim … and drop kick that “Feathered Butterball” into your neighbor’s yard.

And speakin’ of “taking aim,” if unlike most gun owners you can hit the bird and not your own toe or nether regions … “turkey trot” to your mailbox locked and loaded and with a single shot, blow your potential Thanksgiving dinner into the street!

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Given all this turkey uproar, I wonder if “L’orange 45” will continue the November tradition of Presidential pardons.

Probably … past turkeys pardoned have been American bred … and white!

That would give him three free white birds since he’s already pardoned his first “turkey” – ex-sheriff Joe Arpaio!

Just sayin’ …

What to do with all that bronze?

Aargh … we’re in the middle of another Bronze Age.  But this one’s different.

It’s all about what we can do with the 1500+ Confederate symbols scattered across the country… of which 750+ are Confederate war statues.

Ideas are pouring into the central office of Seriously Absurd with the “sound and fury” of a Willie Shakespeare play.

Excuse me … I gotta head to the “Throne Room” and brainstorm what to do with all this s**t!

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One suggestion … replicate the Amarillo, TX Cadillac Ranch featuring the statues buried ass-up with heads in the sand … or maybe vice-versa?  Nope … we’ve got 750+ statues and the Cadillac Ranch is only 10 ‘Lacs large!

Another … smelt down the statues and shape the molten metal into doorstops for all the Trump properties.  Nope … we know he’d never pay the final bill!

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But of course … Here’s the winner … Florida’s #1 commodity … theme parks!

Ta Da! … Johnny Reb’s Guns & Galleries … a new Florida theme park!

It’s a sure shot to be another major draw in Central Florida’s unending “War for the Tourist Buck.”

Take over one of the many struggling Florida malls … massive land parcels readily available … ample parking … crying for investors.

Not to give away too many details, but the purveyors of White Hate could solve several of their problems in one central spot … and it would all be legal!

Pssst … don’t tell them they’d be paying taxes.  That’d royally piss ‘em off!

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JR’sG&G … a legitimate outlet to vent pent up negative behavior and emotions!

Jobs! Jobs! Jobs!  Suitable for undereducated & unskilled white males!

EZ Gun Sales … use Florida’s weekend “Gun Show Loophole” and get your weapon on-the-spot!

Florida’s the “Vacation State” … indoctrinate your progeny at an early age with discounts for repeat visits.

Hone your hate and bile skills at Johnny Reb’s Guns & Galleries.

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It’s “Eden-esque” for Civil War statues.  Scattered throughout JR’sG&G, it’ll be like they never left home!

Visit the Disney knock-off “Hall of Dissidents” … see and hear your favorite historical Southern Treasonist and his plan to overthrow the “US Gubmint!”

And be sure to stop at Ford’s Theatre to catch the Abe Lincoln Assassination … a special one act play featuring live actors!

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What better way to expose hate in our society than to monetize it in the klieg lights of an amusement park …  capitalism and Johnny Reb’s … they kinda go together!

Just sayin’ …