http://www.amazon.com/Avoid-Huge-Ships-John-Trimmer/dp/0870334336
As the father of two teenagers, I found this book invaluable. I'm sure other parents here can empathize when I say I shudder at the thought of the increasing presence of huge ships in the lives my children. I certainly remember the strain I caused so long ago for my own parents when I began experimenting with huge ships. The long inter-continental voyages that kept my mom and dad up all night with worry. Don't even get me started on the international protocols when transporting perishable cargo. To think, I was even younger than my kids are now! huge ships are everywhere and it doesn't help that the tv and movies make huge ships seem glamorous and cool. This book helped me really approach the subject of huge ships with my kids in an honest and non judgmental way. Because of the insights this book provided, I can sleep a little better and cope with the reality that I can't always be there to protect my kids from huge ships, especially as they become adults. I'm confident that my teens, when confronted by a huge ship, are much better prepared to make wiser decisions than I did. At the very least my children certainly know that they can always come to me if they have any concerns, questions or just need my support when it comes to the topic of huge ships.
All my life, people told me that "one day my ship would finally come in". Naturally, I was terrified. What if my ship was huge?To avoid this outcome - I sabotaged myself; dropping out of school at age 8, and replacing the milk on my daily cereal with a homemade mixture of moonshine and wallpaper paste.Since reading this book - I finally got over my fears and decided to become successful. This week alone I have started my own talk show, written a classical opera, taught myself to read and write (both English and Hindu), and invented the iFire - a fireplace you can control like a touchscreen by simply ramming your fist into the naked flames.Pre-orders are already worth $4 billion. Thank you John W. Trimmer!!
I purchased this book while in maritime school. When It came in I quickly jumped to reading it. 3 hours and 12 minutes later I finished the book and felt very confident that I could hold my own in a channel with huge ships. The very first day I came too close for comfort when passing an oil rig. I was very frustrated that the book was unsuccessful in teaching the methods to avoid these huge ships, although it seemed to work for most other people. I assumed it must have been an anomaly and I would certainly be able to avoid the next one, so I set out again only to be disappointed. I came very close to a dangerous encounter with another huge ship. By this time I was very disappointed in the methodologies I gained from the book, especially since I already assured everyone on board we would not have to worry about huge ships because I read the book.After calling it a day we all packed up and docked our small bow rider and went home. While I was sitting in my apartment I noticed the book they sent me was how to avoid midsize ships. I was very frustrated that I did not see this when I first read the book. I guess this is why I now can not find my house boat at the marina.
rip in peperonis
Nothing happened
btw are regular Haribo gummy bears okay? Not sugar free
they're like laxatives you eat a lot of them, pretty effective and discreet too
regular ones?wow
The place: BMO Harris Bradley CenterThe event: Bucks VS SpursThe snack: Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears made by HariboI recently took my 4 year old son to his first NBA game. He was very excited to go to the game, and I was excited because we had fantastic seats. Row C center court to be exact. I've never sat that close before. I've never had to go DOWN stairs to get to my seats. 24 stairs to get to my seats to be exact.His favorite candy is Skittles. Mine are anything gummy. I snuck in a bag of skittles for my son, and grabbed a handful of gummy bears for myself, to be later known as Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears, that I received for Christmas in bulk from my parents, and put them in a zip lock bag.After the excitement of the 1st quarter has ended I take my son out to get him a bottled water and myself a beer. We return to our seats to enjoy our candy and drinks...............fast forward until 1 minute before half time...........I have begun to sweat a sweat that is only meant for a man on mile 19 of a marathon. I have kicked out my legs out so straight that I am violently pushing the gentleman wearing a suit seat in front of me forward. He is not happy, I do not care. My hands are on the side of my seat not unlike that of a gymnast on a pommel horse, lifting me off my chair. My son is oblivious to what is happening next to him, after all, there is a mascot running around somewhere and he is eating candy.I realize that at some point in the very near to immediate future I am going to have to allow this lava from Satan to forcefully expel itself from my innards. I also realize that I have to walk up 24 stairs just to get to level ground in hopes to make it to the bathroom. I’ll just have to sit here stiff as a board for a few moments waiting for the pain to subside. About 30 seconds later there is a slight calm in the storm of the violent hurricane that is going on in my lower intestine. I muster the courage to gently relax every muscle in my lower half and stand up. My son stands up next to me and we start to ascend up the stairs. I take a very careful and calculated step up the first stair. Then a very loud horn sounds. Halftime. Great. It’s going to be crowded. The horn also seems to have awaken the Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears that are having a mosh pit in my stomach. It literally felt like an avalanche went down my stomach and I again have to tighten every muscle and stand straight up and focus all my energy on my poor sphincter to tighten up and perform like it has never performed before. Taking another step would be the worst idea possible, the flood gates would open. Don’t worry, Daddy has a plan. I some how mumble the question, “want to play a game?” to my son, he of course says “yes”. My idea is to hop on both feet allllll the way up the stairs, using the center railing to propel me up each stair. My son is always up for a good hopping game, so he complies and joins in on the “fun”. Some old lady 4 steps up thinks its cute that we are doing this, obviously she wasn’t looking at the panic on my face. 3 rows behind her a man about the same age as me, who must have had similar situations, notices the fear/panic/desperation on my face understands the danger that I along with my pants and anyone within a 5 yard radius spray zone are in. He just mouths the words “good luck man” to me and I press on. Half way up and there is no leakage, but my legs are getting tired and my sphincter has never endured this amount of pressure for this long of time. 16 steps/hops later…….4 steps to go…….My son trips and falls on the stairs, I have two options: keep going knowing he will catch up or bend down to pick him up relieving my sphincter of all the pressure and commotion while ruining the day of roughly the 50 people that are now watching a grown man hop up stairs while sweating profusely next to a 4 year old boy.Luckily he gets right back up and we make it to the top of the stairs. Good, the hard part was over. Or so I thought. I managed to waddle like a penguin, or someone who is about to poop their pants in 2.5 seconds, to the men's room only to find that every stall is being used. EVERY STALL. It's halftime, of course everyone has to poop at that moment. I don't know if I can wait any longer, do I go ahead and fulfil the dream of every high school boy and poop in the urinal? What kind of an example would that set for my son? On the other hand, what kind of an example would it be for his father to fill his pants with a substance that probably will be unrecognizable to man. Suddenly a stall door opens, and I think I manage to actually levitate over to the stall. I my son follows me in, luckily it was the handicap stall so there was room for him to be out of the way. I get my pants off and start to sit. I know what taking a giant poo feels like. I also know what vomiting feels like. I can now successfully say that I know what it is like to vomit out my butt. I wasn't pooping, those Satan's Diarrhea Hate Bears did something to my insides that made my sphincter vomit our the madness.I am now conscious of my surroundings. Other than the war that the bottom half of my body is currently having with this porcelain chair, it is quiet as a pin drop in the bathroom. The other men in there can sense that something isn't right, no one has heard anyone ever poop vomit before.I can sense that the worst part is over. But its not stopping, nor can I physically stop it at this point, I am leaking..it's horrible. I call out "does anyone have a diaper?" hoping that some gentleman was changing a baby. Nothing. No one said a word. I know people are in there, I can see the toes of shoes pointed in my direction under the stall.. "DOES ANYONE HAVE A DIAPER!?!" I am screaming, my son is now crying, he thinks he is witnessing the death of his father. I can't even assure him that I will make it.Not a word was said, but a diaper was thrown over the stall. I catch it, line my underwear with it, put my pants back on, and walk out of that bathroom like a champ. We go straight to our seats, grab out coats and go home. As we are walking out, the gentleman that wished me good luck earlier simply put his fist out, and I happily bumped it.My son asks me, "Daddy, why are we leaving early?""Well son, I need to change my diaper"
As a paramedic it is often difficult to not only eat at work, but to eat relatively healthy. I developed a sweet tooth one day and if theres one thing I love, its gummy snacks.“Oh look! Sugar free gummy bears! I haven’t had gummy bears since I was in middle school!” I exclaimed to my partner. And the fact that they were sugar free practically made them healthy, right?I downed quite a few of them on the way to the next call and had finished the bag by the early August afternoon.In the oppressive southern heat, we were dispatched to an unconscious person. As we traversed the city streets I began to get cold chills and cramps despite the triple digit temperatures. My abdomen was obviously bloated and the noises…oh god, the noises.We arrived on scene and quickly loaded the critical patient into the ambulance. I grabbed a firefighter to ride with me in case the patient crashed before we got to the emergency room. In the back, the pressure was building against my dirty rosebud. I had to release something and thought that if I could just let some air out, I might not have to change my pants.I leaned to the side, putting pressure on one cheek to try to sneak it out without being noticed. I was able to get it off without soiling myself, but the smell…oh my gawd.The fireman wrinkled his nose as I wiped the sweat from my face.“Does she have a GI bleed? A necrotic bowel?” he asked.As soon as we hit the ER doors I was off like a Kenyan on methamphetamine for the bathroom. I tried to use a hallway bathroom, but it was occupied. My only other option was the bathroom right outside the nurses station. I mean, it was RIGHT outside the nurses station. The door was a mere five feet from their desks. All those pretty, young, nurses. With no other option, I ran back, trying to keep my cheeks clinched. Little staccato bursts of sulfuric farts punctuated each yard as I raced for the finish line hoping that I could keep my chocolate starfish clenched tight enough to stem the tide.I ripped the door open and somehow managed to drop my pants without undoing my belt. What erupted sounded like a steamroller driving through a bubble wrap factory. I knew it was audible from the nurses station and I had nearly knocked a pretty blonde out of her chair during my mad dash. As the sense of relief from the pressure washed over me, so did the smell. It smelled like someone took a bag of dirty diapers, filled it with rotting body parts, and let it sit in the sun for two weeks.I sat there, petrified, but also doubled over with the sort of cramps that make one pray for death.“Tonya? What is that SMELL?!” came a voice from outside the door. I knew there was no escaping with my dignity intact. I sent a text to my partner from the bathroom telling her I was sick and to let me know when she was ready to leave. When she replied I dashed from the bathroom back to the ambulance.“I gotta go home. I’m sick.” I told her. We started back for the station and were a few miles away when we witnessed a car wreck. The kind of car wreck where you KNOW someone is injured and its hard to sneak past it when you’re in an enormous truck that says, “AMBULANCE”.We had more units responding and if I could just keep from sharting I’d be ok. I stepped out of the truck cramping and sweaty and knew I was in over my head. My partner walked to one car and I climbed into the back of the ambulance. I looked around, desperate for relief. I spotted the biohazard trashcan. Hmm…I locked the doors and squatted over the can. It was small and I knew I couldn’t put my weight on it without breaking it. Fleetingly I considered the wisdom of this decision but by then the floodgates on my rusty sheriffs badge had opened and I sprayed pure fecal evil into the can.Now let me say that ambulances and all the parts and equipment on them, are built by the lowest bidder…this includes the locks on the doors. Attempting to retrieve a piece of equipment, my partner tried the door. Thinking the lock was just stuck she pulled on the handle hard. The mechanism broke and we locked eyes as I unleashed another volley of pure, concentrated gummy death that sounded like two events happening at once: the sound of wet denim ripping, and like trying to burp with a mouthful of pudding. Luckily she did not see my sausage and man berries as I was cupping them in one hand to keep them from being sprayed with poo mist.“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sick…SHUT THE DOOR!” I screamed. The door slammed and I managed to find an extra sheet which I cut up and wiped with. Now the next question: what was I supposed to do about the red plastic trashcan full of steaming excrement that had the consistency of watered down pancake batter? I triple bagged it and placed it outside in a spare compartment.We blissfully made it back and I was able to make it home, stopping only twice more to defile public restrooms. My partner never worked with me again and the nurses at the ER still haven’t forgiven me for their bathroom.Thanks, Haribo.
