I was super bored one night bc we were really slow, and the animatronic that served as my cue had broken without my knowing, so I didn’t get an alert that someone was coming.

I was in the hallway singing “Peanut Butter Jelly Time” at the top of my lungs and jumping up and down in the hallway. The guy in the next hallway over was singing it with me. I don’t know what he was doing but knowing him, it was equally goofy.

No one is having a good time.

The OTHER project was going to destroy rare salamander habitat and so we had to buy some appropriate habitat. But every mitigation bank was sold out. I found a guy selling future mitigation bank credits through the powers of making a lot of phone calls and then, through the power of polite requests, got our Wildlife Agency rep to sign off on this plan. Except. You can’t say “I gave seven figures to a guy who promises to someday make habitat”, that guy could abscond. You also can’t be like “I supes promise to pay for mitigation AFTER the project.” because WE could not pay out. We were, for various reasons, disinclined to delay the project. The Wildlife Agency rep — bless her, she really held my hand through this whole process — was like “how about you put the money in escrow?” Great. A plan.

So I call an escrow company — which was not an organization used to being cold-called, much less by someone standing next to an excavator, covered in mud. I was trying to provide only the information needed to enable success and NOT go on a five-ten minute rant on salamander life cycles. Also I was DEEPLY out of my depth.

“Hi! I was wondering if you could hold money in an escrow account for a longer period?”

“… Well, in some circumstances we can hold it for up to 90 days — but we’d need to know the circumstances.”

“Ah! I need someone to hold it for up to two years? Do you know of any companies who’d be able to help me?”

“What. What is happening with the house that this is necessary?”

“Oh uh. It’s not a house, per se, it’s a rare salamander mitigation bank. It needs to be built.”

“The salamanders need a custom house?”

“No no no no no uh. They need a pond. We’re paying someone to make a pond. But! They need time to make the pond. Hence the escrow account. So. Who could?”

“So like a lizard house?”

“They are amphibians?”

“Let me. Transfer you to my supervisor.”

<after a pause a different person comes on the line but also unfortunately at this moment the excavator operator fishes a turtle out of the ditch.>

“Hi! Sorry one second I need to put down the phone to help a turtle.” <interlude> “Thank you so much for waiting! I’m back! Can you talk to me about escrow options?”

“What was happening with the turtle?”

“Oh it was trapped in some cattails but I got it out. Sorry for putting down the phone — you need both hands to grab them because they bite! I need an escrow account to hold funds for up to two years?”

“For a house for lizards? Are you a zoo?”

“Ah! Salamanders, actually! And a mitigation bank, not a house. I actually work for X organization.”

“What is a mitigation bank?” (The critical question!)

“Oh when you’re building something and need to impact some rare species habitat you can pay someone to make new rare species habitat.”

“Huh.”

“But this habitat is incomplete! It doesn’t have a pond. So my organization won’t pay until AAAAAAAAA excuse me sorry I fell into a ditch. My organization needs there to be a pond there before they pay for the property. So one path forward is an escrow account.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes absolutely!”

“What’s the cost of this bank?”

“Two million dollars.”

<the tenor of the conversation became markedly warmer at this point.>

“OK if you get my your contact information then I’ll email you some options and then we can discuss — do you have time now?”

“Unfortunately I do not have email access right this second. Also I need to get out of the ditch. Could we put a pin in this conversation and circle back tomorrow?”

“Of course, I look forward to working with your organization?”

“Thank you so much!”

“Good luck with the. Ditch. And turtles?”

- You look at him and can guess accurate information on the history of the last ten generations of his family: Ireland, Virginia, Tennessee, Oklahoma, California.

- He is 24.

- Until 1.5 months ago he worked skimming the muck off the top of a sewage pool with an excavator for 12 hours a day, six days a week. He was paid 50 cents above minimum wage (+overtime)

- Now he works 8 hours a day 5 days a week and makes twice as much money. In fact, he’s volunteered for 20-30 hours of overtime in the previous month and discovered DURING our time working together that he got that money in a separate check and that wasn’t like, a weird paycheck quirk where sometimes mid-month you find that you’ve been relegated to a lower (but still better) salary.

- The paychecks are always on time here? (Yes) Amazing! Let me text the wife!

- He has a 3 year old and a 2 year old and “one on the way”.

- The material improvements to his income mean that he’s working less, getting more sleep, and somehow smoking less and drinking less caffeine and alcohol. His fights with his wife (staying at home, doing family child care) have dwindled to insignificance.

- Everyone at the new job loves him because there’s nothing you can ask him to do that’s worse than spending 12 hours skimming sewage and his attitude is AMAZING.

- He’s really very good with an excavator having spent seventy hours a week operating one for four years.

Anyway at some point I’m on the phone with the wildlife agency and he takes a personal call and then lights up a cigarette. When I finish he says:

“One time I went crawdad fishing not too far from here with my brother, my dad and my granddad. We caught a bunch and my brother and I were trying to put them in the creel without getting pinched — hopping around. My dad thought it was funny but my granddad called us sissies. His hands were like horn — the calluses were so thick — and the crawdads didn’t bother him at all.

My dad pointed this out — that we didn’t have fifty years of callus yet and so we’re being careful. If granddad wanted to do something equivalent, said my dad, he could put a crawdad on his nose.

So he did.

It was the only time I ever saw the old man cry, and when he tried to rip it off he ripped the claw off the crawdad too, so we had to crush the claw with pliers to get it free. His nose was swollen up for a week.”

“Ha!” I said, “Uh. I’m glad your dad had your back there? And your granddad sounds like… a character?”

“He was. A hard man to love.” Said the operator. There was a pause. He finished his cigarette.

“My dad called and said since I’m working down here now we should take my boys crawdading. ‘It’ll be just like old times!’ he said. ‘Do we want it to be just like old times?’ I said ‘Of course!’ He said.”

“Tell him you’d rather skip the part where he insults your kids and puts a crawdad on his nose until they’re in kindergarten?”

“He HAS to remember, right?”

“Maybe? Maybe he will if you remind him?”

“It’s normal though, to not take your toddlers crawdadding?”

“Yes?”

Bill Watterson – Calvin and Hobbes (1986)

Hergé – Tintin (1947, Tintin Magazine)

Jeff Smith – Bone (1993, Bone Holiday Special)

Walt Kelly – Pogo (1950, Maclean's Magazine)

And a bonus:

black hair? check. bad parent(s)? check. trauma? double check.

bruce: how’d you get your scar?

zuko: my dad got mad at me for saying that killing people is wrong so he lit my face on fire and banished me.

J: "wan na kno w h ow i go t thes e sc ar s"

Consider

Iroh: you too must learn patience. Boiling the water ruins the delicate flavor of the white jade

Alfred: oh I'm dreadfully sorry - for some reason I expected this tea to have TEA in it

(later)

Alfred: *aggressively laying out full tea service with milk, lemon, sugar, and, just to drive his point in, jam*

while Zuko is enthusiastic about cream and sugar

Stay with me.

We do not know how the hell the Gay Pirate Plate was first acquired. This being a point of contention is actually pretty plot-relevant; the saga of the Gay Pirate Plate began with my grandmother and her sister, who, for some ungodly reason, both BADLY wanted the Gay Pirate Plate and believed it to be rightfully theirs.

I should back up, firstly, to establish: The Gay Pirate Plate is the cheapest, tackiest, ugliest plate in existence.

It is in no way a collector’s item. It is physically impossible for it to complement anyone’s decor, because the colors in it are garish. It’s just a ceramic plate with a gay pirate painted on it, and the painting is, this cannot be emphasized enough, extremely bad.

(How do we know the pirate is gay if he’s just posing on a plate? Listen. Fully 100% to stereotype, but he is. He is gay. There’s an energy. That pirate is a flaming homosexual. That pirate has sex with men and does it frequently. That pirate is fucking gay, all right, he just is.)

Anyway. The point is that this is an extremely cheap and ugly plate with a poorly-executed painting of pirate on it who is like a nine on the Kinsey scale.

My grandmother and her sister fought a blood feud over this plate for their entire lives. It would be on the wall in my grandma’s house, and then her sister would visit, and then it would be gone. She’d visit her sister and the plate would be on the wall and her sister would pretend it had always been there. She would steal it back, hang it up, and, when her sister visited, pretend it had always been there. This continued for DECADES.

When the sister died, the Gay Pirate Plate lived triumphantly in my grandmother’s house. And then my grandmother died. And my aunt, who had lived with her and been her carer throughout her life, rightfully inherited their house.

We visit my aunt after the funeral and stay with her for a week or two.

Me, my sister, and our dad. Her brother.

The three of us look at each other. We don’t say anything. We studiously avoid making eye contact with the Gay Pirate Plate mounted proud and ugly on the wall. We notice one another studiously avoiding looking at it. We notice one another noticing. We say nothing. We come to a silent consensus. We pack up to leave. We get in the van. Our aunt comes out to say goodbye. I loudly announce I need to use the restroom before we leave. She obviously stays outside to continue talking to my dad.

I take down the Gay Pirate Plate, stuff it under my oversized sweatshirt, go outside, and get in the van. She happily waves goodbye as we drive off.

Two days later my dad gets a phone call that opens with hysterical laughter and “You FUCKING ASSHOLE did you seriously STEAL THE PLATE–”

Anyway. The gay pirate plate lives in my dad’s house currently.

The plate must be clearly and openly displayed in a place of great prominence whenever it is in your possession. When it is not in your possession, the display piece must remain in place. This is where you would put your gay pirate plate, IF YOU HAD ONE.

No active steps may be taken to prevent the theft of the Gay Pirate Plate. That goes against the spirit of the game, as does attempting to hide it.

The plate MUST be stolen and cannot be gifted or removed with permission. Should you witness attempted theft of the Gay Pirate Plate you are required to intervene and return it to its place.