2013.09.12 04:45 Heelincal The Best Place Ever from 2013-2016
2020.06.07 18:39 unremovable TIL an unnamed 9-yr-old Girl Scout sold over 300 boxes of Girl Scout cookies in 6 hrs from her wagon in front of a San Diego marijuana dispensary in 2018. She followed in the footsteps of 13-yr-old Danielle Lei, who in 2014 sold 117 boxes of Girl Scout cookies in 2 hrs outside a San Fran pot shop.
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2020.06.07 16:25 Miskatonica TIL an unnamed 9-yr-old Girl Scout sold over 300 boxes of Girl Scout cookies in 6 hrs from her wagon in front of a San Diego marijuana dispensary in 2018. She followed in the footsteps of 13-yr-old Danielle Lei, who in 2014 sold 117 boxes of Girl Scout cookies in 2 hrs outside a San Fran pot shop.
|submitted by Miskatonica to todayilearned [link] [comments]|
2020.03.06 01:38 kaosmode My LGS is having a 50k Tournament
2020.03.05 15:52 damazz10 Bravo Ratings 2/23/20-2/27/20
2020.02.17 15:59 damazz10 Bravo Ratings 2/9/20-2/13/20
2020.02.10 17:21 damazz10 Bravo Ratings 2/3/20-2/6/20
2019.08.13 00:51 Furshlugginer492 Rosebud, Chapters 5,6
Why it had taken all this time, I don’t know. Since waking up, I’d gone through the last couple of hours in a perfectly normal, if groggy, frame of mind, not remembering more of the previous evening than that it had happened. But now I couldn’t keep the image of that little girl, with her blood-smeared face and clothing, feasting so lewdly on the corpse of the woman there in the school-yard, out of my rapidly fragmenting mind. I had to stop at once and pull my bicycle over as quickly as I could manage to avoid falling down right there in the middle of the bike-path. Leaning my bike against a raggedy fir growing there by the path, I almost fell to the ground as the last of my strength flowed out of my legs like water running off a cliff.
I biked northeast from Camarillo along Trudeau to Main, then down Main, across Highway 101, to Balboa Boulevard, which ran northeast-southwest along the beaches to Old Highway Road. A spur from the bike-path system ran west from the latter; the spur would take me to the bike-path that ran along the cliffs out to Golightly Beach and UCSR. It wasn’t until I was halfway out to the University from town that the events of the previous day caught up with me – and then I nearly fell off my bicycle from shock.
I didn’t really want to go ail the way to Golightly Bench, not now. What I actually wanted to do, I realized, was go get a pizza and, after that, some chocolate eclairs and French vanilla ice-cream, and PIG OUT!!! Much more satisfying me than any ordinary lost, drunken weekend, an epic calorie-binge would cushion me quite adequately from just about anything up to and including World War III. So I struggled to my feet and, turning my bicycle around, headed back to El Camino Reál –- a legacy of California’s Spanish heritage running from just below San Diego clear up to Monterey, near the Bay Area, along some 500 miles of California’s Pacific coast and 400 years of its history. There I turned left, going northeast toward “upper” Santa Reál. (Main Street, which runs northwest from the ocean for two or three miles, makes a 45° angle at that point, turning due west toward Golightly, the University, and Ano Vista, its name changing to Mercury once it crosses the city limits going west. The city of Santa Reàl hugs Main Street rather closely. It flanks Main on either side in two bent strips; the one on the ocean side of Main is about six or seven blocks wide, but the one on the other side extends as much as twenty blocks in some places toward the foothills and mountains of the spur of the California Coastal Ranges that bounds Santa Reál and environs on the North. The part of Santa Reál “above” the bend in Main, that is, along the section of Main running due east and west – which just incidentally contains some of the priciest residences in Southern California – is called “Upper Santa Reál.”)
Shaking all over, I huddled in the shade of the fir for a while, my will paralyzed, my strength gone. Morosely I thought of Officer McKnight’s admonition to me to remain where 1 could be reached – should I be at home? Then I remembered that I had turned on my telephone answering-device, with a message saying that I’d be back soon. If the police called, surely they’d assume my absence had no sinister import, and would leave a message for me to call them back. So I could have some time alone out here to myself with a clean conscience. But what did I want to do?
Walking my bicycle along with me down the sidewalk, I went three blocks down to Baskin & Robbins. Just coincidentally, a fine bakery was next-door to the ice-cream parlor. After locking up my bicycle, I went first into the bakery, where I bought two chocolate eclairs and a double-dozen sugar-cookies, then went into Baskin & Robbins for the biggest sundae they made, plus half a gallon of French vanilla ice cream to take home with me.
There was a Domino’s Pizza Parlor just off the corner of El Camino Reál and Main. I headed for it gratefully. Once inside, I ordered a medium-sized pizza with everything, with plans to save the leftovers to take home for a bed-time pig-out, along with salad, garlic bread and a pitcher of Budweiser (the alternative was Coor’s, which tastes even worse than Bud, not to mention the fact that I hate Adolph Coor’s labor policies, which make Simon Legree look like Jimmy Hoffa). An hour later, nicely stuffed with pizza and even more nicely squiffy on beer, and bored with the heavy-metal and rap selections playing continuously on the jukebox, which the cute little punkers and homeboyz kept eternally stuffed with quarters, I left.
It wasn’t until I was within a mile or so of home that 1 became fully conscious of just where the bike-path ran. I had been thinking idly of nothing in particular, still somewhat stoned from my huge meal, happily trundling along over the bike-path toward town. Suddenly I realized that the territory I was in was very familiar: I was in the fields back of Fairchild Elementary School.
The fact that I spent nearly $40 on all this never entered my mind. Visions of Hog Heaven danced through my head, obscuring anything else – and mercifully keeping yesterday’s horrors completely locked out of my mind for the duration. I enjoyed my feast thoroughly, lovingly lingering over every last crumb of the pastry and each spoonful of the ice cream. By the time I was done, the beer I’d drunk had finally worked its way to my bladder, and once I had used the restroom and got rid of it, I was no longer so wobbly on my feet, in spite of the beer. I decided to go home, put one of Mel Brooks’s finer efforts on the VCR and kick it back for the evening. The bike-path that runs out to Golightly Beach from one side of\` El Camino Reál also extends back in the other direction at that same point, toward town. I rode back down El Camino Reál toward the beaches, turning off to the left onto the bike-path to go back into the city. I had a dim memory of the path coming out somewhere fairly near where I lived. Blithely I set off along it, taking pleasure in the alders, maples, oaks, and other trees that lined the path, their leaves stirring softly in a cool breeze off the ocean, countless birds darting through them. 1 laughed at a crow who was having a loud argument with another crow, maybe having it out over the bills or whose turn it was to take down the storm-shutters. The sun wasn’t all that close to setting yet, but it was very late in the afternoon, and it was getting cool. I was glad I’d brought my jacket.
My brain kicked out, my glands kicked in. Without thinking about it at all, I swerved with ghostly grace off the bike-path onto that same footpath by which, just yesterday, I’d come to the school-yard on the return leg of my hike. I don’t know what instinctive wisdom impelled me to stop the bicycle and pull it around with that same catlike silence behind one of the bushes that grew there in the field close to the school, or tiptoe so quietly up to the oleander bushes at the school-yard corner. Certainly I wasn’t at all consciously prepared for what I saw as I peered cautiously around one of the oleanders.
If it hadn’t been for the noise I heard just then, coming out of the school-yard, a strange, frantic screaming like nothing I’d ever heard before on this earth, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near that school that evening for a million dollars. But the screaming, the terrified cry of some baby thing in agony, jerked me out of myself, and I could no more have kept away from there after that than I could have flapped my arms and flown.
Then, with a jolt, I realized what that red-white-and-black logo in the center of the little round, silver plate hanging in the center of each of her bizarre earrings was. Each of her earrings consisted of several slender silver hoops of various sizes suspended together at their top edges on a short braid of delicate silver wire attached to the hook going through her ear-lobe. The plate with the logo, about 1 cm across, slightly smaller than the smallest of the hoops, shared the same anchorage to the bottom of the silver braid connecting the whole assemblage to the hook as the hoops enclosing it. The logo itself, picked out in brilliant scarlet, Stygian black, and snow-white was a copy of the flag of Nazi Germany, black retrograde swastika on a white ground inside a red field.
The woman had a quirt at her hip, secured on her heavy black Sam Browne belt. The hilt of a stiletto peeked up from her left boot-top. Through the horror that threatened to overwhelm me I still couldn’t help thinking that for all the world, she made me think of Ozma of Oz dressed to the nines for a dungeon party – or a character out of some Z-class spy-suspense movie: the Evil Nazi Female Spy.
“Right, honey,” the woman answered absently. Then her eyes narrowed, and she told me, “‘You know, now you’re a witness. I guess we’re going to have to kill you.”
“You know, Miss, you sound like a cross between somebody out of one of those after-the-Bomb-mutants novels and some*thing* from one of H.P. Lovecraft’s nastier nightmares.” “Lovecraft was one of Us, too.” “I bet you invented the Wheel, too.” Her face hardened into something deadly. She raised the pistol a little higher, so that it was aimed straight at my heart. Under the circumstances, clearly it was stupid to antagonize her, but my mouth seemed to have a mind of its own: “Why, I bet you don’t even know who it was you killed. – And you called Debby ‘Teysa.’ Where did she get *that*?” “Oh, don’t worry about the sacrifice – it wasn’t anybody worth anyone’s concern, just some little suburban *breeder* with too many kids, not enough brains, and a busy, busy, *busy* life with all her stupid little charities and den-mothering and her ten million other little busywork projects. You think somebody like *that* will ever produce anything of note? – After all, it’s not as if she were a great composer or researcher, or a doctor or somebody else who is at least *useful*! No, all *that* kind can do is breed and breed and breed, and make the world softer and softer and weaker and weaker with all her little welcome-wagons and cub-scout meetings and *niceness*. That was that little twat’s finest hour, yesterday – thanks to her sacrifice, we were able to invoke *Asmodeus* successfully, at last . . .” She said this last with a sigh that sounded like St. Theresa describing the latest visit from her Archangel. Stunned speechless, I just stared at her. Waiting for me to say something, the woman began to look irritated when nothing was forthcoming from me, and her grip on the gun tightened. It was Debby herself who answered my other question. Looking up adoringly at her friend, she piped, “*She*’s *Big* Teysa, an’ *I*’m *Little* Teysa! Right?”
Coming toward us at a dead run were Rabbi Geller, panting with effort, accompanied by a boy of maybe twenty, who had a gigantic, gorgeous Jewish Afro of curly golden hair. Both wore swimming-trunks; rubies flamed in the water that dripped from the boy’s thick, tightly-curled locks of hair as the dying sun enhaloed him with gruesome light.
If I’d been her, the sight of two drawn guns aimed at me, held by two obviously competent and very angry cops, would have taken all the starch out of me right then and there. I’d have dropped the gun and passed out cold. Not Phyllis Teysa. I have to give the Devil her due: she never wavered. Her finger began to tighten on the trigger – she was determined to take at least one of us out before they got her. “Oh, my God – Debby! *Baby!* What are they doing to you?!” “*Eh-heh-EEE-eh! Eee-YAAA!! Yeh-ho-waaw El-oh-heeem! Ehl! Eh-lo-heem Gi-BOOOORRR! Ye-ho-wah El-oh-wah Vah-Dah-aht! Yeh-ho-waaw Tsahh-ba-oht! Eh-lo-heem Tsahh-ba-oht! Shah-DAEE El-CHAEEEEE! Ah-doh-naee Meh-LEHK!!!!”* This last, howled out by a strong, young pair of lungs belonging to a third party who had apparently just arrived on the scene, ended on a mind-ripping, sky-tearing eagle-scream. Though it could have cost me my life, I couldn’t help looking around to see who it was. I needn’t have worried – behind me, I heard the *clunk!* of Phyllis’s gun falling to the ground.
Falling to her knees beside her thrashing child, Mrs. Rothberg grabbed Debby’s jaws with the terrible strength of a woman in terror for the life of her child. Slowly, digging her fingers into the corners of Debby’s mouth and down against the muscle where the girl’s jaws came together, she forced Debby’s mouth wide open. “Put it in!” she ordered Martin. “Now!”
The boy, white-faced and horrified, came over to me. “Who – who are you?” I asked him shakily. Now that I was no longer in danger of being imminently murdered out of hand, I found that my legs were trembling so hard that it was all I could to do stand up, and the same tremor made it hard to speak. “I – I’m Martin. Martin Maier. Rabbi Geller’s my uncle, on my mom’s side. – You know who that woman, the one on the ground in that *messhugginner* getup, is?” “I’ve no idea.” “She’s – that’s Phyllis Bernstein! She teaches English out at the University. She lives right *here*, about two houses away from Debby’s, and a couple of blocks over from *us!* She’s – why those, those *schmutsik* *oyringlen*?!” he cried, outraged. “She goes to Beth Miqlam, where Uncle Ben’s the rabbi! We all know her! What is she *doing*, dressed up like some Nazi whore?! She’s *Jewish*!” “Dear God – she told me her name was ‘Phyllis *Teysa*.’ She said she came from *Ohio*!” “Well, she *was* both there – but she and her parents have lived *here* for the last *twenty-five years!* My mom knows *her* mom! She’s known our whole family for *years*!” “Martin – I need your help!” cried Rabbi Geller, who was still doing his best to keep Debby from hurting herself. “Debby’s choking! I can’t get a hand free to depress her tongue, I need help!” “Coming, Uncle Ben!” Martin ran over to help his uncle. “Oh, God, did you find Debby? Is my baby – oh God!” It was Sarah Rothberg, who had finally caught up with the others. Utterly distraught, seeing Rabbi Geller kneeling astride her child, who was beginning to turn blue, she began to wail, a wordless, horrifying cry of total despair. Martin was doing his best to try to get a handkerchief I’d dug out of my pocket for him into the little girl’s mouth, but was having the devil’s own time of it – Debby bit at him savagely every time he tried.
Continued in Chapter 7
It was some time before Rabbi Geller returned. When he did, it was in a police car, one of three units dispatched to the scene due to his frantic call to the station. An ambulance with three paramedics were right behind them. While he was gone, Geller had thought to put on some clothes over his trunks; he and Martin had been swimming in the Rothberg’s pool when Sarah Rothberg came running out to tell them hysterically that Debby, who had supposedly been napping in her room, still recovering from the previous day’s shock, had disappeared again, this time apparently through the open window of her room. Geller and his nephew had only stopped long enough to pull on shoes before taking off to hunt for the child, whom they had imagined to be wandering around in a fugued daze somewhere. With sunset flaming across the west in peacock glory, and night coming on quickly, it was rapidly cooling down. Accordingly, Rabbi Geller had quickly pulled on some clothes once he’d reached the house; he’d also thought to bring some back with him for Martin, who was beginning to shiver by the time the cops and the ambulance arrived. By the time we got back to the Rothberg’s house, where Lieutenant Benson began to question us all over again, it had occurred to me that I could as easily be a suspect now as Ms. Bernstein. After all, all anyone had seen when they came busting in on us there in the school-yard was Phyllis Bernstein holding a gun on me, Debby covered with blood, and a dismembered kitten on the ground. It could as easily be assumed from all that facts at hand so far, I knew, that Ms. Bernstein had surprised me butchering that kitten and perhaps intending to do harm to Debby, and had pulled a gun on me to keep me from doing any further harm to the child. Phyllis’s admittedly weird costume wasn’t evidence, however strange it may have been, and what else was there? But right off the bat, Benson, smiling grimly, said to me in front of the others, “Well, *you’re* off the hook, Ms. Cutter – as luck would have it, Tom, here –“ he gestured at Tom McKnight, who sat off to the side of the room, looking queasy and grimly taking notes – “Tom and I were coming over to the school-yard with the others here, looking for Debby, when we heard voices behind those big oleander bushes there. “You see, I had called Mrs. Rothberg earlier today, to ask her if we could talk with Debby, to find out what, if anything, she could tell us about Mrs. Grace’s murder. – The name of the dead woman, you see, was Lucille Grace. She was quite well-known in the community, and very much liked. A terrible thing, her death, especially when you consider her husband and kids . . . “—Anyway, Debby was almost certainly a witness to that murder, and anything she could tell us would have helped us immensely in trying to find the killer – which was a Number One priority, considering how terrible it was. Well, Mrs. Rothberg wasn’t sure her daughter was up to it, understandably enough, after the shock the poor little kid had just been through, and she went to check on her, to find out if Debby was feeling well enough to talk with us. “She came back in a hurry to tell us that Debby was missing and that the window of the girl’s room was wide open. Mrs. Rothberg had no real idea of how long the girl had been done – it could have been anywhere up to about half an hour, which was how long it had been since Mrs. Rothberg – hell, *Sarah*. Mind if I call you that, Ma’am?” he asked her apologetically. Mrs. Rothberg, who’d been sitting huddled in a large overstuffed chair, weeping quietly all this time, shook her head dumbly without looking up or interrupting her muffled sobbing. “Thanks, Ma’am,” Benson told her. “– Anyway, up until then, as far as Sarah had known, Debby’d been in bed all day, still very ill from the shock she’d had. As ill as the kid seemed to be, it wasn’t likely she’d climbed out that window herself. “Well, under the circumstances, it seemed quite possible that she *had* been a witness to Mrs. Grace’s murder and that the killer might have come over here and kidnapped her, in order to take the little girl someplace and kill her, to eliminate the one witness to that murder. So Tom and I made tracks for the school, *fast* – it was the most likely place to start looking for tracks, whatever we could find, we thought. “Rabbi Geller and Martin were here, too. Sarah had called them this morning, before all this go started, and had asked them to come over. Not only is Rabbi Geller her rabbi, he’s an old friend of the family. So he came, and brought Martin, who was over helping his uncle fix a rose-trellis or something. And it was hot, and Sarah suggested they could go swimming if they wanted to – anyway, they were here, so they came along with Tom and I, to help us look for Debby. “So all of us had just about reached the school-yard, when Tom and I heard voices. It was you and Ms. Bernstein. We hung back to listen, make sure of what was going on, before we came on in to the school-yard and interrupted Ms. Bernstein’s attempt at another murder. We’ll testify in court as to what she said, which makes it glass-clear she murdered Mrs. Grace. “And even if it weren’t for that, Ms. Cutter, I’d *still* wonder what the hell that woman was doing in a God-damned *school-yard* with a .40-caliber semi-automatic pistol! – Not to mention being dressed up in that fantasy-Nazi outfit, like the belle of the Hitlerian ball or something! – She *is* Jewish, I gather?” Martin, still outraged, spoke up. “She sure is, Lieutenant Benson! She’s attended Beth Miqlam, our synagogue, for *years!*”
2019.06.17 05:39 subreddit_stats Subreddit Stats: news top posts from 2019-05-17 to 2019-06-15 21:55 PDT
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2019.03.04 03:54 chichi2319 Anyone have good resources for the 50+ to learn about CBD/cannabis?
2019.02.18 18:57 wcincedarrapids The panhandling and homeless loitering is out of control.
2018.04.13 20:01 bash59 Well, I have tried to laugh it off....................
2018.02.08 06:52 BlankVerse Entrepreneurial Girl Scout has leaders grappling with a new frontier of cookie sales: outside the pot shop — "[an] entrepreneurial Girl Scout … sold 312 boxes of Girl Scout cookies outside a San Diego marijuana shop this weekend"
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2018.02.07 13:14 lawstandaloan San Diego Girl Scouts investigate girl who sold cookies outside marijuana dispensary
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2018.02.06 20:02 lebish San Diego Girl Scouts investigate girl who sold cookies outside marijuana dispensary
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2018.02.06 19:58 ultimaregem San Diego Girl Scouts investigate girl who sold cookies outside marijuana dispensary
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2018.02.06 19:53 removalbot 02-06 18:53 - 'San Diego Girl Scout Sells Over 300 Boxes of Cookies in 6 Hours Outside Marijuana Shop' (ktla.com) by /u/undue-influence removed from /r/news within 1-11min
2018.02.06 05:15 AutoNewspaperAdmin [World] - San Diego Girl Scouts looking into whether cookie seller outside pot shop broke rules Toronto Star
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2018.02.06 04:12 AutoNewsAdmin [World] - San Diego Girl Scouts looking into whether cookie seller outside pot shop broke rules
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2018.02.04 22:51 outrider567 Munchy madness: Girl Scout sells 300 boxes of cookies outside San Diego marijuana dispensary
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2018.02.04 05:20 AutoNewspaperAdmin [US] - Munchy madness: Girl Scout sells 300 boxes of cookies outside San Diego marijuana dispensary Russia Today
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2018.02.04 04:13 AutoNewsAdmin [US] - Munchy madness: Girl Scout sells 300 boxes of cookies outside San Diego marijuana dispensary
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2018.02.03 15:49 LongtailBot [#5+5392207] Girl Scout sells more than 300 boxes of cookies at San Diego marijuana dispensary [/r/nottheonion]