SWEETWATER, Tenn. - A woman has been charged with possession of burglary tools after police said a crowbar slipped out of her pants as she was lurking around a church. (AP, 1/28/08)
A RUSSIAN woman in St Petersburg killed her drunk husband with a folding sofa, it was reported yesterday. (AP, 7/10/08)
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Hello Jincy. Years ago a friend of mine worked in a supermarket where a lady was escorted into the manager’s office to discuss her alleged theft of canned softdrinks. She was a large person, and could not take a seat upon repeated invitation to do so. It was then discovered that the stolen items were bestowed in her capacious undergarments.
Are your sure that wasn’t Sweetwater, Idaho. Yes there IS a Sweetwater, ID, but don’t drink water from that ‘crik’, it’s nasty. And crowbars are just a necessary adjunct to out common every accessories, such as keys, only more adaptable to other situations. For instance, if the car won’t start because the key is bent, use the crowbar to straighten out the key. If that doesn’t work, jam the crowbar into the keyhole and turn, and should that fail, beat the crap out of the car with the crowbar, denfinitely good therapy.
Just to give you one more quick example, sometimes the pastor of our church likes to lock the door while he works, or so he says. Kay, his wife, likes to take him his lunch. Part of his work is counseling; of course women are more likely to seek this kind of service. Kay staggers the time she takes pastors lunch to him; she is a busy woman. Sometimes 11:30 am, maybe anytime after that up till about 1:00 pm. Now if pastor has locked the door, and Kay can’t get in even after knocking, which is the usual expectation, then, Kay brings out the handy dandy crowbar and carefully must pry open the front door. If the office is also locked, Kay, who by the way has great bi-ceps from toting the tool, will again need to employ the crowbar in order to help her husband get his nourishment for the day.
Well, anyway I didn’t mean to go on for so long but I felt it necessary to ’stick’ up for this Sweetwater person; 1. she may be a relative, and 2. her use of the crowbar was probably completely utilitarian as well as innocent.
The actor sat by the pool dangling his feet in the water and nursing a tumbler of Glenmorangie. The overpowering smell of chlorine and night jasmine pierced the September balm and floated upward toward a starless sky. The view had always brought to the actor’s mind thoughts of Fitzgerald, and much like Gatsby longing for his light, the actor’s thoughts were drawn beyond the pool, across a great expanse of lawn, to the guesthouse. Like an egg lit from within, the guesthouse radiated amber. My lover’s eyes are nothing like the sun said the actor, suddenly seized by such a sense of loneliness that tears sprang to his eyes.
The actor allowed himself to imagine making love to the writer. It had been years since he’d slept with a real person. With a woman who wasn’t a model, or an actress, or a model who wanted to be an actress. That the writer was almost entirely unattractive seemed to him a great advantage. There would be no judgement. No scrutiny of his waistline and the small, stubborn roll of fat that had so exasperated his first personal trainer she’d gone back to school to be a vet. Under the writer’s heavy lidded gaze, he might at last free himself of the ever present feeling of conspicuousness. She would see him for who he really was, the way he had been long ago, before his name was changed and his nose shortened.
The actor set the crystal tumbler on the lip of the pool and went to bed.
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