tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11435360781299985202024-03-13T08:21:18.039-07:00Katie Harper WritesKatie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.comBlogger162125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-14260940556707338942012-11-23T07:00:00.000-08:002012-11-22T08:55:42.983-08:00I'M HAVING A BABY!!!<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was going to write a totally hilarious post
about Black Friday and the different types of shoppers you meet during the epic
orgy of greed, but I have better things to do today. I’M HAVING A BABY!! As you
read this, right now, as in this very second, I could be shooting a screaming
snot covered mini-human from my nether regions. This is good news for you. This
momentous occasion has inspired me to team up with Decadent Publishing to give
away a fully loaded nook. I know, you’re thinking, “WHAT!! A nook filled with
all the greatest hot and spicy from Decadent Publishing. My Christmas shopping
could be done with one swipe and click of my mouse. I could spend time with
people I love. I could make those delicious Oreo cookie ball thingies I’ve been
threatening to make for years. I could send out Christmas cards. Herald angels
will sing! Could this really be possible?” Yes, it can. Click on the link below
to enter to win the nook. Also, comment below with your guess for the weight of
the fruit of my loins and the closest guess will win a copy of my book, Never
Say Just. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Details to aid you in your quest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">*I’m having a girl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">*She’s three weeks early.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">*My last child weighed seven pounds eleven
ounces and was born one week early.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now click this link to enter to win the nook!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<img alt="ReaderAReaderPROMOblue" height="212" src="http://xa.yimg.com/kq/groups/60511981/sn/1379750873/name/ReaderAReaderPROMOblue.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://decadentpublishing.blogspot.com/p/giveaways.html">CLICK HERE TO WIN A NOOK FULL OF NAKED PEOPLE!</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And to read my take on giving birth and labor,
read this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://katieharperwrites.blogspot.com/2012/01/my-baby-sister-is-in-labor.html">My baby sister is having a baby!</a></span></div>
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Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-10456371017940101942012-08-02T11:12:00.002-07:002012-08-02T11:12:25.053-07:00Chapter OneHOLY CRAP!! It's been over a month since I posted. In my defense, I moved to a different state. But really there is no excuse for neglecting my blog. To say sorry, I'm giving you a taste of Never Say Just! Here's the first chapter. Read, comment, and you could win a free copy!!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hU9MqBoT_hV18T4ZP06HYKDhsfjWOkZw2m8iSL99os2Ekd6YpPGv9zCtC84ADVmS_d5jW3sZSN8M3k6Dg6bn1KjNlykIKRHXj4UntoTndsx0hs_PGtnZgx9IbArIoKT8TVDKmo8QRFM/s1600/NSJ+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0hU9MqBoT_hV18T4ZP06HYKDhsfjWOkZw2m8iSL99os2Ekd6YpPGv9zCtC84ADVmS_d5jW3sZSN8M3k6Dg6bn1KjNlykIKRHXj4UntoTndsx0hs_PGtnZgx9IbArIoKT8TVDKmo8QRFM/s350/NSJ+Cover.jpg" /></a>Never Say Just<br />
By<br />
Katie Harper<br />
<br />
Chapter One<br />
<br />
I am a cow. Just paint block spots on me and teach me to moo because it’s official. I’m a Holstein. There were at least five hundred head of cattle crammed into a pen decorated with vomit-colored industrial carpet and covered in Tag Heuer and Kay Jewelers advertisements. Just as I felt a long, melodious, and forlorn moo creep up my throat, the screen above the cattle yard changed from “On Time” to “Arrived.” Halle-freaking-lujah! My brother’s plane had landed and my barnyard hell would be over.<br />
<br />
After eighteen months he would finally be home. Any moment he would ride down the escalator and I’d be able to hug him and make sure he’d returned home, healthy, and in one piece. Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I tried to see over the head of the Andre the Giant wannabe in front of me. I threw an elbow when a man with questionable fashion sense and way too much aftershave got too close. When I felt the unmistakable piercing of a cheap kitten-heel pump on the top of my foot, I very nearly spit cud at a woman who’d clearly eaten New Orleans’s share of fried Twinkies while waiting for her Internet love match to arrive.<br />
<br />
The TSA sponsored bestial torture could be worse. Remember when you could practically walk right up to the plane, shake the pilot’s hand, and ask the flight attendants for a rum and Coke? When people crowded in front of the arrivals terminal as if they were the oldest group of single bridesmaids on the planet and the bride was about to throw the bouquet? After 9/11 they expected the family members, friends, and would-be terrorists to stand in the baggage area and wait for their passengers like civilized people.<br />
<br />
I waited in the cattle chute from hell for my older brother, Tyler Wallace. Tyler was my hero. When the call to war resonated throughout our country, he left behind a full ride scholarship to Stanford to join the Marine Corps. Everyone thought he had gone nuts. In my opinion, he was definitely somewhere between a macadamia and a pecan, but he didn’t care. He wanted to serve his country as our father and grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great…. Well, you get the idea. My brother was probably the smartest person to be accepted to every Ivy League university in the country. If he ever went on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire,” he could answer all the questions correctly, use zero life lines, and walk off with the million dollar novelty check before the first commercial break.<br />
<br />
Middle Eastern languages had been a hobby of his since the first Gulf War. He spoke fluent Arabic, Hebrew, Farsi, and Dari. He took his hobbies seriously. Staff Sergeant Wallace could have been an officer stationed in a nice, safe office with a view of a golf course or yacht club. To no one’s astonishment he turned a life of leisure down and demanded his constitutional right to make stupid decisions and became a grunt.<br />
<br />
He wanted to be in the trenches, or dunes, or whatever they’re called in this war. And that is why I saw him roll toward me in a wheel chair instead of on two healthy legs. Wait! A wheelchair? What is he doing in a wheel chair? Yes, he’d been injured in an explosion, but I had no idea he wasn’t ambulatory. I shouldered my way past the Jerseys, Guernseys, and Holsteins to get to him. Just as a TSA officer tried to rugby-tackle me to the ground and drag me off to some secret underground prison in the Louis Armstrong Airport, Tyler stood up, as if he’d been faith-healed, and walked toward me. As you can imagine, I was extremely relieved. I expressed how happy I felt to see him whole and healthy by throwing a punch aimed at his jaw, which he expertly blocked. After that nothing-but-love-hey-how-are-ya, I gripped Tyler in a fierce hug.<br />
<br />
“What the hell?” I pointed to the empty wheel chair.<br />
<br />
He pulled away from me. “What kind of big brother would I be if I didn’t tease my little sister?”<br />
<br />
Son of a bitch.<br />
<br />
He pressed a light kiss to my forehead. “How’ve you been, kitten?”<br />
<br />
Emotion didn’t scare me. I didn’t consider tears a sign of weakness or anything. They’re just a waste of the Earth’s finite water resources. But hearing the one and only person left on the planet who could call me kitten without getting five fisted digits to the solar plexus whisper in my ear almost made me tear up. As the storms cleared, I saw five lethal Marines behind my brother. They just stood there, obviously uncomfortable, waiting for something.<br />
<br />
I wanted to find the inconsiderate jerks who’d leave their country’s warriors to fend for themselves when Tyler released me and turned to face his brothers in khaki. He kept an arm around my shoulders and said, “Martinez, Switch, Doc, Horndog, Shooter, this is my little sister, Kat Boudreaux.”<br />
<br />
They all nodded their heads slightly and said, “Ma’am,” in unison.<br />
<br />
“We were all in the same unit. I told them they could stay with us.” He paused and cleared his throat. “For the summer.”<br />
<br />
Tyler tightened his grip on my shoulder, firmly rooting me to the vomit-colored industrial carpet. I didn’t know what my face said, but it didn’t say, “I’m so glad! Please come and stay in my home. You’re always welcome.” In fact, I’m almost positive it said, “WTF!”<br />
<br />
My darling brother stood his ground under the intense heat of my glare. The laws of physiology stopped. Daggers, real live actual daggers shot from my eyes and embedded into my brother’s neck. Okay, maybe that had been a hallucination, but my anger must have been tangible because my six-foot-four, two-hundred-eighty pound, big brother cowered under the stare of his five-foot-six, one-hundred-twenty pound little sister. His face resembled a lobster’s after it had been pulled from the safety of the tank at the local Tail n’ Claw. He knew he was about to be boiled alive and devoured.<br />
<br />
“It’s okay, isn’t it?” As I’m about to say hell no, he hits me with, “They have nowhere else to go.”<br />
Great! Just freaking great! Tyler and I had been orphans for a while and even though our parents died when we were both technically adults, we were still a little lost. Tyler knew I couldn’t turn someone away who had no family to go home to. He knew my weak spots and he’d exploited them. Bastard. It’s not that I didn’t have the room, I had acres of room. I didn’t like strange people in my house. I didn’t take in stray dogs or run an orphanage for abandoned kittens. I just wasn’t that kind of girl.<br />
<br />
They have nowhere else to go. The second those words crossed Tyler’s lips they sent electricity into my cold, dead heart. I glared at him and then at Martinez, Switch, Doc, Horndog, and Shooter. Though their builds and stances resembled Spartan warriors that would have made Leonidas proud, they had matching expressions on their faces that looked like Cindy Lou Who asking the Grinch for a glass of milk. Not even the Grinch escaped the effects of Cindy Lou, so I didn’t feel too badly when I slumped from my brother’s grasp and pulled my cell phone from my bag.<br />
<br />
“You better get down on your knees and thank God for the massive thunderstorm last night that forced me to bring the Escalade.” I pushed buttons on my phone with the same force required to slam a hot rivet through iron. “We’re on our way out, Gregory. All seven of us. Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.”<br />
<br />
My new contingent of Marines followed me to the baggage carousel. As we watched the luggage, I observed my little group of the few, the proud. The one Tyler had called Switch helped a blue-haired lady maneuver a suitcase the size of a steamer trunk onto a Handi-Cart. Doc sat on his haunches while he thumb-wrestled a young boy whose mother pulled a Buzz Lightyear suitcase from the parade of black Samsonite. Martinez gave directions to an Asian couple. Obviously the self-appointed guardian of the group, Shooter stood back with his arms folded over his huge chest. Horndog flirted with a group of sorority sisters. Guess that explained the name. While their actions didn’t endear them to me, they did cause the permafrost that encased my heart to break a sweat. They reminded me of Tyler and myself, the lost boys. No family, except each other.<br />
<br />
The big khaki duffels wormed their way up and out of the ejection ramp and on to the carousel. My Marines picked up their bags and hefted them onto their shoulders. As we walked to the curb, I saw them shoot each other wary glances. They most certainly didn’t feel welcomed to the great city of New Orleans. And they definitely would not receive the red carpet treatment when we arrived at my home in Bayou Boudreaux. It wasn’t my responsibility to make life any easier for them. They could blame Tyler for my less than Southern hospitality.<br />
<br />
We emerged on the other side of the sliding doors and were instantly hit in the face by the trademark humidity of the Crescent City. My Marines staggered as if they’d received a physical blow. It took all the powers of heaven and hell to not turn around, point, and laugh. I guess going from an arid desert to a climate that allowed you to skinny dip in the open air could be a shock to the system. I led them to the curb where a black Escalade with dark tinted windows waited. Gregory had driven and maintained the Boudreaux family cars for years. He was part chauffer, part father figure. He got out of the driver’s seat, rounded the car, opened the back, and offered the interlopers help with their bags. They all declined.<br />
<br />
My home was sixty-three minutes from the New Orleans airport, and the entire sixty-three minutes were spent in absolute silence. The Escalade had been tricked out with DVD players, TVs, satellite, game consoles, and a mini fridge. Was that why they held their tongues? Nope, the lack of chatter could be attributed to the hostility rolling off my body. I turned to see the six Marines wedged into the back two benches. They reminded me of too many pickles crammed into a jar. That gave me a bit too much joy. It was wrong to be happy about their discomfort. But I was.<br />
<br />
You must understand. I didn’t hate these men. My gratitude for the sacrifices they’d made for their country ran deep, and at any other time it would have been an honor to be in their presence. But the fact was, I did not handle strangers well. Not very long ago, if a stranger knocked on my front door, I would have had a full blown panic attack. My vision would tunnel, my hands would sweat and tingle, I would hyperventilate and have a stab of fear not unlike what I imagine every big-breasted blonde in every horror movie ever made had when she ran up the stairs instead of out the front door. I didn’t blame them for throwing me into a panic-induced tailspin. How could they have known what their presence would do? No, the fault rested squarely on the well-muscled shoulders of my brother. The man I had been absolutely beside myself with worry over was the one responsible for my level of stress. He knew my fears. He knew why I had these fears. He knew what his guests would do to me. But did he take five seconds to consider me before he invited Private Gump and his band of Bubbas to stay at my house? No, no he did not. And for that he would pay. Dearly.<br />
<br />
Strangers and visitors hadn’t always frightened me. Once upon a time my job required me to be cool and controlled at all times. Blending in literally meant life or death. I could have been an old woman in a bazaar or a young man on a dirt bike. Rolling with the punches and anticipating my opponents every move had been second nature. I had to know their thoughts before they did. My life literally depended on my ability to think on my feet and never let anyone know how terrified I was, not even myself. Over the years my skills had obviously cankered.<br />
<br />
The sixty-three minute drive to my house took us through the city, on the freeway, across highways, down country roads filled with potholes, and through bayou country until we reached my driveway. My side dish to accompany my entrée of fear tonight will be a lovely steamed portion of apprehension on a bed of extreme anxiety. My apprehension wasn’t because my Marines would be forced to sleep in pup tents on my front lawn and battle gators for empty yard space. I was nervous because these Marines with nowhere else to go would be staying in the Boudreaux Plantation House, the largest private home in the South. Boudreaux House ranked number ten in the list of largest homes in the country—smaller than Whitehall in Palm Beach and larger than the White House in DC. These men, who had lived out of the back of a Humvee for the past eighteen months, would judge me based on the opulence of my home.<br />
<br />
Boudreaux House wasn’t the home I’d been raised in. I grew up in a brown brick rambler with one fully functioning bathroom in Oklahoma. I married the plantation house. Three years before, it had become mine. All fifty-two thousand square feet, sixteen bedrooms, twenty-two bathrooms, two gourmet kitchens, theater, ballroom, library, music room, conservatory, six galleries, seven staircases, eighteen other rooms that could be used for anything from a book club meeting to a state dinner, and staff quarters complete with the workforce necessary to clean all the previously mentioned space. The grounds were home to a natural lake, formal gardens, tennis courts, stables, assorted outbuildings, and a natatorium—which is just rich speak for a building that housed a swimming pool. My daughter and I lived there with seventeen staff members: maids, cooks, gardeners, guards, and a driver. Yup, seventeen people to take care of two. If I wasn’t comfortable there, how were my “guests” supposed to feel at home?<br />
<br />
As we pulled up to the gate and guard house, Jake, my head of security, craned his neck to peer into the Escalade. “Looks like you caught yourself ‘bout half a dozen there, Ms. Kat. Five more than ya went out for. Not a bad day’s fishin’ if you ask me.”<br />
<br />
Biting back my retort, I said, “Yes, I definitely went over my limit.”<br />
<br />
He chuckled and pushed the button to let us in. In the past three years the people who lived with my daughter and I had become much closer than staff. They were closer than friends. They were family. And I took care of my family. I should have closed up most of the house, but that would eliminate the need for the majority of the select people on the planet I could stand to be around for more than three hours. I kept the estate running for them. They needed it. Some of them had been with the place since they were kids, their parents cleaning the floors and pruning the bushes before them. Others were raising their own children there. Sending them all an eviction notice would be cruel.<br />
<br />
As we drove down my driveway, I pulled the visor down. Through the mirror I could see the expressions on my Marines’ faces. Their reaction to my home would help me determine if the summer would be the Dante levels of hell I expected or the Rob Zombie horror fest I’d prepared for. The moment Boudreaux House came into view, I cataloged and analyzed their responses. Martinez raised an eyebrow and glanced at Switch who rolled his eyes. Doc’s jaw disengaged and hit the floor of the Escalade. Horndog calculated how many bikini clad Southern belles he could keep in a place that big. Shooter had no expression. He kept his arms crossed over his chest, staring straight ahead. Tyler had spent a lot of time in my home and was no longer impressed. He sat directly behind me, asleep, drooling on my leather interior. The sweetness of payback warmed my soul.<br />
<br />
As we stopped in front of the two sweeping sets of front steps that led into the antebellum palace, I placed my hand on Gregory’s forearm and turned my gaze to my sweet, sleeping brother. Gregory knew me well enough to understand what my intentions were. I opened the front door, turned on the ball of my foot to face the back passenger door, and without warning, opened it, spilling my darling brother onto the pavement.<br />
<br />
“Son of a—!” he yelled.<br />
<br />
He jumped up, determined to kill the person who’d so rudely interrupted his Z’s. He’d forgotten he no longer had to battle immature Marines for bed space and when he righted himself, he threw a punch. At me. His fist never made contact. Big Joe, my enormous gardener with a heart the size of Texas, appeared and caught Tyler’s fist in the palm of his hand. Big Joe’s mahogany paw tightened on my brother’s clenched fist.<br />
“I don’ really care who ya be, Mr. Tyler. You throw a punch at my Miss Kat, and we’s gonna have a problem.”<br />
<br />
I placed a calming hand on the big man’s shoulder. “It’s all right Joe. He’d never hurt me. I startled him is all.”<br />
<br />
He turned his molasses-colored eyes on me, read my face. Once he realized I had never been in any danger, he released my brother’s injured hand. Big Joe had been born in the staff quarters of the house thirty-seven years before. His mother had been let go from a more “respectable” home in New Orleans when her employers discovered she was pregnant with the chauffer’s baby. My mother-in-law took her in as a maid. Etienne and Madeleine Boudreaux insisted she stop working until six weeks after the birth. The baby came early. He had been so large that he got caught in the birth canal, deprived of oxygen. His mother lost a lot of blood bringing him into the world. She died during childbirth.<br />
<br />
Etienne and Madeleine didn’t send him to child services or pawn him off on a relative. They took care of him and raised him with their own son. When it came time to put him in school, a very uncompassionate school counselor told them Joe had severe learning disabilities. Etienne and Madeleine fought tooth and nail to keep him in school. Finally, they decided to hire a tutor and educate him at home. He never learned to read or write. But he loved the outdoors and became very close with the gardener. He taught Big Joe how to grow flowers and mow a lawn and how to prune a pecan tree and how to get rid of kudzu. He grew to be the best gardener in all of Louisiana. And years ago he had been ordered to look after me by someone who once meant everything to me. He took that job very seriously.<br />
<br />
Five Marines peeled out of the Escalade. A smile crossed my face when I saw them practically fall on their asses. It looked like a herd of hippos crashing out of a clown car. Grace must not be part of military training. I left them to get their bags. They were big boys; they could handle themselves. Besides, if I didn’t inform Edna Mae, my ancient housekeeper, about the impending horde, she’d kick my ass up one side and down the other.<br />
<br />
I rushed through the big, white double doors and ran to the kitchen. Edna would be there. You could always find her in the kitchen even if she never had been, technically, the cook. I ran around two corners, down one set of stairs, through a long hallway, and crashed through swinging kitchen doors. When I skidded across the black-and-white tile floor, I caught myself on one of the free-standing stainless steel counters. The mansion had a gym, but the treadmills and stationary bikes were rarely used. Running the place gave me enough cardio, thank you very much. Edna jumped to her feet. Her steel grey hair didn’t move from its bun even though she had been thrown into an obvious state of distress.<br />
<br />
“Where’s Lilly?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“She’s out back pickin’ some herbs from the garden. Land sakes, child, what is goin’ on? Is Derek fishing with dynamite again?” Edna always got to the point.<br />
<br />
“My brother,” I said through gritted teeth, “invited five of his Marine buddies to stay with us for the summer. I need five more rooms made up on the second floor, and I need to tell Lilly to make, like, ten times the amount of food then she normally makes. These guys must make the manager at the Golden Corral weep when they walk in. Tell her not to worry about the etouffee. We don’t have time. Tell her to just boil the shrimp and crawfish. But we’ll need lots of jambalaya. And don’t worry about serving in the dining room. We’ll eat in the back yard.”<br />
<br />
Edna nodded and went to work. I knew she’d have the rooms ready before Hurricane Semper Fi made landfall upstairs. If that woman had been in charge of the Normandy invasion, we would have made it up the beach and into Germany in under a month. With washed and pressed uniforms.<br />
<br />
I trekked back to the front of the house, the whole time thinking of ways to punish Tyler. He didn’t know it yet, but it was so on. Where in that beautiful, brilliant brain of his did he come up with the idea that it would be super great to invite five strangers to stay in my house for the summer? Not for a week, for the summer. That’s like, a fourth of the year!<br />
<br />
I found all my Marines, except my brother, standing outside the door. I denied myself the pleasure of slamming the ten-foot tall, double white-washed door on their faces and waved them in. Why hadn’t Tyler invited them in? Maybe he had let them know I wasn’t too thrilled to have their company so they waited for me.<br />
<br />
Maybe they suspected my house had been set with booby traps. At this thought a wry smile moved across my lips. Note to self, install booby traps to impale, blow up, fry, and/or electrocute Tyler.<br />
<br />
They followed me through the house, up the stairs, and to their rooms. I showed them their bathrooms and pointed out the cupboards with towels and washcloths. Edna could work miracles. All the curtains were drawn, fresh linens were on the beds, and the showers were stocked with soap and shampoo. No doubt the medicine cabinets had been filled with spare toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, band aids, Tylenol, combs, and other stuff people tend to forget when traveling. Based on where these guys had come from, I guessed they’d need all of it. After they put their duffels down, I rounded them up in the hall.<br />
<br />
“Follow me,” I said and, being good little soldiers used to taking orders, they did. We walked in silence to the end of the corridor. Edna had placed them in this wing of the house for a reason.<br />
<br />
At the end of their hall was, what I to refer to as the Gentleman’s Club at Boudreaux House. It was a gentleman’s club in the most traditional sense. It wasn’t a place where naked tweakers danced around poles waiting for the random perv to slip a five dollar bill in their g-strings. My Club had a fully stocked bar, pool table, fireplace, humidor, 103” flat screen TV, every sports package known to man, card table, leather club chairs, and a variety of dead heads and skins from Africa hanging on the wall. All cherry wood and dark green, it was a big boys’ playroom. It hadn’t been used in years, but I kept things updated. I’d installed the bigger TV six months ago and made sure the room was ready to use. I had intended on giving the man cave to Tyler as a gift, but I didn’t know if he really deserved it any more.<br />
<br />
When my Marines saw the haven of all things testosterone, a jolt of pride surged through me. They clearly liked it. Good, maybe they’ll stay in here all summer, and I won’t have to worry about them.<br />
<br />
“Wait here. I’ll find Tyler. He can give you the tour. You’re welcome to use anything in my home but consider this area your base. It’s kind of the guys’ room in the house.”<br />
<br />
“Mrs. Boudreaux.”<br />
<br />
I had started to leave but stopped when the deep, slow, surprisingly quiet voice began to speak. I turned back.<br />
<br />
Shooter had the dark, thick-as-cold-honey voice. “Thank you for letting us stay here. Thank you for taking care of my men.”<br />
<br />
I nodded and said much quieter than I wanted, “If you’re going to live here, I think you best call me Kat.”<br />
<br />
No, no, no! Absolutely not! They are not allowed to be nice to me. They are imposing. They should be arrogant, lazy, and disrespectful. Their gratitude made it harder for me to be mad at my brother. Harder, but not impossible.<br />
<br />
As I walked down the hall, I heard what could only be Horndog’s voice say, “Is it just me, or is Tongue’s sister really hot?”<br />
<br />
I spun on my heel ready to give Horndog a piece of my mind and possibly a black eye when the unmistakable sound of an antique ivory pool ball hitting a human target rang through the corridor. I paused, waiting to hear which Marine had bean-balled Horndog. My stomach clenched when I heard Shooter say,<br />
<br />
“We’re not here for that, Dog. Get your head on straight. And I mean your big head, not the one below your waist you tend to think with.”<br />
<br />
A smile crept onto my face. Shooter had earned three gold stars. The rest were still on my no-fly list.<br />
<br />
Normally I would never let someone else fight my battles, but I wanted to be around the tall, quiet, and deadly crowd as little as possible, so I let Shooter handle Horndog. It truly was a sacrifice. I hadn’t hit something with the intent to harm in a long damn time. But I had more important things to take care of. Finding and executing my brother was on the top of that list.<br />
<br />
I searched all his usual haunts in the house but didn’t turn up so much as a toenail. I checked his room, the theater, the kitchen, and the library. Nothing. I ran into Jason, the young man in charge of the indoor plants. He told me he saw Tyler going up to the third floor. There would be only one reason for Tyler to go to the third floor and that reason is about three feet tall, has long blond hair, and two missing front teeth. I ran the stairs stopping on the landing of the top floor of the house. I paused outside a pink door and took a deep breath. I opened it and found Tyler.<br />
<br />
He sat on the pink carpet wearing a tutu, boa, and tiara drinking a cup of imaginary tea. He even had his pinky extended, as no doubt Sam had insisted. Across from Tyler sat the only person in the world that made me truly happy, my five-year-old daughter Samantha. Samantha was an absolute joy. She never complained, never whined, and never caused trouble. She always had a warm hug and an I love you waiting for me. She saw me and ran at me, catching me around the waist.<br />
<br />
“Hey, girlie, what have you done to Uncle Tyler?”<br />
<br />
“Nothing, Mom, he wanted some tea and I had to make sure he dressed for it.” Sam was a Southern girl to her core.<br />
<br />
“Well that’s very nice of you. How about you let me and Uncle Tyler talk? He needs to do something for me, but when he’s done he can come back and finish his tea.”<br />
<br />
“The tea party’s over. So he can go. I have to move Barbie’s furniture to her new house and then I have to make sure all my bears are comfortable.”<br />
<br />
Oh, how I wanted her concerns.<br />
<br />
Tyler stood up and followed me out the door. “What’s scratchin’, kitten?”<br />
<br />
I hated it when he’d say that. It reminded me of cat scratch fever and that was just disgusting. I didn’t say anything until we reached my suite of rooms. I didn’t want Sam to hear me give her beloved uncle a tongue lashing. I closed the door behind him, sufficiently trapping him, a rat in cage. He sat in an overstuffed white chair in my sitting room.<br />
<br />
Sitting across from him, I said, “You know you’re going to die right?”<br />
<br />
“I figured.” He said it like a man on death row who had exhausted all his appeals and was just waiting for the priest and the executioner to show.<br />
<br />
“Of course, I won’t kill you right away. I need you to do some things for me first. Your friends are down in the Club. They need a tour. Show them the entire house and grounds. After that, set up tables and chairs on the back lawn for dinner.” Then I had a spark of brilliance. “And I trust you guys only have your khakis to wear. They’ll be too hot through the summer and they are absolutely dreadful. So you’re going shopping. Go to Lakeside in Metarie. They have J. Crew, Banana Republic, Eddie Bauer—you can get everything in one stop. Make them get casual clothes and shoes. I’ll arrange for Christopher to come in and fit all six of you for a tux. You’ll be here for the Founder’s Day Celebration. You know what that means.” I hadn’t asked him to break Mt. Everest into gravel, but the look he gave me said I might as well have. “I’m assuming the Corps doesn’t provide you with any of those things.”<br />
<br />
He pushed himself off the chair to stand in front of me. “Is this how the entire summer is going to be? You’re going to torture me.”<br />
<br />
I stood and stared him in the eye. “Torture? No, honey, this isn’t torture. This is hospitality. The torture starts tomorrow.”<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Never-Say-Just-ebook/dp/B008C9MD06">Amazon</a><br />
<br />
Now leave a comment! You could win the whole damn thing!!<br />
<br />Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-50338229307378324192012-06-19T09:42:00.000-07:002012-06-19T09:42:28.500-07:00Buy Never Say Just!!<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixL1lQ0UTE1J0-yEhU_39W4gm9HI29StwI_S42WYNQlflMzPzPxEsegzv6rXbKlH-6zt60XFfYbaPrT_he0Tt2luqkbGeQWUHeVtz1qMbKaqcFcgVzCMWKRlOUF0S2P4LRao3125IeaJU/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixL1lQ0UTE1J0-yEhU_39W4gm9HI29StwI_S42WYNQlflMzPzPxEsegzv6rXbKlH-6zt60XFfYbaPrT_he0Tt2luqkbGeQWUHeVtz1qMbKaqcFcgVzCMWKRlOUF0S2P4LRao3125IeaJU/s320/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" width="212" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Guess what kidlettes! NEVER SAY JUST HAS
OFFICIALLY BEEN RELEASED!! I know, it’s better than the day your kids were
born. Here’s a taste of this awesome story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Blurb: Haunted by her past of murder for hire and
skinning people alive to gather vital intelligence, Kat Boudreaux wants nothing
more than to hide away in her sprawling mansion with the love of her life--her
daughter. But then Private Gump and his band of Bubbas land on her doorstep.
Her brother and his unit of misfit Marines insert themselves with the misguided
need to protect her from someone hell-bent on vengeance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For Shooter, it's love at first sight, though he
wouldn't be caught dead admitting it. When Kat is nearly fatally injured while
saving his life, he knows he's found the woman for him. Together, they fight side by side to get to
the bottom of the threats. Kat's daughter is kidnapped and this ex-assassin mom
reverts back to old habits to save her. Saving Kat and her daughter is easy,
taming the shrew that is Hell Kat Boudreaux might meaning losing his favorite
appendage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Excerpt: Shooter leaned over and whispered in my
ear, “Bar?” Oh God yes. Yeah, this evening will be brought to you by Jack
Daniels and Jim Beam. I ordered a shot of whatever was closest and downed it.
Shooter handed me a mint julep while he sipped his scotch. Bless that man. I
scanned the room for the enemy. I had honed this skill over several missions
for GSA. It’s amazing how quickly things come back to you when you were
threatened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My gaze fell on the first threat, Louise
LaLourie. Why her parents had named her
Louise with a last name like LaLourie was completely beyond me. Of course she
had sported several other last names over the years but she always returned to
LaLourie. At one time she desperately wanted to be known as Louise Boudreaux.
But, I was married to my husband at the time and he had shown her the no
trespassing sign right away. Louise held a flute of champagne in her hand, her
cunning eyes searched for the next Mr. LaLourie. Her sights fell on me and she
stalked forward. I’m not kidding, she stalked, like a lioness, toward me. I
looked over at Shooter. I needed to warn him that the most bedded woman in New
Orleans was on the prowl. He was busy at the bar fighting for his
constitutional right to get good and shit faced completely missing my look of
caution. Since I knew Louise watched me
I smiled and prayed the words “die, bitch, die” were not tattooed on my
forehead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Oh my gawd Are you finally out of mourning?” Her
accent was so thick you could cut it with a K-Bar. “I understand grieving, but
honey you can’t put yourself in cold storage for the rest of your life. But you
are looking great. Look at you. I was afraid you’d locked yourself up in that
big ole house and either ate or drank yourself to death. I am so relieved to
see you looking as good as ever. Who are you wearing, darlin’? You look
positively wonderful.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course her compliments were about as real as
her boobs, but I smiled back and said, “Versace.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Donatella?” Louise asked with pity in her voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No, Gianni. It went up for auction at Sotheby’s a
few years ago and I just had to have it. Though this is the first time I’ve
worn it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Edna could
look forward to a big, fat Christmas bonus this year. The envy on Louise’s face
was priceless. It was worth coming to this damn ho down, and I mean ho down,
just to see her face turn a lovely shade of green. She would have given a lot
to own an original Gianni but she didn’t and I did. Take that you nasty bitch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Shooter took that moment to turn around and hand
me another cocktail. His eyes went big and he tried to take a step back but the
bar was in the way. I hadn’t taken in what Louise wore until that moment. She
wore a black, too tight to breathe, strapless Dolce and Gabbana that made her
boobs spill over the tops. Truth be told I had that same dress in my closet at
home. But I would never choose to accessorize it with a purple leopard bra that
poked strategically above the neckline. Her lecherous eyes zeroed in on
Shooter. She had the sniper in her sites and he was about to feel the full
force of Louise’s slut-o-matic up close and personal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well, hello. You must be Kat’s brother?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No, Louise,” I interrupted, “This is my date.” I
choked on the last word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Louise didn’t care. She wouldn’t care if a man was
in bed with his wife on their wedding night, she believed all men were
available. “And what is your name, gorgeous?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Shooter,” he smiled and leaned into her gaze a
slight come and get me smile smeared across his face. I seriously wanted to pop
his eyes out with a shrimp fork but I reigned in my rage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“And what is it that you do, Mr. Shooter?”
Translation: Can you afford me? She said as she pressed herself up against his
body shamelessly exposing all her voluptuous assets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He raised his hand and extended a finger. Shooter
pushed the tip of his long thick finger into the center of Louise’s forehead
forcing her to take several steps backward. His gaze had gone from playful to
deadly. “I kill people,” his whisper was sinister. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here’s where you can buy this bitchin’ book:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.decadentpublishing.com/product_info.php?products_id=569&osCsid=jghs82n2ielkqgeond7vricl04">Decadent Publishing</a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Never-Say-Just-ebook/dp/B008C9MD06/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1340110892&sr=8-1&keywords=never+say+just">Amazon</a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/never-say-just-katie-harper/1111622259?ean=2940014706421">Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t want to buy it? Leave a comment below, WITH
YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS, and you could win your very own copy!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-14570581512801890702012-06-14T08:27:00.000-07:002012-06-14T08:27:57.442-07:00Meet Switch!<br />
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-9031601729059926109" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 498px;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 15pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixL1lQ0UTE1J0-yEhU_39W4gm9HI29StwI_S42WYNQlflMzPzPxEsegzv6rXbKlH-6zt60XFfYbaPrT_he0Tt2luqkbGeQWUHeVtz1qMbKaqcFcgVzCMWKRlOUF0S2P4LRao3125IeaJU/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixL1lQ0UTE1J0-yEhU_39W4gm9HI29StwI_S42WYNQlflMzPzPxEsegzv6rXbKlH-6zt60XFfYbaPrT_he0Tt2luqkbGeQWUHeVtz1qMbKaqcFcgVzCMWKRlOUF0S2P4LRao3125IeaJU/s200/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="133" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4SJhsWudUr_1bxjRLNo2-L0B7h60uNSjgKx2AbTu46xAsZvE1W_fRLfHGt7jCcMqgDoKDaaKhbkZ2mC4Vamp7e9VuXy989lJj0cKS7L5wknkViLWIYCto6O4_IQ5aDxLKj33flAPjYs/s1600/Switch1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4SJhsWudUr_1bxjRLNo2-L0B7h60uNSjgKx2AbTu46xAsZvE1W_fRLfHGt7jCcMqgDoKDaaKhbkZ2mC4Vamp7e9VuXy989lJj0cKS7L5wknkViLWIYCto6O4_IQ5aDxLKj33flAPjYs/s200/Switch1.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="162" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Bio:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Switch is the meanest member of the Rat Bastards. The only reason the other Bastards tolerate him is because he is very good at his job. Switch is responsible for the up close and personal kill. When Shooter can’t get a clean shot on a target, Switch is sent in to dispatch him. Switch is not friendly. He is not nice. He does not care if he offends you. He was built for one purpose and that one purpose is to kill. Hell Kat recognizes a fierce warrior in Switch and asks him to protect her daughter Samantha. Hell Kat knows Switch has no problem killing anyone who threatens Samantha’s safety, even if that threat is Hell Kat herself. No one really knows Switch. He is the most closed off of all the Bastards. Not even Shooter knows Switch’s whole story. Though Switch has a very tough exterior, he has a soft spot for Samantha and is willing to submit to pretty much anything she asks of him, as long as it doesn’t put her in danger. Switch is closer to Samantha than he is to his fellow Rat Bastards. Threaten her and he will force feed you your own eyeballs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Authors note: It was very difficult to get Switch to fill out his bio. He doesn’t play well with others. Switch is deadly. His bio reflects that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Character Bio Questionnaire</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Name: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I don’t have one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Rat Bastard Name:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Switch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">How did you get your Rat Bastard name?</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> The first person I killed I gutted with a switch blade. I was thirteen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <b>Occupation:</b> Marine, Bodyguard<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Relationship Status:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I’ve never been in a relationship. I have no desire to be in a relationship. Relationships just make you sloppy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Age: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">34</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Hair Color:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Black<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Eye Color: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Black</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Height:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> 6’3”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Weight:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> 180<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Motto:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I only need one chance to put you out of my misery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Distinguishing Marks:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Too many scars to care about.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiYvvLEOhsu1SnkfuPYUgb40skUxj8v5xw5L4BXV5ziNrpIDKSM7NioWUn_xa-KN32X7OoFVDYYOu8jlH8nyAETOILH0uNL6GCCHG4Weca_64e2MFU34cgZRO7ZVNDaqJ21wYsWkuFHk/s1600/switch2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiYvvLEOhsu1SnkfuPYUgb40skUxj8v5xw5L4BXV5ziNrpIDKSM7NioWUn_xa-KN32X7OoFVDYYOu8jlH8nyAETOILH0uNL6GCCHG4Weca_64e2MFU34cgZRO7ZVNDaqJ21wYsWkuFHk/s200/switch2.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 17px;">Favorite Weapon:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 17px;"> 6.5” Mercworx Handmade SHIVA Combat Dagger<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Best Friend:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Samantha Boudreaux<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Worst Enemy: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Anyone I’ve ever killed. My enemies don’t survive long.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Last Song Played On My iPod:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>Moonlight Sonata</i>, Beethoven<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFx6rjdkqG3T-q6_VKRX8bQqRyuAYkVDeQKX0s_TxmbYhWYwRG1lapVpm8y7rG8z6edDP5B-CRsCvtY9Rd8CVCfZWLyfSfOefGDJZnKthegRVdHmPOKG4t7MlkBktqslpw-nmvKN9euc/s1600/switch4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFx6rjdkqG3T-q6_VKRX8bQqRyuAYkVDeQKX0s_TxmbYhWYwRG1lapVpm8y7rG8z6edDP5B-CRsCvtY9Rd8CVCfZWLyfSfOefGDJZnKthegRVdHmPOKG4t7MlkBktqslpw-nmvKN9euc/s200/switch4.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="121" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Movie:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Samantha’s favorite movie right now is <i>The Incredible Mr. Limpet</i>, so I guess that’s my favorite movie too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Quote: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">“There will be killing until the score is paid.” –Homer (The Odyssey)</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Last Facebook Post:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> “******* ******* joined Facebook January 17, 2010.” I only have Facebook so Samantha can play Farmville. If any of you think of sending her inappropriate messages, don’t. I sit next to her the entire time she plays. If you say anything slightly offensive, your wife will be putting your meals in a Cuisinart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Ten things you should know about Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">10.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I do not threaten. I promise and when I give my word, I keep it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">9. </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I have killed more people than most serial killers. I do not apologize for my actions. They needed to be killed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <b>8.</b> Harm a child and I will turn you into a human kabob.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">7.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I don’t believe in family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">6.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Deciding if someone needs to die is easy. Facilitating that death is easier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">5.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> There is more to me than killing, but not much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">4. </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I do not hand out loyalty. I am loyal to the Rat Bastards because they’ve earned it. If you mistreat my fidelity you will live to regret it…. well, you will live for a while anyway.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">3</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">. I follow Shooter’s orders because he lets me kill bad guys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">2.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> If you and I were trapped on a deserted island, I’d have no problem eating you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">1</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">. Samantha is my world and my reason for living. Do not swear around her, treat her with respect, and if you think you might have an idea to maybe attempt to hurt her in any way, shape or form, I will rip your lungs out through your mouth and feed you feet first into an industrial plastic shredder. (See number 10)</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-72877298082644559792012-06-12T09:44:00.000-07:002012-06-12T09:44:22.213-07:00Meet Martinez!!!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yHrxU02WNYoMglR_j3VUUunMvshwFDzQCxvHszzPQS0ibCEwkjuzP8R2pT5uRGZg0Z99ayhXj9QMWAUeUxwjHeYc68dZoQDqAEUh416ucD4LRJrOtRsX83VkJg6cQDghlkVXMwD98SU/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yHrxU02WNYoMglR_j3VUUunMvshwFDzQCxvHszzPQS0ibCEwkjuzP8R2pT5uRGZg0Z99ayhXj9QMWAUeUxwjHeYc68dZoQDqAEUh416ucD4LRJrOtRsX83VkJg6cQDghlkVXMwD98SU/s200/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" style="background-color: transparent;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uy0Zi7JpyX09ewj4JJXNt6j2N6-dVxUUY-C0e9WQ6Q2KKRcQeEZIkb_EnLkjoy7vBOr5Xkqmw8WfZWDF0pd-AEJQZKkhlyQiLofraOCEFo9wks-RwprKOlOuXqXoIFtfRgtwrwCg0JY/s1600/Wolf1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uy0Zi7JpyX09ewj4JJXNt6j2N6-dVxUUY-C0e9WQ6Q2KKRcQeEZIkb_EnLkjoy7vBOr5Xkqmw8WfZWDF0pd-AEJQZKkhlyQiLofraOCEFo9wks-RwprKOlOuXqXoIFtfRgtwrwCg0JY/s200/Wolf1.jpg" style="background-color: transparent;" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Bio:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Martinez is the newest member of the Rat Bastards. He’s a </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 15pt;">probationary Rat Bastard which means he has not earned a name yet. Martinez is the name of the Rat Bastard who was killed in combat who he replaced. He doesn’t get his own name until he earns one. Martinez has to endure hazing on a Marine Corps level. He is not allowed to speak unless spoken to, he has to do the bidding of all initiated Rat Bastards, he is not allowed to drink alcohol until he is initiated. Absolutely anything a Rat Bastard may want, it is his responsibility to provide. Martinez specialty is close quarters combat. He kills most efficiently with his own two hands.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Since Martinez is basically the team’s bitch, he is not permitted to fill out his own bio. Horndog has graciously offered to do it for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Character Bio Questionnaire</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIKANYqALswvs0WVSNpHDGVeAAECKVSBxlucQwoPvLdTvAxqECNr2ngJ0YBmfaKwKu-PiYbiPtmdOrnA-DBLY0oRVDzKQcFjMhAX34rwX-Siy6r-LLTbC8zr-StbjNg897aCm0hsUfDc/s1600/wimp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIKANYqALswvs0WVSNpHDGVeAAECKVSBxlucQwoPvLdTvAxqECNr2ngJ0YBmfaKwKu-PiYbiPtmdOrnA-DBLY0oRVDzKQcFjMhAX34rwX-Siy6r-LLTbC8zr-StbjNg897aCm0hsUfDc/s200/wimp.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="192" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Name: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Nancy McSissyboy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Rat Bastard Name:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I cried like a little girl when I found out the best Bastard name had already been taken. Horndog gets all the ladies, all the cool names, all the cherry assignments, he’s pretty much my idol in every way. I’d pay to be Horndog’s bitch, but he won’t take me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">How did you get your Rat Bastard name?</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I will never be worthy of a Rat Bastard name. Excuse me for a minute. I need to get a tissue to sop up all these tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <b>Occupation:</b> Laundress, waitress, maid, human shield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Relationship Status:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> The one I want won’t have me. Why Horndog, why do you deny me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Age: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">295 months<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Hair Color:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Dark brown. You know, the color of a blood clot when it dries in the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe9qh0PDjqIjwqZjDkl4KwyZdZuxbiWPBycQxaF_BG__sk_PUgf23DjsGZ4G_1mvhUf0L8vr_6e47adhO42sU32DcrmZ3YV5BcOGxiu9yHwjEb26dtqJ5U1horQAyS7EKv-DWPr1vpbTk/s1600/purple+eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe9qh0PDjqIjwqZjDkl4KwyZdZuxbiWPBycQxaF_BG__sk_PUgf23DjsGZ4G_1mvhUf0L8vr_6e47adhO42sU32DcrmZ3YV5BcOGxiu9yHwjEb26dtqJ5U1horQAyS7EKv-DWPr1vpbTk/s1600/purple+eye.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Eye Color: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Purple, I’m 80% fairy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Height:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Two inches shorter than the giraffe at the zoo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Weight:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I’m around 280, but I wish I looked more like Horndog. Horndog has a perfect body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Motto:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> If it cries, cuddle it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Distinguishing Marks:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I have the cutest little dimples ever!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Weapon:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I would NEVER touch a weapon. Weapons are icky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Best Friend:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I don’t have friends, but I do have people I stalk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Worst Enemy:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Spiders! They come after me all the time. I have to call Horndog to kill them. He never comes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mlc9zIYw5XZb8wcKaWTIlwnoS_XAaiwJymAE9f9uk1SNXNBINGJ4QK_l5EzF81jJr-Z2-60rgBu8-PTZopDkaVI3ybx3SaS9E8iAzne8k-UyBVgEkzuRv_DdarECpsRZJmjW9qcBRd4/s1600/bffc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mlc9zIYw5XZb8wcKaWTIlwnoS_XAaiwJymAE9f9uk1SNXNBINGJ4QK_l5EzF81jJr-Z2-60rgBu8-PTZopDkaVI3ybx3SaS9E8iAzne8k-UyBVgEkzuRv_DdarECpsRZJmjW9qcBRd4/s200/bffc.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="140" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Last Song Played On My iPod:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>It’s Raining Men </i>by The Weather Girls<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Movie:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>A Boyfriend for Christmas</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Quote: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">If it has tires or testicles, you’re going to have trouble with it. -Unknown</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Last Facebook Post:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Can anyone bring me some Midol?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Ten things you should know about Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">10.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I shave every hair off my entire body every day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">9. </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Heels make my legs look sexy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <b>8.</b> I look like an upside down triangle. I wish I had a Marilyn Monroe figure.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">7.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I earn extra money testing breast implants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">6.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I get my roots done every month.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">5.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I can put down an entire pan of brownies in under thirty minutes when I’m PMSing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">4. </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I cry at weddings, funerals, births, and at the opening of the Nordstrom Semi-Annual Shoe Sale</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinW3snNtkkPfDbG4qmKiBXgEjfUmx5c5Kz0ufUpbLAjFms77Lsr2ggpil6uhd0CwcH2zgTgndsn1D83xh7hEydMEjTK44XWk0Tx2WvUQCc1yq3SoPPaZqWKEWHh0cLjsbG8FhemNPlwTA/s1600/vs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinW3snNtkkPfDbG4qmKiBXgEjfUmx5c5Kz0ufUpbLAjFms77Lsr2ggpil6uhd0CwcH2zgTgndsn1D83xh7hEydMEjTK44XWk0Tx2WvUQCc1yq3SoPPaZqWKEWHh0cLjsbG8FhemNPlwTA/s200/vs.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">3</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">. Spanx are my best friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">2.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I have crocheted a sweater for every single Rat Bastard in a shade that best brings out their eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwI7fbXSecc1pOw54oVeKmMleh1KD0qbVAGSA3p2UAcYRGuPViRXAsAaKIqyh0k18apAbIm86zjI3EhoXD59fqnMUKvtkrnNxz0W65O1_KdhrTGjefWsVFwuxD73qrUAtzVt1EmKj9UA/s1600/NSJ-KH-banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #e06666; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="85" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVwI7fbXSecc1pOw54oVeKmMleh1KD0qbVAGSA3p2UAcYRGuPViRXAsAaKIqyh0k18apAbIm86zjI3EhoXD59fqnMUKvtkrnNxz0W65O1_KdhrTGjefWsVFwuxD73qrUAtzVt1EmKj9UA/s400/NSJ-KH-banner.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-78895385174666119422012-06-06T08:56:00.000-07:002012-06-06T08:56:37.347-07:00MEET DOC!!<br />
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Meet Doc!</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQODqOiCIsK806WpSBYoAPmH962eLgJNM5X154JpNpr_WNfk8dpev5GAh2R0vSaaUS5YbThUtUzi0IN3KGi074mRo_hxUdODQNb859S5rnPWsOyPYEt-ChJiQklVL-X873MUePLLcWfBU/s1600/Doc1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQODqOiCIsK806WpSBYoAPmH962eLgJNM5X154JpNpr_WNfk8dpev5GAh2R0vSaaUS5YbThUtUzi0IN3KGi074mRo_hxUdODQNb859S5rnPWsOyPYEt-ChJiQklVL-X873MUePLLcWfBU/s1600/Doc1.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGnReusziMUoOR773F1GHwGYB00vm9tJUY3P4DUbYXAxc9sw41euve7f-DZHHXpNPq9yffwbDUyzh_wZy3GOmL7dmEu77d_0VXNlo3HaWZmNPQUuaEi6qs-6QzJ8dHL6uQCJUR18eLHQE/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGnReusziMUoOR773F1GHwGYB00vm9tJUY3P4DUbYXAxc9sw41euve7f-DZHHXpNPq9yffwbDUyzh_wZy3GOmL7dmEu77d_0VXNlo3HaWZmNPQUuaEi6qs-6QzJ8dHL6uQCJUR18eLHQE/s200/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="133" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Bio:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Doc is the team’s medic. The Marine Corps does not have medical staff so Doc is technically a Navy Corpsman. Don’t ever say he’s not a Marine. The Rat Bastards will kick the crap out of you. To them, he is all Marine. Doc is very cerebral. He does not speak often, but when he does, people listen. Doc is the heart of the team. He’s the medic, therapist, mother, father, best friend, and confidant of the Rat Bastards. The only Rat Bastard who knows more about the other Bastards is Shooter. Doc is unfailingly honest. If he promises to keep a secret, he doesn’t tell anyone. Doc is the only Rat Bastard who refuses to use offensive language. He feels that the only reason people use curse words is because they lack the vocabulary to express themselves appropriately. He isn’t pretentious and he doesn’t look down on his Bastards for swearing, he just chooses not to. Doc is extremely kind. Whenever the team has to deal with women, children, or anyone who is scared or feeling threatened, they send in Doc. He has an amazing ability to make people feel at ease around him. The Bastards have a deep love and protective nature for Doc.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Character Bio Questionnaire</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Name: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I have taken an oath not to divulge my name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Rat Bastard Name:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> They have given me the name Doc.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;">Navy Corpsman motto:<br />"Until they are home,<br />No man left behind."</td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">How did you get your Rat Bastard name?</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I am not a physician. I'm a Navy Corpsman. I have received extensive training to administer to battlefield wounds, but I am not above asking for help when I am faced with something that lies outside my scope of practice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Occupation:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Navy Corpsman, Operative for Archer International, Medic, Therapist, Dietician, and Priest (in practice, not name).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Relationship Status:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I am not currently attached to anyone. There is someone I’d like to be attached to, but I don’t date patients. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Age: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">33<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Hair Color:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Black<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFDtXXG-CiD_xDGM5mLkJaaQofLwyi_EjGXhJ5I_QDO-dNd91fDflh_t8roPAiJeHaM1f69T4uBJZIvGEApiSq6lkcehk20G9amp6VSOB_04LWVvk9ZuoJhNmvyO0ebtfnzFg-mP3XzeM/s1600/Doceyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFDtXXG-CiD_xDGM5mLkJaaQofLwyi_EjGXhJ5I_QDO-dNd91fDflh_t8roPAiJeHaM1f69T4uBJZIvGEApiSq6lkcehk20G9amp6VSOB_04LWVvk9ZuoJhNmvyO0ebtfnzFg-mP3XzeM/s1600/Doceyes.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><b>Eye Color: </b>The color of port.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Height:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> 6’3”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Weight:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> 225. I used to be much smaller, but I started working out with Shooter and Martinez and, well, you can’t help but grow around those two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Motto:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Primum non nocere, Above all, do no harm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Distinguishing Marks:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I have a scar that I am not permitted to disclose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Weapon:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> A suture kit. My contribution to the team is keeping them in the fight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Best Friend:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Yvette Benoit<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Worst Enemy:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I try not to make them, but in my line of work they are inevitable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Last Song Played On My iPod:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>I Would Die 4 U </i>by Prince<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Movie:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>Star Wars</i>. I’m a closet sci-fi geek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Quote:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> It’s not a quote, it’s a poem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Invictus<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">By William Ernest Henley<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Out of the night that covers me,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Black as the Pit from pole to pole,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I thank whatever gods may be<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">For my unconquerable soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">In the fell clutch of circumstance<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I have not winced nor cried aloud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Under the bludgeonings of chance<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">My head is bloody, but unbowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Beyond this place of wrath and tears<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Looms but the Horror of the shade,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">And yet the menace of the years<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">It matters not how strait the gate,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">How charged with punishments the scroll.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I am the master of my fate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I am the captain of my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Last Facebook Post:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Taught Sam to whistle today. There is nothing as satisfying as teaching a child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Ten things you should know about Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">10.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> As a medic I am prohibited from engaging the enemy except in the defense of myself or my patients. You can shoot at me all you want, but shoot at my patients and you will earn a one way trip to paradise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">9. </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I speak Latin. As a language it’s dead, but it’s still relevant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">8.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I will listen to you complain about your girlfriend, your CO, your friends, and battle fatigue. In the end, I will tell you what you need to hear, not what you want to hear.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">7.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I would never intentionally harm someone, but if you say PTSD isn’t a real disease, I will light you on fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">6.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> If you hurt a child or a woman, I will surgically remove your favorite appendage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">5.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I can put a body back together, but I just don’t understand an engine. I leave all car maintenance to Yvette.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">4. </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Yvette and I are NOT sleeping together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">3</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">. I can find good in almost everyone, even Hell Kat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">2.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I know when you’re hurting. I will insist you do something about it. If you need to talk, I’m here. If you need an injection of morphine, I’m here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">1</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">. I love the Rat Bastards. You can’t serve someone and not end up loving them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">*You may have noticed a lack of funny in this bio. Doc is shy, quiet, and thoughtful. The Rat Bastards did not step in to give him a more entertaining bio. Doc has stitched their guts back in on the battlefield. Doc is more than respected, he is revered.*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-67663167560914998422012-05-24T08:36:00.000-07:002012-05-24T08:36:50.164-07:00Meet Tongue!!<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Tongue</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP785aNupyEI6Hbmpk7U0s4w28xmB7hcg_yKyTkf5h-YF9yxhu9NbY-7JShDuF81XBila-RO3DzHaX_ot5vpITDP2twIB9sihAd8xgjD9dYLxc9zd8R-jkRRCV5cZRdYu_pssOg7Mm0X4/s1600/Tyler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP785aNupyEI6Hbmpk7U0s4w28xmB7hcg_yKyTkf5h-YF9yxhu9NbY-7JShDuF81XBila-RO3DzHaX_ot5vpITDP2twIB9sihAd8xgjD9dYLxc9zd8R-jkRRCV5cZRdYu_pssOg7Mm0X4/s200/Tyler.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="104" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxm6UqMLgKFEKqA1tqI-Q6XjwS61AsByrxEzUhjC2ApN1kaofwVnngC6gHu4j629OUh_J37Pk7JtN9J6rZp9roOH7kI6fMhGNu10q6uodcpIXyjbeiBUOAgSHksHtjpicqKi5dFGPEBs/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxm6UqMLgKFEKqA1tqI-Q6XjwS61AsByrxEzUhjC2ApN1kaofwVnngC6gHu4j629OUh_J37Pk7JtN9J6rZp9roOH7kI6fMhGNu10q6uodcpIXyjbeiBUOAgSHksHtjpicqKi5dFGPEBs/s200/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="133" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Bio:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Tongue is the translator of the group. He is extremely intelligent. He speaks Arabic, Farsi, Persian Dari, and Hebrew, among others. Tongue is the only Rat Bastard whose real name we know from the beginning. Tongue is Hell Kat’s big brother. He loves his sister to bits and pieces, but has a hard time adjusting to her secret life as an assassin. He and Shooter are the only people who can get away with calling Hell Kat, Kitten. They have a great relationship, but that doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy teasing the crap out of one another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">*</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Author’s note: Hell Kat refused to let Tongue fill out his questionnaire and hand it in without her approval. It has something to do with Tongue disclosing sensitive, embarrassing teenage years’ secrets. So, as a compromise I’m allowing Hell Kat to sit in while I interview Tongue.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Character Bio Questionnaire</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Name: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Tyler Wallace. Thanks a lot Kitten for taking all my mystery away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">You didn’t have any mystery to begin with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span> </i>Uh-huh. I have mystery. There’s stuff you don’t know about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Like what? That you have dreams about being a princess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Not cool Kitten. I had that dream once, years ago. Not freaking cool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Rat Bastard Name:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Tongue<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">How did you get your Rat Bastard name?</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I speak in tongues. I know you were all hoping I possess some mythical erotic talent, and I do, that’s just not how I got my name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Oh please, get over yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I have talents you can only dream of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> K, EW! You’re my brother for crying out loud!!<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Occupation:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Marine, Rat Bastard, Kitten’s go to guy for pretty much everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> My go to guy for everything? Like what?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Please, like shuttling Sam all over the place before Switch stepped up. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">That whole messy business with your partner she devil in Missouri. Do I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">need to go on?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Shut up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Relationship Status:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I’m not in a relationship. I refuse to spend money on another man’s future wife. When I find the woman of my dreams I’ll be in a relationship. Until that day, well, that’s why God invented single’s bars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> How do you plan on finding the woman of your dreams if you don’t date?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> The same way you found Shooter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Oh, OK, I’ll just send some psychopath after you and hire a bunch of mega-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> watt hot killer chicks to protect you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span> </i>That would be AWESOME!! You really are the best sister ever. When can </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">expect them?</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Age: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">32</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Hair Color:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Dark reddish brown. Kind of like Kitten’s, but I wear it better than she does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat</i>:</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> The hell you do. And it’s called auburn genius.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> The only Auburn I know has a rivalry with Alabama.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> <i> </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">You’re an idiot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Eye Color: </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Green like Kitten’s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Look at that, genetics at work. Too bad you didn’t get my brains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> I don’t need your brains, I’ve got my own. And my brains won’t let me run</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> headfirst into a firefight just so I can get myself stabbed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">That’s because your brains are a bunch of cowards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue: </span></i>No, my brains just heed the advice of my self-preservation instinct.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> So, your brains would let Shooter get killed?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">No, I just wouldn’t end up getting stabbed in the process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span> </i>My brains can still kick your brains’ ass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Height:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> 6’2”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">What? No idiotic response.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Nope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Except that you’re actually 6’1 ½”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">No, I’m not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Yes you are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAmpaGNxnJLnmHYoabMWQYQrNMblA5hbk-7mmIJCClOHpyuf8_kTTdfKW0QzMnY_jyg-Q4HCZbjvHtQyglcfwaPcAfq1CO9OCFKfsSrgYQMKBYNrHd5loTzyI1qbEojm7iFiogePDh2yY/s1600/mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAmpaGNxnJLnmHYoabMWQYQrNMblA5hbk-7mmIJCClOHpyuf8_kTTdfKW0QzMnY_jyg-Q4HCZbjvHtQyglcfwaPcAfq1CO9OCFKfsSrgYQMKBYNrHd5loTzyI1qbEojm7iFiogePDh2yY/s200/mirror.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Weight:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> 180, solid muscle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Hey, do you still do that thing where you stand in front of the mirror flexing </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">in your tighty whities?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> I don’t know what you’re talking about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Sure you do. Remember, with the He-Man underwear and you’re all trying</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> to look tough in the mirror saying, "BY THE POWER OF GRAY SKULL!". I think I have pictures somewhere.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> I hate you right now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Motto:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Come after me, and I’ll sick my sister on you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat: </span></i>That is the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Vxok9uoKjtpVJxUv_GYS4ROTxuq-6BPWTSgxBAZfIOHSWD7WQd9gc6znBJnd4iAvawVHMFRGNAGLk3QjaE1b20LW12pmAjZfs6_jRq7srxwIbHLwtfE-8nh6KJcN4E72OadviTtgSvw/s1600/firecracker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Vxok9uoKjtpVJxUv_GYS4ROTxuq-6BPWTSgxBAZfIOHSWD7WQd9gc6znBJnd4iAvawVHMFRGNAGLk3QjaE1b20LW12pmAjZfs6_jRq7srxwIbHLwtfE-8nh6KJcN4E72OadviTtgSvw/s1600/firecracker.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span> </i>You’re welcome.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Distinguishing Marks:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> None.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Not true! You have that scar on your right butt cheek where you sat on a lit </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">fire cracker.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">As I recall, you put the fire cracker under my butt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> *laughing* I know. You cried like a little girl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i><i> </i> I really hate you right now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Weapon:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> My tongue. Words are powerful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Please don’t embarrass me. Your tongue, really, that’s what you're going</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> with?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue: </span></i>Unlike some people, I try to avoid death and dismemberment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> You mean unlike cool people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Yeah, all the cool kids are engaging in torture these days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span> </i>Please change your answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span> No.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">You suck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Best Friend:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Shooter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">What’s all this man love for Shooter?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> Uh, he’s only the best friend a guy could ever have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Yeah, well he’s not available so keep it zipped up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> Not a problem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Worst Enemy:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Right now, my sister.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span> </i>I take it back, that is the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> Shut up, I’d like to get this over with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zQdGivZKhkdb1m2cV8bs-DVVHgt-Ob_7V6jPL5WqnXbActWx1mU35h_iC8e4o3p4BFFMTIi02d-TwnE9eMPf-JvBm4PAtYMGeHBf32sd_rYz_yGgxAZiY6EUsVAzo9hw2jEX50QAXkM/s1600/nb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zQdGivZKhkdb1m2cV8bs-DVVHgt-Ob_7V6jPL5WqnXbActWx1mU35h_iC8e4o3p4BFFMTIi02d-TwnE9eMPf-JvBm4PAtYMGeHBf32sd_rYz_yGgxAZiY6EUsVAzo9hw2jEX50QAXkM/s200/nb.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Last Song Played On My iPod:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>Savin’ Me</i>by Nickelback.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Are you sure?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span> </i>Yeah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">OK, but I heard you singing<i>Bootylicious </i>in the gym this morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span> </i>No you didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Yes I did.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> No, you didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span> </i>Whatever, we both know the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfZI1-8FkQky2YD4l-Obd9xQp0rwtlMzL8sVWUh8jeq7283EP8zCYv6L2mx1cdjwdDBr78_ljbWOLzhm-tmeQlS4gmlt3kc4woqMohGxdLC5ljpcRqkB0R8zGGto1YNR6_IJ1ZrYh_lc/s1600/spr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfZI1-8FkQky2YD4l-Obd9xQp0rwtlMzL8sVWUh8jeq7283EP8zCYv6L2mx1cdjwdDBr78_ljbWOLzhm-tmeQlS4gmlt3kc4woqMohGxdLC5ljpcRqkB0R8zGGto1YNR6_IJ1ZrYh_lc/s200/spr.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="146" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Movie:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i>Saving Private Ryan</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span> </i>Lame<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> How is that movie lame?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span> </i>Everyone says <i>Saving Private Ryan. </i>It’s lame because it’s everyone’s</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> favorite movie.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span> </i>No one else has said <i>Saving Private Ryan.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Yeah, because they all know it’s a lame answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> Please, please shut up.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Favorite Quote:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> “All the great things are simple, and many can be expressed in a single word: freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope.” -Winston Churchill<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue: </span></i>Does that meet with your approval, mistress?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Ka</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">t:</span></i> I’m just really stunned that you’d say something so cool.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Tongue:</i> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Sometimes I even surprise myself.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Last Facebook Post:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> If history repeats itself, I'm totally getting a dinosaur.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span> </i>You’re so stupid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span></i> Careful, we share the same gene pool.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> I know, and I‘d consider it a personal favor if you’d stop pissing in it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Ten things you should know about Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">10.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I have never played with dolls. Kitten, on the other hand, used to have a HUGE doll collection. Kind of creepy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> Are you trying to lose a limb?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">9.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I was born with perfect teeth. Kitten had to wear headgear 24 hours a day for an entire year. I have pictures. They are for sale.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> I have a whole swamp of alligators I can feed you to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">8.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I passed my driving test on my first try. Kitten had to retake it, three times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">So, lots of people fail their driving test.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">7.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> The first time I shot a gun I hit the bullseye. The first time Kitten shot a gun, she didn’t release the trigger. She had an imprint of the hammer from a .357 magnum embedded in her forehead for days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> I hate you. I seriously hate your freaking guts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">6.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I paid my best friend in high school to take Kitten to the prom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> NO YOU DIDN’T!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Tongue:</span> </i>Yes, I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">5.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I am a better cook than Kitten. She can’t prepare cheese and crackers without help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span></i> When have I ever needed to cook?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">4. </span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">In junior high I broke up a fight between Kitten and Becky Sever. Becky was unharmed, Kitten had a broken nose and two black eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">She was like some sort of mutant giant girl and I was fourteen!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">3</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">. I am a real soldier. Kitten is a thug.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Yeah, well this thug is about to kick your soldier ass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">2.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I can speak several languages. Kitten only speaks pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><i>Hell Kat:</i> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">If you speak it well, it’s the only language you need.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">1</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">. I placed a bet that I-don’t-need-anybody-Hell Kat wouldn’t be able to live without Shooter for more than three months. I won.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> <i> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Hell Kat:</span> </i>Oh you are so gonna die!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> *Hell Kat attacks.*<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I will take this as my cue to leave.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-53747336208005650642012-05-23T08:05:00.003-07:002012-05-23T08:05:23.831-07:00Meet Horndog!!!<br />
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<b>Horndog<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMUUwy9Z4_kjwCOA2XsQphXqHZOyPDx-HmsPn2cM4_e1qAvpjyj95KrQl6gdGTtj-mprly_HH0ahLj4P_vNuqErMVrx-SA05UBBBgRr45zdhQqWDo7XjpjwZYOnzmNuxaP0tQg7fflo8/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper100x150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMUUwy9Z4_kjwCOA2XsQphXqHZOyPDx-HmsPn2cM4_e1qAvpjyj95KrQl6gdGTtj-mprly_HH0ahLj4P_vNuqErMVrx-SA05UBBBgRr45zdhQqWDo7XjpjwZYOnzmNuxaP0tQg7fflo8/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper100x150.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfGhTtFaB1JxIwEeHlVJPU_BR9IPx2tfDOYbbUMLpU5I_8CG3_yEuYcsmDqMBe-1oBD13qWzR_X068VmA17COIS0gwClnSMKubYpjz-AfDDivj-iv-zYCVxKIhGvImhp71v7XM0PmUnI/s1600/Horndog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfGhTtFaB1JxIwEeHlVJPU_BR9IPx2tfDOYbbUMLpU5I_8CG3_yEuYcsmDqMBe-1oBD13qWzR_X068VmA17COIS0gwClnSMKubYpjz-AfDDivj-iv-zYCVxKIhGvImhp71v7XM0PmUnI/s1600/Horndog.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a><b>Bio:</b> Horndog is the mouth of the Rat Bastards. The guy just doesn’t know when to shut the freak up. Horndog is Catholic and attends mass whenever he can. He is an excellent soldier, but, unlike some of his fellow Rat Bastards, he can leave the internal conflict on the battlefield . Often, when a situation gets too intense, Horndog is there with an inappropriate comment to lighten the mood. He specializes in explosives. He started blowing shit up when he was about ten years old and has never really grown out of that stage. His name may indicate that he has questionable morals, but Horndog has his own secrets.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Character Bio Questionnaire<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNzeOCDxBQI8nC1X69NIlSQMHXBhY3pUdKNe8wIXlF4-tiMsxddufqxzCMCZbnNP5bhYokqp132qrV48L1LvTh3BVcMaoaH8aDCcavl0nz0dObWsStV_GwpHo_Pa6rA2fgereQ4AO0wg/s1600/ER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTNzeOCDxBQI8nC1X69NIlSQMHXBhY3pUdKNe8wIXlF4-tiMsxddufqxzCMCZbnNP5bhYokqp132qrV48L1LvTh3BVcMaoaH8aDCcavl0nz0dObWsStV_GwpHo_Pa6rA2fgereQ4AO0wg/s200/ER.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="167" /></a><b>Name: </b> Anna Eleanor Roosevelt, 34th First Lady of the United States of America.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Rat Bastard Name:</b> Horndog<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>How did you get your Rat Bastard name?</b> A nun gave it to me. I am not kidding.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Occupation:</b> Marine, Rat Bastard, God’s gift to women.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Relationship Status:</b> I’m not in a relationship. You wanna know why? Because Hell Kat is worse than Mother Superior when it comes to the virginity of her staff.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Age:</b> Chronologically 32, mentally 14<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Hair Color:</b> Tweed. It’s blond, brown, red, black, pretty much every color in the hair color spectrum.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2f2IJu1m9eHAjdJ0gURIj8lXELAuCHX1hr2i1m66hQeS4qEQPo1t5bdeBxTvX1blyvbMPbch3SqqbzaNBquv4_GX4QQu3NBkU5_HbARRkZ7f-3Rv96mwShZrfQCr91GpzjMI1i0yEVo/s1600/coke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2f2IJu1m9eHAjdJ0gURIj8lXELAuCHX1hr2i1m66hQeS4qEQPo1t5bdeBxTvX1blyvbMPbch3SqqbzaNBquv4_GX4QQu3NBkU5_HbARRkZ7f-3Rv96mwShZrfQCr91GpzjMI1i0yEVo/s1600/coke.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a><b>Eye Color: </b>Sissy says they’re the color of Coke in the summer. They could be red and I wouldn’t care, just as long as she likes them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Height:</b> 6’3” I am the perfect height.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Weight:</b> I weigh in at around 220. I’m not as big as Shooter or Martinez, I think they were grown in some government lab, but I’m pretty sure I could kick you and all your friend’s asses if I had to.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Motto:</b> Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow you will die.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Distinguishing Marks:</b> My face. I’m pretty damn stunning. There’s no hiding all this sexy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Favorite Weapon:</b> My smolder. Hah! Just kidding, a brick of C4. Nothing says, “I’m heee-re,” like a brick of C4.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Best Friend:</b> Shooter. And not just because he saved my life last week when Hell Kat caught me and Sissy alone in my bedroom. Get your mind out of the gutter! I was helping her change my sheets. What? That's all we were doing. I'm serious! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Worst Enemy:</b> Hell Kat. Not because she's Satan's disciplinarian, I actually find that kind of sexy, Hell Kat and I don't get along because she thinks Sissy needs to be saved from me and I think Sissy needs to be ravaged by me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibt-ddBHBX67dfwuUWxKG-xeHnt7O3-JhipuSh2EqMOIHMnVQuwwkMvGh0JvmAqraa021-aVOhYmWKCiSsuCFdZiCsXuRH6yjlrzmtmLC00cKWsDaYuzkevq7qO0iahvtx39r1tF45GiA/s1600/beyonce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibt-ddBHBX67dfwuUWxKG-xeHnt7O3-JhipuSh2EqMOIHMnVQuwwkMvGh0JvmAqraa021-aVOhYmWKCiSsuCFdZiCsXuRH6yjlrzmtmLC00cKWsDaYuzkevq7qO0iahvtx39r1tF45GiA/s200/beyonce.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="200" /></a><b>Last Song Played On My iPod:</b> <i>Single Ladies </i>by Beyonce. I’ve got that dance down cold. You wanna see?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Favorite Movie:</b> The Hangover. Cinematic genius.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5lnpPFCbRbKDypA_L7SBKeXkRf3opioNg7WhKkCfsbPBytfp_eAF-yL7lnzmHE_Ayqv60W2AW85WiA1HghjAMhVg9bd6n8VDCscPjNeETGvNZ67UU3EhqULzjatr1CEWNMmM7ulolMcM/s1600/maewest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5lnpPFCbRbKDypA_L7SBKeXkRf3opioNg7WhKkCfsbPBytfp_eAF-yL7lnzmHE_Ayqv60W2AW85WiA1HghjAMhVg9bd6n8VDCscPjNeETGvNZ67UU3EhqULzjatr1CEWNMmM7ulolMcM/s200/maewest.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="157" /></a><b>Favorite Quote:</b> “Whenever I'm caught between two evils, I take the one I've never tried.” -Mae West<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Last Facebook Post:</b> Yes, I admit it. I want to see the Dalai Lama arm wrestle the Pope.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Ten things you should know about Me:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b>10.</b> I may be a barrel full of laughs, but that won’t stop me from ripping your trachea out with my teeth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>9.</b> Yes, I have an obscene amount of information regarding women’s fashion locked inside my brain. That does not make me gay. It gives me an excuse to accompany women into dressing rooms.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>8.</b> I am not a man whore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>7.</b> Disrespect Sissy, Sam, Lilly, Amanda, Edna Mae, Hell Kat, or any other woman in my presence and be prepared to kiss the floor. I don't disrespect women, I worship women.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>6.</b> Women are Gods way of saying thank you to mankind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>5.</b> I am the only person allowed to tease Shooter. If you tease Shooter, I will hurt you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>4.</b> I once drove a Humvee through my CO’s bedroom window and blamed it on the Company dog. It worked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>3</b>. I don’t drink. I take the video and post it on YouTube.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>2.</b> Allison is my reason for living.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>1</b>. I will never tell you about Allison.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0UDgitfvi-8PSg9Fr1yzuCAFJNYrNsgKOeOSJdk5yuu3P5sI2gNiwSihRIlBl1WCqZScKgvkYwEWGEszXGl_WBG_0JOuxQT8MwO0r76SsYqgcvBdiE1wf_pfeLlCKBMurO8Xv3lFWQw/s1600/NSJ-KH-banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #e06666; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="85" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0UDgitfvi-8PSg9Fr1yzuCAFJNYrNsgKOeOSJdk5yuu3P5sI2gNiwSihRIlBl1WCqZScKgvkYwEWGEszXGl_WBG_0JOuxQT8MwO0r76SsYqgcvBdiE1wf_pfeLlCKBMurO8Xv3lFWQw/s400/NSJ-KH-banner.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-39586145725386757812012-05-17T07:15:00.003-07:002012-05-17T07:15:59.341-07:00Meet Shooter!!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkzx_omyi3wEbLlRP5EVpICF2k_gIXgQHcO-qp2u7VN6ZbeOlke3lY8uhK7AUkOvBlRsdknKKfQaF_U5zlKqoOtx768LoAshb5PADfNYcIqTSP_pmO3ulR0qrknPx5Xp68apyvoZN9PQ/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnkzx_omyi3wEbLlRP5EVpICF2k_gIXgQHcO-qp2u7VN6ZbeOlke3lY8uhK7AUkOvBlRsdknKKfQaF_U5zlKqoOtx768LoAshb5PADfNYcIqTSP_pmO3ulR0qrknPx5Xp68apyvoZN9PQ/s200/NSJ-KatieHarper200x300.jpg" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"></span><br />
<b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px;">Harper's Note: </b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">When I received Shooter's questionnaire several things were crossed out, added to, or just plain deleted. Horndog got his hands on Shooter's answers and "made them cooler". I have included both Shooter and Horndog's answers. Because I like to see grown, musclely men fight.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><b>Shooter</b></span><br />
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<b>Bio:</b> Shooter is strong, silent, and deadly. He is the highest ranking enlisted member of the team and the Rat Bastard's sniper. Shooter has more kills than any other sniper in his regiment and has been awarded the Silver Star, three Purple Hearts, and the Navy Cross. Shooter has no family. His parents died in a house fire just after he joined the Marine Corps. He has no brothers or sisters. The Rat Bastards are everything to Shooter. He will die protecting them. Shooter is honest, holds his integrity as his most valuable asset, shows compassion to everyone, and has no idea what the word “fail” means.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Character Bio Questionnaire</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Name: </b>You haven’t earned it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Rat Bastard Name: </b>Shooter<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>How did you get your Rat Bastard name? </b>I’m a sniper. (He’s a wicked awesome dealer of death! –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Occupation: </b>Marine, Sniper, Co-Owner of Archer International. (But his number one job is to keep Hell Kat from unleashing on an unsuspecting populace. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Relationship Status:</b> In a relationship (I wouldn’t classify his relationship with Hell Kat as a relationship. He holds Hell Kat’s leash and we all have pledged our undying loyalty to him for his efforts in extending the average Rat Bastard lifespan. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Age:</b> 33 (His soul is around 157. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Hair Color:</b> Brown (Sissy says it’s chocolate brown, brown is brown. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Eye Color: </b>Blue (Sissy says they’re Mediterranean blue. She’s an artist so I am totally not jealous about her going on and on and on about Shooter’s damn eyes. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Height:</b> 6’5” (Too damn tall. Anyone taller than me is too damn tall. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Weight:</b> 280 (Yeah, right! Closer to 325 of solid freaking muscle. I mean, the guy’s, like, a brick wall encased in concrete wrapped in steal and plated in titanium. Hell Kat calls him the Rhinoceros for a reason people! –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Motto:</b> You’ll be dead before you hear the shot. (You’ll be dead before your brain has time to register something has gone amiss. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Distinguishing Marks: </b>Force Recon Marines don’t disclose distinguishing marks. (He has a scar on his forehead from taking a header off a park bench when we all got wasted in Germany and I know he has a few other scars but I’m not going to tell you where they are. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkBHA_tbXGnneAN5vBnPjw8Z86dXZ4wKoGornahlHr9Cr4bTtzZEKXt6KLyyvDCpAA635overYc8bJ9TGCHIhAyM5Rz_GmxJFco0a-JdWoGzVvAZP1SdUC8LKyh2NwlfeNetMSW2PPOM/s1600/Shootersniper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkBHA_tbXGnneAN5vBnPjw8Z86dXZ4wKoGornahlHr9Cr4bTtzZEKXt6KLyyvDCpAA635overYc8bJ9TGCHIhAyM5Rz_GmxJFco0a-JdWoGzVvAZP1SdUC8LKyh2NwlfeNetMSW2PPOM/s1600/Shootersniper.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;">What do you feel when you shoot a terrorist?<br />A slight recoil</td></tr>
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<b>Favorite Weapon:</b> M40A5 Sniper Rifle (Otherwise known as The Sickle of Death –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Best Friend:</b> Horndog (Maybe not after he sees this blog post. -Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Worst Enemy:</b> I don’t have any, they’re all dead. (Uh, yeah. –Horndog.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Last Song Played On My iPod: </b>Back in the Saddle, <i>Aerosmith</i> (He’s lying. It was Girl’s Just Want to Have Fun. He was totally jamming to it with Sam. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Favorite Movie: </b>An Affair to Remember. It helped me and Kat get over some stuff. (Seriously? Seriously? Dude, hand over your man card, right the hell now! –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Favorite Quote:</b> “Integrity is doing that thing which is right, when no one is looking.” -Col. Colin Lampard, USMC (That pretty much sums up Shooter. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Last Facebook Post: </b>Drinking fake tea with Sam. (Wearing a pink feather boa, diamond tiara, and waving his pinky in the air like a fairy. I have pictures. They are for sale. –Horndog)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Ten things you should know about Me:</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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K, so Shooter’s ten things were totally boring. He put stuff like, “I love Kat Boudreaux” and “I’m a Marine”. No shit Sherlock, we could have figured that out on our own. So I deleted his list and wrote my own.You're welcome. -Horndog<o:p></o:p></div>
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10. I can be fun. I’ve been fun before, like twice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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9. I am always calm. I have to be. I’m sleeping with the Handmaiden of Satan.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8. Horndog is the awesomest person on the planet. When I grow up I want to be just like Horndog. For Halloween, I’m going to dress up as Horndog.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7. I don’t get mad. Anger messes with my breathing and if I can’t control my breathing I can’t kill as efficiently.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6. There is nothing as rewarding as seeing an enemy’s brain turn into a pink mist through a 10X scope.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5. I wasn’t born. I was assembled from spare tank parts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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4. I have gone days without blinking. Those palace guards with the funny hats in England have nothing on me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3. I drive slower than Miss Daisy, unless I’m being shot at, then I drive like Mario freaking Andretti.<o:p></o:p></div>
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2. I carry a gun at all times. On the rare occasion that I don’t have a gun, like when I’m in the shower or being operated on, I will sick my Hell Kat on you. You’ll wish I’d used a gun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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1. THE RAT BASTARDS ARE THE BEST DAMN GROUP OF GUYS ANY MARINE COULD HOPE TO BE FIGHTING WITH! Especially Horndog, Horndog is the greatest Marine since Chesty Puller.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_oM2IuzM21IU9Gp6rnUYTKLmp0ArpnBCqzomTe5NgP2CUsWt-6Zbwi801L3bBZv4zqr9UUgZY-v5X5VmjlK1SNKaR3tgNAXvq2kOK8b3jqfau9evocufeUyjg4hyphenhyphenrpBwZogkeJFdL6A/s1600/sniper2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #e06666; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_oM2IuzM21IU9Gp6rnUYTKLmp0ArpnBCqzomTe5NgP2CUsWt-6Zbwi801L3bBZv4zqr9UUgZY-v5X5VmjlK1SNKaR3tgNAXvq2kOK8b3jqfau9evocufeUyjg4hyphenhyphenrpBwZogkeJFdL6A/s1600/sniper2.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div>
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I have altered and added to Shooter’s questionnaire. I do not know if Harper will keep it cool or go with the boring Shooter version. If she keeps it cool I will probably be dead. Totally worth eating a bullet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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-Horndog<o:p></o:p></div>
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*I showed Shooter Horndog’s alterations. This is what happened when Shooter found out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Shooter:</b> Dog, what the hell is this?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Horndog:</b> Uuuhhh, nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Shooter:</b> It looks like you rewrote my questionnaire.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Horndog:</b> I didn’t rewrite it, I improved it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Shooter:</b> I didn’t know it needed improving.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Horndog:</b> It was fine, if your goal was to make people think you're a Marine issue robot.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Shooter: </b> Hey Horndog, bite me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Horndog:</b> That’s what your mother said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Shooter:</b> My mother wouldn’t come near you without a hazmat suit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Horndog:</b> Whatever! I could get your mother, your sister, and your girl begging me to bite them, at the same damn time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Shooter:</b> Really?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Horndog:</b> You heard me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Shooter:</b> Kat, Kat, Horndog has something he wants to tell you. *Shooter leaves the room headed toward Hell Kat*<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Horndog:</b> Shooter, Shooter, hey Shoot, I was just kidding. Come on man. Don’t tell….shit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes I feel like a kindergarten teacher.</div>
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</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-51624856125958047262012-05-15T08:06:00.002-07:002012-05-15T08:06:59.338-07:00Meet Kat "Hell Kat" Boudreaux!!<br />
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Every Tuesday and Thursday until my book is released on June 19, I will introduce on of my character to all yous guys. I've asked each of my characters to fill out an info sheet. Today we're going to meet the heroine of Never Say Just. Group, meet Kat Boudreaux, Kat, meet the group.</div>
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<b>Katharine Wallace Boudreaux</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Bio: Kat is not your average woman. She was recruited by Global Security Assets, a private military firm, at the age of 18 to be an assassin. She has the moral flexibility to kill without remorse. She can take a life if she feels the person needs to die for the sake of human kind. Despite this, Kat has an overwhelming ability to show compassion. She is fiercely loyal and expects loyalty from others. Kat is not a feminist. She believes men and women have very distinct roles, but her circumstances and talents force her to live outside those roles. Her daughter is the one thing in her life that she’s proud of and she is extremely protective of her. There is absolutely nothing she won’t do to keep her safe. Kat inherited a huge fortune when her husband died. She uses a lot of that money to better the lives of people who will never know she’s their benefactor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Character Bio Questionnaire </b></div>
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<b>Name: </b>Katharine Boudreaux<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Rat Bastard Name:</b> Hell Kat<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>How did you get your Rat Bastard name? </b>Wouldn't you like to know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Occupation: </b>Co-Owner of Archer International, President of Boudreaux Oil, Mom, Mercenary, Assassin, Contract Interrogator.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Relationship Status: </b>Widow<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Age: </b>30<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Hair Color:</b> Dark Auburn<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><br />Eye Color: </b>Emerald Green<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Height:</b> 5’6”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Weight:</b> You don’t seriously expect me to answer that do you?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Motto:</b> Most situations are improved by a .45.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Distinguishing Marks:</b> None of your business.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Favorite Weapon:</b> Sig Sauer P220 .45 ACP, but I don’t need a weapon to kill you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Best Friend: </b>Yvette Benoit<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Worst Enemy: </b>That list is way too freaking long.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Last Song Played On My iPod: </b>The Immigrant Song, <i>Led Zeppelin</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Favorite Movie:</b> Patton, the monologue at the beginning is the best speech in history.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Favorite Quote:</b> “I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor, dumb bastard die for his country.” George C. Scott, <i>Patton<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<b>Last Facebook Post</b>: I don’t use Facebook. In my situation, it would be a very stupid tactical move. The list of people who want me dead is really long. If I had a Facebook account, I might as well hand them the keys to my house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Ten things you should know about Me:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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10. My closet is sacred ground. Tread carefully.<o:p></o:p></div>
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9. Facial hair is disgusting! If you come into my house sporting chin pubes I will rip them off your face.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8. I don’t cry. It’s not because I see tears as a sign of weakness. I just think they’re a waste of the Earth’s finite water resources.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7. Every morning should start with mortal combat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6. Threaten anyone under my care and I will make sure it takes you weeks to die.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5. You can’t lie to me so don’t try.<o:p></o:p></div>
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4. I’m not competitive. I don’t have to win, but I never lose.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3. There are two things a woman should never leave the house without, a credit card and a concealed boot knife.</div>
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2. I used to kill them, now shopping is the way I make sure the terrorists don’t win.<o:p></o:p></div>
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1. My daughter means everything to me. If I could, I’d dress her in a bomb disposal suit to play on the playground.</div>
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<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-44102782249482770422012-05-09T20:29:00.000-07:002012-05-09T20:29:53.409-07:00An Introduction to Marine Force Recon and The Rat Bastards<br />
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Anyone who has spent any amount of time with me knows I am a military history junkie. When the time came to create a group of heroes who would willingly run into a burning building and die or kill for the sake of the mission or the man next to them, a Marine Force Recon team fit the bill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Up until about sixty years ago most militaries subscribed to the theory that having a larger force was the best way to win a war. During WWII, England developed Commandos, small raiding forces that could disrupt enemy operations from behind enemy lines. The US military recognized how effective they were and started their own Special Forces teams. The teams were really only an experiment that had never been tested until French Indochina became Vietnam and Vietnam became the clusterjam that was the Vietnam War. The experiences gained during World War II and the Korean War, with their large-scale operations and clearly defined front lines, heavily dominated the strategy and planning of the American high command at the beginning of the Vietnam War. As a result, most senior commanders were philosophically ill-equipped for the guerrilla warfare reality that confronted them. Eventually, commanders started to realize that the idea of throwing soldiers into enemy fire until the enemy ran out of bullets was a bad idea. They decided that a team who could sneak up on a target, carry out a mission and return to base before the enemy knows the target had been wiped off the face of the Earth would be a good toy to have.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrRSMjWi3NdgsWFMy8sOdweq7gCYUvF5wmT5Nezaiy3Z18PkXyEpwJDzcVC8udlrKO17hM8W6PyH4IR3NcFa_HKFNTNSPVj3RCCmjvqio_qXP8sewGB0ak3V1W1I5-VU0ue-rQNa9IonE/s1600/mfr+skull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #e06666; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrRSMjWi3NdgsWFMy8sOdweq7gCYUvF5wmT5Nezaiy3Z18PkXyEpwJDzcVC8udlrKO17hM8W6PyH4IR3NcFa_HKFNTNSPVj3RCCmjvqio_qXP8sewGB0ak3V1W1I5-VU0ue-rQNa9IonE/s200/mfr+skull.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; position: relative;" width="200" /></a>In 1957 Marine Force Recon was born. Force Recon is a specialized set of Marines who spend their nine-to-five training to be an ultra-efficient cross-breed between Jack Bauer, Colonel James Braddock and Jason freaking Bourne. A Force Recon team consists of four to eight tough as titanium Marines who are sent into enemy territory knowing that they will have zero backup, zero air support, and if they get stuck, no one is coming for them. The general consensus is that we basically know about only a miniscule percentage of the badass operations Force Recon has carried out in its career saving the world from terrorists, communists, vampire Nazis, and who knows whatever the hell else is out there trying to kill us, but the crap we know about is pretty much epic awesome. The military doesn’t have a public top secret mission search engine so what information I could find came from Medal of Honor citations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKFKrt8rQ5vLZjdNgUFmhKxHP2eV5uEU4xblofFgrL9FVArrKuiZ7v4CB4ymyjTklrIElvwagLWQUMpJZgVeuk-AF7CObh07pwbl5q4m_fjqdGHInoHxZe4naoTiks-oQQP67IsNLicE/s1600/vietnam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #e06666; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKFKrt8rQ5vLZjdNgUFmhKxHP2eV5uEU4xblofFgrL9FVArrKuiZ7v4CB4ymyjTklrIElvwagLWQUMpJZgVeuk-AF7CObh07pwbl5q4m_fjqdGHInoHxZe4naoTiks-oQQP67IsNLicE/s1600/vietnam.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; position: relative;" /></a>During the Vietnam War an 18 man observation post staffed by Force Recon Marines and led by Gunnery Sergeant Jimmy Howard held off one of the most insane attacks in Force Recon history. Shortly after midnight the team found themselves deep inside enemy territory, surrounded by people actively trying to kill them. A Viet Cong force of 300 attacked with everything from rocks to mortars. If this had been me I would have taken a moment to pee myself and cry for my mommy, but I’m not a Force Recon Marine. Reacting swiftly and fearlessly in the face of overwhelming odds, Howard organized his small, lethal force into a tight perimeter defense. Throughout the night, they were swarmed by Viet Cong trying to earn glory in combat or die for the cause. But, as George C. Scott said in <i>Patton</i>, “No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor, dumb bastard die for his country.” The Force Recon Marines were happy to oblige.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At some point G/Sgt. Howard was hit by fragments of an exploding enemy grenade preventing him from moving his legs. He basically said, “Whatev,” and continued to fight. At dawn, despite the fact that 5 men were killed and all but 1 wounded, his beleaguered platoon was still in command of its position. When evacuation helicopters approached their position, Howard warned them away, which is really saying something about the entire team. I can picture myself sending a 5.56 mm hunk of lead rocketing through Gunnery Sergeant Howard's skull just so I could go home and change my undies, but I’m not a Force Recon Marine. The Marines fought like hell to make the landing zone as secure as possible. Only then, when their position was secure and replacements could be brought in, did they evacuate. Of the 18 men who engaged the Viet Cong Battalion of more than 300 men, 12 survived. Four platoon members were awarded the Navy Cross and the other 13 received the Silver Star for heroic action. Gunnery Sergeant Jimmie Howard was awarded the Medal of Honor. The Marine unit killed 200 Viet Cong during the 12 hour attack.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;">*The Rat Bastards faces have been blacked out<br />for security reasons.*</td></tr>
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These are the warriors that inspired my Rat Bastards. The Rat Bastards live by their own set of rules above and beyond the rules issued by the Marine Corps. </div>
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They do not disrespect anyone, even the enemy. If someone has done something disrespectful toward a team member, the team exacts a punishment then they go on about their day. </div>
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They protect each other and each other’s families. </div>
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All will come if one calls. </div>
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They do not have tattoos. Distinguishing marks are dangerous for people whose lives depend on not being seen or remembered. </div>
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They respect women and children. </div>
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They do not brag about their accomplishments and they don’t publicize their failures. </div>
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The Rat Bastards do not use their real names. They are called by their Rat Bastard name. They are Shooter, Tongue, Switch, Doc, Martinez (not his real name) and Horndog. You will get a chance to meet all of them in the next few weeks! HOO-RAH!!!<br /><br /></div>
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</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-88726347531349766952012-05-09T00:38:00.001-07:002012-05-09T00:38:35.455-07:00NEVER SAY JUST HAS A BIRTHDAY!!<br />
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I know, I know. You're sitting there in your underwear eating a bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats wondering, as you do most mornings, when you'll be able to buy my fantastic, life changing novel, Never Say Just. It has been a long time coming but I finally have a release date! You're asking yourself, "Harper why, for the love of all that is good and holy, has it taken so long for the public to get its hands on this epic?" It's all part of my evil plan to take over the world! It’s step three of my world domination scheme. The next step is to get the entire world addicted to lemon bundt cake. Hopefully with the global population completely distracted by my book and their ever expanding waistline, they won’t notice when I assert my claim as Katharine, Overlord of the Planet. There’s still a few kinks to work out but in the end, you’ll find yourself happy and content under my reign.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, how did I come up with the idea for Never Say Just? I started writing during a month long hospital stay. You can only take so many episodes of Maury testing sixty guys to discover the paternity for one child before you’re begging the nurse to commit a mercy defenestration. Since Nurse Cindy wouldn’t cooperate, I started writing. I wrote a truly awful novel about two spies. Some of my readers were a little bummed that the hero and heroine didn’t fall in love. I just couldn’t see them hooking up so I took them out of that story and put them in a different situation where I could see them together. I assumed I’d written another truly terrible novel but I thought, “Whatever, I’ll put it out there. See if people like it.” I guess someone liked it because on June 19, you'll be able to purchase Never Say Just through Decadent Publishing!! Excuse me while I break out into a happy dance that will no doubt end up on YouTube and destroy my future bid for the Presidency.</div>
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K, I'm done. Never Say Just is the tale of a completely neurotic mercenary, assassin, contract interrogator who falls in love with a Force Recon sniper. The assassin and the sniper meet when Kat’s brother, Tyler, shows up at the Louis Armstrong airport with five of his fellow Rat Bastards. He’s invited them to stay with Kat, for the summer. Tyler knows Kat doesn’t like strange people in her house but did he stop to consider her before landing on her doorstep with Private Gump and his band of Bubbas? No, no he did not. And for that he will pay, dearly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shooter, as the team’s Gunnery Sergeant and sniper, is the guardian angel of the Bastards. At first Shooter sees Kat as bat guano crazy, which she is, but when she’s stabbed saving his life he decides she’s bat guano crazy with mad fighting skills and a whole lotta sexy. Because nothing is sexier than a woman bleeding to death in your arms. Shooter accepts her past as a merchant of death but when she uses her techniques as a contract interrogator (read: torture) to find her kidnapped daughter, Shooter’s not quite sure if he can accept all that is Hell Kat Boudreaux.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"> Read about Hell Kat, Shooter and the Rat Bastards in the upcoming novel, Never Say Just published by Decadent Publishing June 19! You know you wanna.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">
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<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-32393100152065833302012-05-04T08:12:00.001-07:002012-05-04T08:12:28.066-07:00Flash Fiction FridayOne pic. One hundred words.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I get
ahold of that little brat I am going to string her up by her hair. I can’t
believe she would do this. What is wrong with her? It’s like I don’t even know
here. Like she isn’t even a part of me anymore. I turn my head to see her
father walk through the door. AT LAST!! An ally. Between the two of us we’ll be
able to tear down this pillow fort and put that precious, sweet, mischievous, downright
evil five year old on time out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Not all of us see the world the same
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">See what my friends had to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://flasherfictionfriday.blogspot.com/">Flash Fiction Friday</a></span></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-23101916888361044522012-04-12T17:33:00.000-07:002012-04-12T17:33:28.740-07:00Flash Fiction Friday<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One picture. One hundred words.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On the stone floor of her palace on Olympus, she had to laugh at what the modern world considered beautiful. So narrow-minded. Women were created with an internal light that could only be dimmed if that woman lost her self-worth. She heard the thoughts of gorgeous women beating themselves up because they didn’t look like the cover of a magazine. She’d been a little insulted that her own image had been so distorted by the hands of human sculptors. She stood up, placing her hands on her ample hips. <i>Screw this shit!</i> The goddess of love, beauty, and pleasure was going to show the world who invented sexy. Aphrodite summoned clothing and rocketed from the heavens to Earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How do my friends see this picture? Click to find out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Warning! Here you leave the world of the gods </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">and enter the world of demons. Naughty, naughty demons.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://flasherfictionfriday.blogspot.com/2012/04/april-13-2012.html">Flash Fiction Friday</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-15270100408963860702012-03-08T10:10:00.000-08:002012-03-08T10:10:53.198-08:00Flash Fiction Friday<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">It’s Friday!! You know what that means….one picture, one hundred words.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>Look at him lying there all relaxed. His bare skin exposed to the world. So soft, so perfect. It’s absolutely irresistible. He has no idea what I’m about to do to him. Of course, I have to do it. The odds of stopping me are worse than getting hit by lightning, having your arms and legs ripped off by a runaway unicorn, and being attacked by a polar bear on the same day. I paw my way across his blankets and climb to the top of the bookshelf. I don’t hiss, I just leap, claws extended. Let’s see if he ignores my litter box again. </i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">What!! Did you seriously expect me to play this straight? See what my friends have to say about that beautiful back. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">WARNING: If you prefer your world vanilla, stay here. If you like things habanero hot, click away.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://flasherfictionfriday.blogspot.com/2012/03/march-9-2012.html">Flash Fiction Friday</a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-54988866723438863612012-02-16T16:17:00.000-08:002012-02-16T16:17:46.405-08:00Flash Fiction Friday<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Welcome to another Flash Fiction Friday! You know the drill. One picture. One hundred words.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Look at him. Falling all over her like supermodel at a calories don’t count all you can eat buffet. He has no idea what he’s getting himself into. Sure, she’s beautiful, but so not worth it. She’s whiny, clingy, jealous, and starts planning your wedding the moment you say, “Is anyone sitting here?” I wouldn’t be surprised if she uses Photoshop to determine what their future kids will look like. She’s scary, but that’s not the bad part. The bad part is the nuclear case of saber toothed crotch crickets she’s passing out to every guy she beds. Two weeks and I’m still infected. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">See what my friends have to say about the “lady” pictured above.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Baskerville Old Face', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://flasherfictionfriday.blogspot.com/2012/02/february-17-2012.html">Flash Fiction Friday</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-14912263517215952882012-02-03T05:00:00.000-08:002012-02-03T05:00:17.162-08:00Flash Fiction Friday<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s Flash Fiction Friday!! You know the drill.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">His ear was captivating. Not in a Grecian statue perfection kind of way. Yes, his face and body were damn near perfect but his ear was what held my attention. It was like being a witness to a public execution. You wanted to look away, but you just couldn’t. They stuck out in spite of his perfect face. The cauliflower, the blackheads, the huge mole with the single longer than my forearm hair growing out of it. I just couldn’t rip my eyes from it. I had to touch. With the fear of a virgin faced with his first hooker in crotchless panties, I stretched forth my hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Check out my friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But be warned, they can be naughty.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://flasherfictionfriday.blogspot.com/2012/02/thursday-february-2nd.html">Flash Fiction Friday</a></span></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-39000466914402154292012-02-01T10:35:00.000-08:002012-02-01T10:35:56.825-08:00HORNY WEDNESDAY!<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzr7UPMCkLzbeUqsEYyCWHMjhd-Ev-x1DAQZjH9e0dPBAQvAyZdT54XYH28ev1mRqP0EA03O_MTRvTW9aoZMq9A9xVTc6t-qWqcWjhhYpewtC_9e6f-cagyI_gak8TuRX6N8qQkNwN6oU/s1600/Horndog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzr7UPMCkLzbeUqsEYyCWHMjhd-Ev-x1DAQZjH9e0dPBAQvAyZdT54XYH28ev1mRqP0EA03O_MTRvTW9aoZMq9A9xVTc6t-qWqcWjhhYpewtC_9e6f-cagyI_gak8TuRX6N8qQkNwN6oU/s1600/Horndog1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Good Morning Horndoggers!! Guess what? Today is Harper’s birthday!! She really, really hates the Happy Birthday song so make sure you sing it to her today. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This morning’s edition of Horny Wednesday is a bit different. A guy needs advice. I use the term 'guy' loosely. He's a whiny little bitch, but dudes need love too. I guess.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Horndog,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTqB_5A1lAx3j7VfQNrCAquowj6HLCBTX7PXH6wvv9j0optsv8O1g" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTqB_5A1lAx3j7VfQNrCAquowj6HLCBTX7PXH6wvv9j0optsv8O1g" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So I’m in a relationship with this woman. She’s eight years older than I am, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">hot as hell, and totally married. Like really married. She says she loves her husband and would never leave him. She just uses me for sex. At first I was cool with just sex. Now, I want a commitment from her. I want her to choose me. I’ve talked to her about it and she refuses. She’s coming over tonight. What should I do?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Other Man<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJdoeAYmOOHZjcqdtQL40n0dKgfudK5UM85yddAlkp3aac7dwL8kulneI3qk0ODRnZWoEU4TX3aJMDr64HQNI_Mtui9Whp2ZAVKU8HfUE3fyhA73xSZCnbRwHt2jr6SgCYAwl3uB8pcw/s1600/cougars-cougar-life-milf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJdoeAYmOOHZjcqdtQL40n0dKgfudK5UM85yddAlkp3aac7dwL8kulneI3qk0ODRnZWoEU4TX3aJMDr64HQNI_Mtui9Whp2ZAVKU8HfUE3fyhA73xSZCnbRwHt2jr6SgCYAwl3uB8pcw/s320/cougars-cougar-life-milf.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Other Man,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dude. Seriously. Seriously? SERIOUSLY!? You’re bitching because a beautiful woman wants to use your body for her own personal playground. What the hell is wrong with you!? Are you sure you’re a man? I want you to stand up and do a check. Just real quick….for me…make sure you own a pair. You do? Damn, I did not see that coming. I don’t know what to say. I can’t in good conscience advise you to change anything about your relationship. It goes against man code. I’m going to have to treat you like a woman. Yes, there are different standards for men and women. Deal with it. So from here on out I’m going to call you the Other Woman and refer to your cougar as a he.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Other Woman,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR9HYFtm2vYYuQRTI0AY0aB9hFszQQq9_gFSqF4JBv3qerWWfhC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR9HYFtm2vYYuQRTI0AY0aB9hFszQQq9_gFSqF4JBv3qerWWfhC" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You are an idiot. How can you not see that you are just a carnival ride to this guy and you’re handing out free tickets? He will never give you what you</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> want. If he wanted to be with you, he’d make the effort. You can make all the excuses in the world. It’s the money. It’s the family. He’s not ready to leave her but one day he will. No. That’s all bull shit. If he wanted to be with you all that wouldn’t matter. He’d find a way to be with you. I don’t care if his wife has the ability to unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole, he’d leave her if he wanted to be with you. That’s it no real mystery.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If you want commitment, don’t sleep with married men. They obviously have a problem with that. Let’s say he eventually leaves his wife, what makes you think he won’t cheat on you? You know he has no problem fooling around. The fact is, you’d never be able to trust him completely. You’d always <i>know </i>that he has someone else. When you start as a side dish, you’ll never be the entrée. Period.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Horndog<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRsU3qAL2oU988xG8GFTNXWwTbn5fWRFUGqO3DQe-AtOGwFzUfQgg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRsU3qAL2oU988xG8GFTNXWwTbn5fWRFUGqO3DQe-AtOGwFzUfQgg" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, Other Man, hand over your man card, dive into a tub of Ben and Jerry’s, and take a handful of Midol because you’re as manly as a Barbie doll. The only way you can come back from a letter like that is to grow some chest hair, kill something bigger than you are, and start a fire with your teeth. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Horndog is a Rat Bastard from the upcoming novel,</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Never Say Just.</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He dispenses relationship advice to the clueless and delusional.</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Want him to answer your question?</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shoot him an email at </span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">HorndogRocks@Gmail.com.</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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</div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-73298235846696040042012-01-28T18:46:00.000-08:002012-01-28T18:46:22.250-08:00MY BABY SISTER IS IN LABOR!!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQmvdKh1yZjl5lJ0uRbU1tCPMzK-0dm_0YqB5oLI0ieXix72wGX" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQmvdKh1yZjl5lJ0uRbU1tCPMzK-0dm_0YqB5oLI0ieXix72wGX" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my sister.<br />
Do you really think I'd post her<br />
pregnant belly?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My baby sister is in labor!! This is her first baby. In honor of the new little bundle of joy, I thought I’d explain to all of you what childbirth is really like. The good, but mostly the bad and the ugly. Yup, I'm taking time out of watching her breathe to write a blog post. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRkrDkIHs9z32VRZFMODZ-8jl69nGpaRCVvSxv6mFqETbqyy66n1Q" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRkrDkIHs9z32VRZFMODZ-8jl69nGpaRCVvSxv6mFqETbqyy66n1Q" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also, not my sister.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For anyone who has not experienced child birth, you probably </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">imagine the big day going something like this. It's after midnight, you and your wife are asleep in your bed. Suddenly you are awakened by a gentle tap to the shoulder. You wake up and your beautiful, glowing wife whispers, "It's time." You embrace for what seems like an eternity, then calmly climb out of bed. The two of you get dressed (your beautiful wife even does her makeup and hair). You carefully help your wife into your four door sedan with the baby seat already strapped in the back. You drive slowly to the hospital avoiding any pot holes and speed bumps. You put your wife in a wheelchair and roll her to the labor and delivery department. The two of you are greeted by a team of caring professional nurses and doctors that attend to your every need and are completely humbled that you would allow them to be part of the most momentous day of your life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQb-2VoJtm_NUtlT3hgv3ocwXnoAHD-LbgOARE-6w5gEIEzshVI8g" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQb-2VoJtm_NUtlT3hgv3ocwXnoAHD-LbgOARE-6w5gEIEzshVI8g" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my mother or my sister's<br />
mother in law.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After your arrival, your mother and mother in law show up with smiles on their faces. They hold hands and skip into your wife's delivery suite. They kiss, hug, and cry anticipating the miracle that is to come. Your wife labors for several hours, but like the superwoman she is she never once asks for drugs or an epidural. The doctor comes in and tells you it's time to push. Your wife pushes two or three times and after months of waiting a beautiful, clean, sleeping, calm baby boy is brought into the world with a strong resemblance to his loving father. You name him after yourself and his grandfather giving him a name he can be proud of. Your wife declares she will only nurse her baby and that he will never know a bottle. You and your wife are taken to her hospital room that has been filled with flowers, balloons, cards, and well wishes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQdi5MlGutEBDDQPVCSEEe7HL9LsyJpO-KyJWtrxwmu09lUMX5akg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQdi5MlGutEBDDQPVCSEEe7HL9LsyJpO-KyJWtrxwmu09lUMX5akg" width="135" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my sister or brother in law.<br />
Are you sensing a pattern?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The day comes to take your angel home. You wave goodbye to the hospital staff, that </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">you have gotten to know so well you have invited the entire hospital over for a bar-b-cue the next weekend, and drive away with your precious cargo in the back seat. You bring the sleeping imp into the house and place him in his crib. His nursery, that looks like a designer was hired to decorate but really it was done by your multi-talented wife, is spotless, calm, soothing, and has classical music playing softly from a built in wall speaker that doubles as a baby monitor. You stare down at your beautiful new boy then stare into each other’s eyes at last feeling whole and complete.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That is what diaper and formula companies would like you to believe because if you knew the truth no one would have babies. The diaper and formula companies would go bankrupt and the human race would come to a screeching halt. The truth is a far more disgusting, horrifying, and disturbing than anyone can grasp until they witness it for themselves. The experience is so awful that hospitals should provide post-traumatic stress counseling to all doctors, nurses, parents, family members, and babies present in the delivery room or within earshot of the delivery room. Here's how it really happens.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRsGUl9GrJWVppT07RhUBIEUs1sILu_u6IbsMVg_B8UtErfwzT7" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRsGUl9GrJWVppT07RhUBIEUs1sILu_u6IbsMVg_B8UtErfwzT7" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do I really need to say it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It's after midnight, you and your wife are lying in your bed. She tosses and turns. The baby is pushing so hard against her stomach that she feels like that guy from Alien. You want to say something to comfort her. You’d also like to let her know that she is keeping you up but you’re too afraid. Last time you said something she tried to chew your face off with her teeth then erupted into tears because she ‘knows’ you don't find her sexy anymore. You tried to reassure her but she knows the truth. How can you be sexually attracted to someone who looks like she ate the planet Venus for her mid afternoon snack? Your wife is five days past her due date and with each passing day she turns more and more into the fabled Medussa than you thought humanly possible. She continues to toss and turn and you wonder how many days a person can go without sleep before they become completely insane. Based on your own observations you determine that was three days ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSrjmAjQSulRiO63cJHkhpWyJS2b-6EE9mPTq40xLd3glwQDaBMRQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSrjmAjQSulRiO63cJHkhpWyJS2b-6EE9mPTq40xLd3glwQDaBMRQ" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JUST DRIVE THE *&%^$#& CAR!!<br />
Possibly my sister.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Suddenly your wife sits bolt upright and wraps her fingers around your upper arm in a </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">death grip that would put Darth Vadar to shame. She yells as if a megaphone had been sewn to her face, "GET UP! YOU HAVE TO TAKE ME TO THE HOSPITAL NOW!!” </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">You have learned not to argue even though you’ve had six false alarms in the past week. You jump out of bed and start to change your clothes. Your wife sees what you’re doing and attacks, "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!? I'm having a baby and you’re putting on your Sunday best! Don't even think about it! To the car now! And don't forget my suitcase!!" You grab the suitcase hopping on one foot trying to put your pajama bottoms back on. When you get to the door you look over your shoulder to make sure she won't catch you wasting time sliding your flip flops on and run for the car. You start the car and drive out of the garage to see your wife has beaten you to the front porch. You rush out of the car apologizing profusely for making her wait. She doesn't say anything but "DRIVE".</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSGQwGST_9IHvAMLr0EsefUvZxTZGUcSV-pJbTQ5BpDl5VGVhAeGQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSGQwGST_9IHvAMLr0EsefUvZxTZGUcSV-pJbTQ5BpDl5VGVhAeGQ" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my sister's nurse.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You make it to the hospital. When you try to go in to find a wheelchair for your wife she scolds you saying it will take too long for you and your pea size brain to locate a wheelchair in a hospital and proves she can walk just fine. You don't object, you know that would be suicide. When you get to labor and delivery you walk into a triage that would not be out of place on a battlefield. Nurses and doctors run from one end of the unit to the other ignoring you and your wife. The screams of other laboring women fill the halls. You try to stop a nurse to tell her your wife is in labor. She compassionately says, "Take a number." You know you must report what the nurse said to your wife but you can't seem to move. If you tell her they're busy she will filet you right there and eat your raw flesh from your bones. You boldly grab another passing nurse by the arm and demand they admit your wife. She looks at you with distain and tells you there are no open beds so your beloved will have to wait. You don't know what to do. If you go back to your wife with that she will probably light you on fire and parade your flaming body around the hospital as a warning to other inconsiderate husbands. You cannot let go of the nurse. She looks at the tears streaming down your face and says, "Where's your wife." SALVATION!!! You would have kissed the nurse but your wife is using her x-ray vision and if she catches you she will peel the skin off your body in long thin sheets. The nurse walks boldly up to your wife and tells her the situation. You fear for the life of the nurse and subconsciously start picking out the flower arrangement to send to her funeral. Surprisingly, your wife takes it in stride and sits down. You creep back to your wife sheepishly sitting next to her. With every contraction she doubles over in pain. You try to rub her back like they taught in the birthing classes but find they left out a crucial step. They never told you to wear full hockey gear to guard you from the backhands and punches your wife throws your way. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRNd_YtLo2ckaRicekPMvcgJPVVDI8hRuK4OooW65Ry_0EM_LmnHg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRNd_YtLo2ckaRicekPMvcgJPVVDI8hRuK4OooW65Ry_0EM_LmnHg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nope, not her.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, a room is available and your wife is admitted. If you thought all your troubles </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">were over you would be wrong. Just as the nurse leaves your wife's room she gets her first REAL contraction. She folds her body in half so much that you think her spine is going to pop through her skin. This can't be normal so you run to find the nurse to tell her you think the baby is coming. When you find a nurse she looks at you like you’re still trying to grasp the complex concepts taught on Sesame Street and tells you she'll be in to see her in a minute. Thirty minutes later the nurse finds you cowered in a corner rocking back and forth as your wife's red eyes shoot daggers through your heart. Before the nurse can say anything your wife yells, "EPIDURAL, NOW!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRkjaHGz9Va8LtDsB0pnCNKRpu_RsGQ8Ruoi3B-sumZJg2BIZz6Bg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRkjaHGz9Va8LtDsB0pnCNKRpu_RsGQ8Ruoi3B-sumZJg2BIZz6Bg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No idea who they are.<br />
But thanks for posting your pic online.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Again you think you will be saved until the nurse says, "Okay, I'll call the anesthesiologist. He should be up here in about twenty minutes." The nurse turns and leaves the room. You know that it will take divine intervention for you to last another twenty minutes. Your brain starts to fold in on itself as you gradually lose your grip on reality. Then, a man walks through the front door, at first you think he is the archangel Gabriel by the way your wife looks at him. In her eyes he is the only useful man on the planet. He is the anesthesiologist. You crawl on your hands and knees vowing to worship him forever and promise him the child in your wife's belly as an indentured servant. He taps you on the head assuring you that wouldn't be necessary. This only deepens your devotion and you kiss the hem of his scrub pants vowing your undying loyalty. He places a plastic container of medical instruments on the table next to the bed and tells your wife she has to bend in half so he can ram a two foot long needle into her spine and that the only risk is that she could be paralyzed. For life. Your wife doesn't care and immediately agrees to the procedure. He picks the needle up and jams it into your wife's spine. Your wife doesn't flinch but you almost faint. When he removes the needle a long thin tube sticks out of your wife's back attached to a bag of medicine. He leaves and before he can close the door your wife is sleeping for the first time in months. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRaK4ELceQH3jCBuiddtbBX7hQDGUvW9qJssZUQFRD9MaNROTYVfw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRaK4ELceQH3jCBuiddtbBX7hQDGUvW9qJssZUQFRD9MaNROTYVfw" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This woman, who is not my sister,<br />
is wishing for a teleporter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You use this brief lull in the excitement to gather your thoughts and try to remember why you chose to go through this. Your wife has been asleep for no more than a half hour </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">when the doctor arrives to break her water. You expected to see the same amount of fluid as when you have to pee after a long drive in the car. What you didn't expect was the same amount of liquid that flows over Niagra Falls on any given day. The doctor tells you both to rest and he will be back shortly. He returns several hours later to tell your wife it's time to push. You begin to weep. The past nine months have been hell on Earth but it’s about to be over. Your wife pushes for the first time. Something happens that also was not discussed in the childbirth classes. You are grateful that your wife is no longer in pain but over the past nine months you never connected that pushing a baby the same muscles as evacuating your bowels. The entire contents of your wife's colon is on the table in front of the doctor. The doctor acts like someone did not almost fill his shoes with fecal material and the nurse cleans it up in under five seconds. Your wife pushes again. You don't want to know what will come out next. She pushes and pushes and pushes and pushes some more. She pushes for two entire hours. The doctor starts to worry about the safety of the baby and tells you wife they may need to do a C section. She yells "NOOOOOO!" and with one final push your wife has given birth to a half alien, half old man, half rolly polly bug covered in blood, slime, and cottage cheese. The doctor quickly places the disgusting creature on top of your wife. Your wife starts to cry saying she has the most beautiful baby ever. Until that point you hoped the thing that came out of your wife was a tumor and would be thrown into a medical waste bin. It hit's you that this is your child. This thing writhing and screaming in your wife's arms is the reason to practice abstinence. If a young teenage boy saw this he’d be scarred for life. His hair would turn white, he’d stop speaking, and only react when someone yelled "PUSH!" You’re startled when the doctor orders your wife to give one final push. For a brief moment you’re terrified that maybe your wife was carrying two tumors. What you see is so much worse. A huge blob of bloody tissue is expelled from your wife. Just as you start dialing the phone to call your priest to perform an exorcism the doctor tells your wife the placenta is out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS3NYOSBtREUm8C67aY2jZgzSUfD95uQlW20wfoKYBKEWd-bnzk" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS3NYOSBtREUm8C67aY2jZgzSUfD95uQlW20wfoKYBKEWd-bnzk" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like this only wrinklyer.<br />
Also, no one I know.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The nurses take the baby to look him over and clean him up. You fall down into the chair, your legs no longer able to bear your weight. Your mother and mother in law storm the room rushing to your wife's side. They start to argue over who your child looks like and what family member he's going to be named for. Punches start to fly and they’re escorted out of the hospital by security. You ask your wife what to name him. She looks down at the baby and softly says, "Fergus." You think it an odd name but agree. A short time later you realize your wife just named your son after her junior high school boyfriend. You are too tired to care. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR7p9w5ZQDWvZUphuWSISQzqDqFS9G_6I3ap7-ZwUmsAy6iAqrF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR7p9w5ZQDWvZUphuWSISQzqDqFS9G_6I3ap7-ZwUmsAy6iAqrF" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those aren't tears of joy.<br />
That's all pain baby.<br />
Not my sister.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They take your wife to her barren hospital room. The next few days bring several more </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">unexpected treats. What should be as natural as breathing is not. You learn that nursing a child takes work and the process has turned your wife's nipples into raw hamburger. She cries every time she tries to feed little Fergus from the pain. You ask her if she wants to use a bottle and she says "No! This is better for him." You try to figure out how being fed by hysterical crying mother every three hours could lead to anything but a future therapy bill. The first night you are exhausted and you believe your wife should be as well. You fall asleep in the chair in her room. She stays awake watching tv all night. Again the child birthing class didn't tell you your wife would be so high on adrenaline she’d stay awake for three straight days.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTsfND_d52-XV15aVPmLMuv4HBMxHOfSRjp6nxym9acQ7rPsoeDRA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTsfND_d52-XV15aVPmLMuv4HBMxHOfSRjp6nxym9acQ7rPsoeDRA" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check back later and I'll change this<br />
to a pic of my sister, her husband, and their<br />
NEW BABY!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You take the baby home and the real fun begins. He wakes up every hour wanting to be fed and/or changed. He cries for no reason, he vomits more than he eats, his body has the stability of Jell-O, and no matter what the diapers say, it does not absorb baby poop. Every time you take him out it's like packing to cross the plains in a covered wagon. You have to take at least thirteen spare outfits, enough diapers to keep a retirement home supplied for ten years, toys, blankets, pacifiers, medicine, strollers, car seats, wipes, burp cloths, a camera, and a stack of pictures to show people how cute he is when they aren't around. Still it doesn't really matter how he has changed your life or upset your routine, you find yourself falling in love with the half alien, half old man, half roley poley bug. You start to realize that someone else’s comfort takes precedents over your own needs. You realize that you have the responsibility of caring, nurturing, and raising this amazing miracle. You're worried that your best won't be good enough. But if you can remember the way you feel right now you will never question why you did it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-28928739823946389122012-01-25T09:36:00.001-08:002012-01-25T09:36:19.662-08:00HORNY WEDNESDAY!<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzr7UPMCkLzbeUqsEYyCWHMjhd-Ev-x1DAQZjH9e0dPBAQvAyZdT54XYH28ev1mRqP0EA03O_MTRvTW9aoZMq9A9xVTc6t-qWqcWjhhYpewtC_9e6f-cagyI_gak8TuRX6N8qQkNwN6oU/s1600/Horndog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzr7UPMCkLzbeUqsEYyCWHMjhd-Ev-x1DAQZjH9e0dPBAQvAyZdT54XYH28ev1mRqP0EA03O_MTRvTW9aoZMq9A9xVTc6t-qWqcWjhhYpewtC_9e6f-cagyI_gak8TuRX6N8qQkNwN6oU/s1600/Horndog1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Good morning Horndoggers! I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Harper’s getting married. I know, shocked the shit out of me too. First, that she’d even consider getting married again, then that she actually tricked someone into walking down the aisle with her. She has said for years that she would never get married again. That she's perfectly happy being single. I knew that was a load of crap from day one. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZoh2tf_dj1_PWImzjsJRSehNd6LUrRQiWgiDi-oEmXrsVD5NFxOE750-dUMP2PRqKd0YDpQZAYWxgt96TLpg4shZXU3uQWNpx22IRp-WYL6cPvdhg68c3uxlWJQqKgT_Q6gqWBupOcLs/s1600/photo+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZoh2tf_dj1_PWImzjsJRSehNd6LUrRQiWgiDi-oEmXrsVD5NFxOE750-dUMP2PRqKd0YDpQZAYWxgt96TLpg4shZXU3uQWNpx22IRp-WYL6cPvdhg68c3uxlWJQqKgT_Q6gqWBupOcLs/s200/photo+%25281%2529.JPG" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rumor has it that he hates this pic.<br />
I don't care.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The Bastards and I wanted to know who had tamed the shrew. For today’s Horny Wednesday we’re interviewing her fiancé, Rogerio Lemos. Rogerio is from Brazil and has every woman in the house swooning. Apparently he’s perfect. He’s kind, nice, sweet, compassionate, respectful, even Sissy’s gone all goo goo over him. CAN YOU EFFING BELIEVE THAT! SISSY!! MY SISSY!!! If I didn’t think Harper would cut my dick off, I’d have to kick his ass. So here you go, I give you Rogerio.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Horndog: </b>Rogerio, I asked Harper a few months ago if she’d ever get married again and she said no. In fact, she said she had no desire to date....at all. How the hell did you get her to go out with you in the first place?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTmfu_q3q2ozwO08pt20oguEjjbmocI47C1a-i2sPSUACkhOVJ2qeQyJaRl0g" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTmfu_q3q2ozwO08pt20oguEjjbmocI47C1a-i2sPSUACkhOVJ2qeQyJaRl0g" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I grabbed her by her hair and hit her over the head with a club. She started to come around when we got back to the cave so I had to turn on the charm. I’m kidding. I would never hurt my Katatita. I saw her and said to myself, “That’s the woman I want.” Then I saw how good she was with her daughter and I thought she had to be married. I won’t lie, I wanted to kill the lucky son of a bitch. Then I found out she was a widow. For a split second I felt bad. I got over it pretty quick.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Horndog:</b> Katatita?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Oh sorry. In Portuguese the nick name for Katharine is Cat. I call her kitten.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSrB16RtreHO648f4Nighr0GI-2iavjtsyF6Q1cdZQuCSE2zLmOUA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSrB16RtreHO648f4Nighr0GI-2iavjtsyF6Q1cdZQuCSE2zLmOUA" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Tongue:</b> Ah, that's so sweet I just might puke. K, so you spent some time together. You had to realize that she was bat shit</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> crazy right away. Why did you pursue her, of all people, you could have anyone, why did you want her?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I know you see her as being a bit nuts, and she is. But, Katie is actually pretty sweet. Towards you and towards her brothers she can be a bit….intense. But her true self is very kind. She would never maliciously hurt someone. Attack someone she loves in anyway and yeah, she’ll kick your ass six ways to Sunday. On the surface she’s a bit naughty, but deep down she’s very sweet.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Doc: </b> Let me just start out by thanking you. Harper has never been this nice to us. Ever. Since you came along she’s all please and thank you. Before you it was now and are you done yet. I just want to know if you know what you’re getting into. Harper has a past, a scary past. Has she shared all her crap with </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">you and, if so, how did you come to terms with ALL that?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTnW3SIP32PovTospTqJTi0NC5aB7osctgawlN1EQbp0Wwlg2Z07DWeh-hq_A" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTnW3SIP32PovTospTqJTi0NC5aB7osctgawlN1EQbp0Wwlg2Z07DWeh-hq_A" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I do know her past. And yeah, it’s freaking scary. Katie has crawled through hell on her knees and lived to tell about it. Literally. Her strength is amazing. I love her, including her past. Her past made her the woman she is. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Martinez: </b>My turn. Rogerio, Harper writes romance novels that contain sex and a lot of violence. Do you like that she writes romance novels or do you wish she’d write something else?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8NeKkNnbcSFWWz-kwTV2UvpoxIWvBuUFY3BzDlq5Di9N-I0DGPozK92RJIak3SE54u0fGl0GwY4nc6dJBLL_Nk15AI9AuxzY2WQ1F3Ug8ajn8uisflypOk4oZyckHKOAdPumo-XHvhk/s1600/NSJ-KatieHarper432x648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8NeKkNnbcSFWWz-kwTV2UvpoxIWvBuUFY3BzDlq5Di9N-I0DGPozK92RJIak3SE54u0fGl0GwY4nc6dJBLL_Nk15AI9AuxzY2WQ1F3Ug8ajn8uisflypOk4oZyckHKOAdPumo-XHvhk/s175/NSJ-KatieHarper432x648.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>She won’t let me read what she writes. She’s afraid it will scare me off. But I have</i></span><i style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> connections. I’ve arranged to have a copy of Never Say Just dead dropped to me. Have you ever tried to write a novel? I haven’t and I never would. I couldn’t do it. I am so proud of my Katatita. She has a talent that a lot of people wish they had but very few do. She’s intelligent and has one hell of an imagination. If she wants to write romance novels that’s fine. If she wants to be the next Dr. Seuss, I’m fine with that too.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Switch: </b> Can we please get this over with? Some of us have shit to do. We need to talk about Samantha. I take care of Hell Kat’s daughter and I’d kill any son of a bitch who ever thought he might maybe one day could hurt her. Harper has her own Samantha. My Sam is based on her Sam. How do you feel about Samantha? Know that your answer will determine if you leave this room walking or on a stretcher.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/404302_2496435485909_1103500304_32102095_820142331_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/404302_2496435485909_1103500304_32102095_820142331_n.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Oh, I love that little girl. She’s beautiful, fun, smart, kind, has a good attitude. Samantha is the jewel of my life. Yes, she has her moments. Katie calls them meltdowns. When that happens she needs someone to pick her up and talk to her. I’ve fallen in love with Sam. She is the missing piece of my heart. She’s my daughter.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"><b>Switch: </b>Acceptable answer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Shooter:</b> We both love strong women. Why do you love yours?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I like independent women who have their own thoughts. My Katatita doesn’t care what other people think. She has her own standards and she sticks to them. She doesn’t judge. She accepts you as you are and doesn’t try to change you to fit a mold. She’s tender and strong at the same time. She makes me feel good. She never brings me down. Just thinking of her makes me happy. There isn’t anything I don’t like about her. Oh wait, yes there is. That woman can cook! And I have the extra ten pounds to prove it. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, there you go. That’s Rogerio. The man who makes the rest of us look like wankers. Good luck buddy, you’re going to need it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">Horndog and the Rat Bastards are from the upcoming novel,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">Never Say Just by Katie Harper.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"><i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdKIE2H-QxLBscJCUUJu17AQ2UHpvj9TrOT296QJD75IwJkIXZWkkHqN7_vgZ9TKfgI4acLAmXlvYSElv-d3pR-ojCkKDbjauvsJhBLaooZaf1oBA7vQ6n7wwOEW6hoaZ-oBbSof08xo/s1600/NSJ-KH-banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdKIE2H-QxLBscJCUUJu17AQ2UHpvj9TrOT296QJD75IwJkIXZWkkHqN7_vgZ9TKfgI4acLAmXlvYSElv-d3pR-ojCkKDbjauvsJhBLaooZaf1oBA7vQ6n7wwOEW6hoaZ-oBbSof08xo/s400/NSJ-KH-banner.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-62873223635647750642012-01-19T21:39:00.000-08:002012-01-19T21:39:07.135-08:00Flash Fiction Friday<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You know the drill. One picture. One hundred words.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://fbcdn-photos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/404871_213291098760135_100002377395650_449643_1416237133_a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://fbcdn-photos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/404871_213291098760135_100002377395650_449643_1416237133_a.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Virginia stood as if compelled. She couldn’t move. She wanted to move. She wanted to run for the hills and scream what she saw from her brain. But her feet had rooted themselves to the floor. No one should have to endure this. No one. If she didn’t fall into a catatonic stupor first, the PTSD she would suffer from this moment on could make an African child soldier raised on a steady diet of meth and bloodletting look like the poster child for mental health. No teen should ever catch their parents in flagrante delecto.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Did you enjoy my tale?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Check out my friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">WARNING: Once you leave this blog, I am not responsible for what you read.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://flasherfictionfriday.blogspot.com/2012/01/january-20-2012.html">Flash Fiction Friday</a></span></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-57228743777687296542012-01-18T09:59:00.000-08:002012-01-18T09:59:39.520-08:00HORNY WEDNESDAY!<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzr7UPMCkLzbeUqsEYyCWHMjhd-Ev-x1DAQZjH9e0dPBAQvAyZdT54XYH28ev1mRqP0EA03O_MTRvTW9aoZMq9A9xVTc6t-qWqcWjhhYpewtC_9e6f-cagyI_gak8TuRX6N8qQkNwN6oU/s1600/Horndog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzr7UPMCkLzbeUqsEYyCWHMjhd-Ev-x1DAQZjH9e0dPBAQvAyZdT54XYH28ev1mRqP0EA03O_MTRvTW9aoZMq9A9xVTc6t-qWqcWjhhYpewtC_9e6f-cagyI_gak8TuRX6N8qQkNwN6oU/s1600/Horndog1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Good morning Horndoggers. Last week I was accused of not being Horndoggy enough. I gave a woman in a bad relationship advice about leaving her jerk of a boyfriend. Here's the deal, I love women. I love all women. I don't care if they're fat, skinny, gorgeous, quirky, blond, brunette, or any mixture of the above. I would NEVER advise a woman to stay in an abusive relationship. Being told your fat or ugly is emotional abuse. And I won't stand for that. Period. If a woman is in that situation, not only will I tell her to leave because she can do soooooo much better, I'd love the chance to hunt the asshole down who's been abusing one of God's gifts to the Earth and beat the crap out of him. Or unleash Hell Kat on him. Either way, someone's getting bloody.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, let’s just jump right in to this week’s letter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Horndog,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR5pbWYlcKWYhwtvDpYMSiNBRPHXwsi7wc1-K5NogGIIkY5KI5m8A" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR5pbWYlcKWYhwtvDpYMSiNBRPHXwsi7wc1-K5NogGIIkY5KI5m8A" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My boyfriend and I have a bit of a problem. He thinks I’m not </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">adventurous….you know….in the bedroom. He wants me to do things I’m not comfortable with. It’s nothing too kinky, it just isn’t what I’m used to. I think our love life is just fine, but he thinks it needs some spice. He wants cayenne. I’m happy with vanilla. How do I make him understand this?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Vanilla<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRyDD3_7FaGu7FXOAXqT3rZ9RoS-pOz3AvgMQc2PqG9xnRDdKKT" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRyDD3_7FaGu7FXOAXqT3rZ9RoS-pOz3AvgMQc2PqG9xnRDdKKT" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Vanilla,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I noticed that in your very short letter you never said the word sex and did not actually say what vanilla or cayenne is. Face it, you’re uncomfortable with sex. I get it. I really do. Sex is incredibly intimate. And I mean intimate in the emotional sense. You have to trust someone completely. You have to trust that the person you’re about to get naked in front of isn’t going to point and laugh. Then you have to trust that they aren’t going to do anything that a good shower won’t wash off or lead to months of therapy bills. And in the morning, you have to trust that your epic tale of sheet tango won’t be shared with everyone on Facebook. Trust me, I get it. But that doesn’t mean your boyfriend isn’t right.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">First off, how do you know you won’t like something if you don’t try it? Maybe no one told you, but sex is supposed to be fun. I don’t know what your current routine is, but it sounds like you need to change things up a bit. Whether that’s doing it with the lights on or swinging from the rafters with your legs wrapped around his head, you need something new. Decide which of his requests is the least likely to send you running to a convent and try it. If that goes well, try the next thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTozQDKD1lDkfKD4cddkuVnrIFiULQmDprnlYEbPSS4xZ-xqRQy3TeKsj0l" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTozQDKD1lDkfKD4cddkuVnrIFiULQmDprnlYEbPSS4xZ-xqRQy3TeKsj0l" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Think of your sex life as a trip to Disneyland. Do you really just want to sit around and </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">watch parades all day or do you want to tackle the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror? Even if you don’t jump feet first into the death drop that is the Tower of Terror, you would want to at least ride the carousel. Take it slow if you have to, but take it somewhere! You never know, you might have a tiger living inside the body of a kitten. Tigers need to hunt, let yours out once in a while.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Horndog</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">Horndog is a Rat Bastard from the upcoming novel,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">Never Say Just.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">He dispenses relationship advice to the clueless and delusional.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">Want him to answer your question?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">Shoot him an email at </span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">HorndogRocks@Gmail.com.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdKIE2H-QxLBscJCUUJu17AQ2UHpvj9TrOT296QJD75IwJkIXZWkkHqN7_vgZ9TKfgI4acLAmXlvYSElv-d3pR-ojCkKDbjauvsJhBLaooZaf1oBA7vQ6n7wwOEW6hoaZ-oBbSof08xo/s400/NSJ-KH-banner.jpg" /></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-69062747202944996792012-01-11T07:00:00.000-08:002012-01-11T07:00:05.327-08:00HORNY WEDNESDAY!<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzr7UPMCkLzbeUqsEYyCWHMjhd-Ev-x1DAQZjH9e0dPBAQvAyZdT54XYH28ev1mRqP0EA03O_MTRvTW9aoZMq9A9xVTc6t-qWqcWjhhYpewtC_9e6f-cagyI_gak8TuRX6N8qQkNwN6oU/s1600/Horndog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzr7UPMCkLzbeUqsEYyCWHMjhd-Ev-x1DAQZjH9e0dPBAQvAyZdT54XYH28ev1mRqP0EA03O_MTRvTW9aoZMq9A9xVTc6t-qWqcWjhhYpewtC_9e6f-cagyI_gak8TuRX6N8qQkNwN6oU/s1600/Horndog1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Good morning Horndoggers! I’ve been absent for the last couple of weeks. Just so you know, pointing out that Hell Kat's aim has been lacking as of late is a guaranteed trip to the hospital with a free colostomy bag.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here’s today’s helping of neuroses.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Horndog,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/387422_121486677967282_100003178525556_113136_736683997_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/387422_121486677967282_100003178525556_113136_736683997_n.jpg" width="211" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My boyfriend and I have hit a rough patch. I’m not a thin woman. I’m soft. Soft is code</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> for, I’ve gained eighty pounds since high school. When we first got together he said all the things any girls wants to hear. He made me feel special. Now, he is always on my case about losing weight. His ex is very skinny, very beautiful. Everything I am not. My face will never grace the cover of a fashion magazine. In fact, I’m the before picture in all those makeover articles. My eyes are mud brown, my body is doughier than a baker’s wife, and my nose has a hump on it.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Here’s the worst part. He hasn’t touched me in months. He’s never been very passionate, but it’s gotten really bad lately. I thought it might be low testosterone, but the blood tests say he’s fine. I don’t know what to do. I’ve considered plastic surgery, but it’s not a financial possibility for me. What should I do?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ugly in Iowa</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTQp5oOaf1U3HSWQwfOPAcjaS7Trg24FI6yuqvYSQGvfVGJTJwy" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTQp5oOaf1U3HSWQwfOPAcjaS7Trg24FI6yuqvYSQGvfVGJTJwy" /><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Beautiful,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">First of all, I would NEVER call a woman ugly so I refuse to address you by this name. Second, you are not ugly! I have never seen an ugly woman. All women are beautiful. All a woman has to do is smile, really smile, the kind that reaches her eyes, and I’m smitten. Throw the whole idea of plastic surgery out the window. That hump on your nose is not a flaw. That bump makes you unique. If everyone in the world looked like a Victoria’s Secret model, the world would be a boring, boring place. The hottest women in the world, and I mean real women, not the ones who have access to Photoshop, a team of plastic surgeons, and an esophagus with a bigger erosion problem than the Grand Canyon , have quirks about their appearance. They have big noses, small noses, close set eyes, wide set eyes, thin lips, full lips, bushy eyebrows, non-existent eyebrows, weak chins, and strong jaws. And all of these “flaws” make them gorgeous. Your eyes are not mud. They’re the color of coffee with exactly three drops of cream. Or the color of aged Cognac. Or the color of a fawn’s coat. Eyes are never ugly. Joy, sorrow, happiness, heartache, wonder, mischief, amazement, lust, anger, disappointment are all told through the eyes. Any organ that can give that much insight into a woman’s soul is not ugly. Period.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSu8F5KrFRBtsVZC6cB2Lp7m4_UNyFlrzrAkaGlt-fjNSiN-ocmPA" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSu8F5KrFRBtsVZC6cB2Lp7m4_UNyFlrzrAkaGlt-fjNSiN-ocmPA" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, about the weight. What is your guy’s problem! I’m a man. Trust me, I checked </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">this morning and I'm all man. I don’t know a man with a functioning prostate that would choose a pile of bones over something he can grip with both hands and take for a ride. No one wants to wrap their arms around their woman and get an arm full of rib. You know when a man wraps himself around you and lays his head on your chest. Well, who the hell would want to do that with a pile of sticks? Soft is good. Soft is warm. Soft is something you can press yourself into. Soft is perfect.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m gonna bottom line it for you. DUMP THIS GUY! He’s a jerk who doesn’t know what he has. I’ll bet a million dollars you didn’t feel this bad about yourself before you started hooking up with him. I’m sure you wanted to change a few things, everyone does, but were you considering going under the knife before him? Probably not. You need a man who will love you for you. They’re out there. For every douche, there are five dudes who would treat you the way you deserve to be treated. The problem is, these guys usually have a hard time getting to know women. They’re nice. They don’t want to say the wrong thing. You might have to make the first move. Do it! What’s the worst that could happen? He could laugh in your face. Well, you’ve just met someone you don’t want to be with. What’s the best that could happen? He could say yes. You could fall in love, get married, and spend the next few years making babies. Totally worth the risk.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Horndog<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">PS Send me your number. I know tons of guys who’d love to get to know a soft woman with gorgeous eyes and a cute nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Horndog is a Rat Bastard from the upcoming novel,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Never Say Just.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He dispenses relationship advice to the clueless and delusional.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Want him to answer your question?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Email him at HorndogRocks@Gmail.com.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdKIE2H-QxLBscJCUUJu17AQ2UHpvj9TrOT296QJD75IwJkIXZWkkHqN7_vgZ9TKfgI4acLAmXlvYSElv-d3pR-ojCkKDbjauvsJhBLaooZaf1oBA7vQ6n7wwOEW6hoaZ-oBbSof08xo/s400/NSJ-KH-banner.jpg" /> </div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-5352073613421421292012-01-06T08:57:00.000-08:002012-01-06T08:57:35.787-08:00Flash Fiction Friday<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Who in their right mind wouldn’t call this woman sexy? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/384635_187536288006579_100002506280778_387665_444232275_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/384635_187536288006579_100002506280778_387665_444232275_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Paul knew why Alicia was uncomfortable.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The wafer thin models lurking behind him always threw her off her game. Every day legions of surgically enhanced famine victims threw themselves at him. Even when rumors about his sexuality hit the gossip rags, he ignored them. Alicia was the type of woman he wanted. No, Alicia </span><i style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">was</i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> the woman he wanted. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Screw it. This was the day.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #660000;">Paul put his camera on the ground and stomped toward a shaken Alicia. He cupped her sexy full cheeks and kissed her like he was trying to set the studio on fire. No emaciated pissed off Paris Hilton with an on-demand gag reflex could ever kiss like Alicia. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Click here to read what my friends came up with.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">WARNING: Some of my friends are possessed by demons sluts who force them to write naughty. If you are afraid of demon sluts, don’t click. If you don’t mind or have one of your own hidden away somewhere, then click baby click.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"><a href="http://flasherfictionfriday.blogspot.com/2012/01/january-6-2012.html">Flash Fiction Friday</a></span></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1143536078129998520.post-23116629354239284112011-12-30T09:46:00.000-08:002011-12-30T09:55:34.396-08:00Flash Fiction Friday<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">You know the drill. Here’s my interpretation of this pic. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><img height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-39jI_Zaia9U/TvyWXz1H8vI/AAAAAAAAAnw/uEwFcFqagxw/s320/317651_2191601145860_1122074336_31856766_499856993_n.jpg" width="320" /> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Gabe wanted her. He wanted Andie’s round, plump tush in his hands. No man touched a shrew like that without earning a free ride on the Nut Stomp Express. But he couldn’t stop. She concentrated on the arm wrestling match with her big brother. Gabe took the only chance he’d ever get. His hand never made contact. Before he could think, she’d flipped him onto his back and straddled his pelvis, “Don’t touch me there,” she whispered running his hand up the inside of her thigh, “touch me here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes ma’am.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;">What did my friends see? Check them out here.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21px;"><a href="http://flasherfictionfriday.blogspot.com/">Flash Fiction Friday</a></span></div>Katie Harperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682937245854100385noreply@blogger.com20