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Some time ago, I posted a few reviews of local l establishments on Google Maps. It was all very normal, entirely ordinary stuff. Nothing sarcastic. I have no idea why I did this.
Ever since then, I've gotten occasional emails from Google telling me what an amazing person I am for contributing to this fantastic database of public knowledge, and so on.
Today's makes me wonder whether the bot generating these emails is broken:
So, yeah. That's a picture of a cat. I took that photo about a year and a half ago at a local animal shelter. I can't remember the cat's name, but he was pretty cool. Very laid back, very friendly. Warmed up to me quickly.
Thing is, there are only 2.7 million people in the entire city of Chicago, and a lot of those live in the murder part. But, even if we include those folks (think: people whom Braineack would refer to as "individuals"), Google is trying to claim that, in addition to literally every single person who does live in Chicago, an additional 2 million people who do NOT live in Chicago have read my brief blurb about a very small animal shelter located about a block from where I live, just across from the Walgreens by the westbound #80 bus stop.
Edit: now I'm curious about Ultimate Ninjas. I hadn't noticed that location previously. Which, now that I think about it, makes perfect sense.
I need to contact that guy and see if hell produce a video of this better story of a kid and his dad:
I remember I was hammering on a fence in the backyard when my dad approached me. He was carrying a letter or something in his hand, and he looked worried. I continued to hammer as he came toward me. "Son," he said, "why are you hammering on that fence? It already has plenty of nails in it." "Oh, I'm not using nails," I replied. "I'm just hammering." With that, I returned to my hammering. Dad asked me to stop hammering, as he had some news. I did stop hammering, but first I got a couple more hammers in, and this seemed to make Dad mad. "I said, stop hammering!" he yelled. I think he felt bad for yelling at me, especially since it looked like he had bad news. "Look," he said, "you can hammer later, but first--" Well, I didn't even wait to hear the rest. As soon as I heard "You can hammer," that's what I started doing. Hammering away, happy as an old hammer hog. Dad tried to physically stop me from hammering by inserting a small log of some sort between my hammer and the fence. But I just kept on hammering, 'cause that's the way I am when I get that hammer going. Then, he just grabbed my arm and and made me stop. "I'm afraid I have some news for you," he said. I swear, what I did next was not hammering. I was just letting the hammer swing lazily at arm's length, and maybe it tapped the fence once or twice, but that's all. That apparently didn't make any difference whatsoever to Dad, because he just grabbed my hammer out of my hand and flung it across the field. And when I saw my hammer flying helplessly through the air like that I just couldn't take it. I burst out crying, I admit it. And I ran to the house, as fast as my legs could take me. "Son, come back!" yelled Dad. "What about your hammer?!" But I could not have cared less about hammering at that point. I ran into the house and flung myself onto my bed, pounding the bed with my fists. I pounded and pounded, until finally, behind me, I heard a voice. "As long as you're pounding, why not use this?" I turned, and it was Dad, holding a brand-new solid-gold hammer. I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes and ran to Dad's outstretched arms. But suddenly, he jumped out of the way, and I went sailing through the second-story window behind him. Whenever I hear about a kid getting in trouble with the drugs, I like to tell them this story.
Yes, I see the pattern in my life. It was established at an early age. 1987, I think. Maybe '88. There were four Nikkis. Come to think of it, I actually didn't date a single girl in junior-high / high school who wasn't named that. It didn't really occur to me at the time how peculiar that was.
(Now I'm wondering if they secretly had a pact.)
And it's been driving me absolutely batshit crazy that I couldn't place the song.
Now it's there. The Roller Rink. Nikki #1. Somewhere between Punta Gorda and Fort Myers, on southbound US-41 in west-central Florida.
And, wow... Dire Straits. I'd totally forgotten about their bubblegum phase.
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