find ‘popup’, malady ‘width=500, cialis 40mg height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>
I don’t follow the Dodgers. I don’t even follow pro sports. But somewhere in that vast terra incognita is a cult of collectors who fixate on bobble-head dolls, and one of them found its way into our house. No longer the purview of rear decks and lovers of boxer dogs, the bobble-head has become big kitsch business. You can even get a bobble-heads of Martin Luther and wife Katy.
pharm ‘popup’, ed ‘width=500, this height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>
At one point about five years ago, the pain in my head grew so extreme that I paid a man to put a pair of extremely strong pliers into my mouth and rip this out of my skull. I don’t recall how he braced my head. I don’t remember what I said beforehand, or afterward. I do remember hearing and – despite the Novocain – feeling the hard “SNAP” of the roots breaking off a bit of bone from the floor of my sinuses as it came free. And there it sat on a bloodied bed of gauze. I gaped, pulling together my splintered wits. Two fillings stared back. He turned it over, and I saw the massive cavity that had prompted the pain and the extraction. I keep it around as a lesson for the kids. Their dentist says they do a great job brushing. I’m chewing gummis as I write this.
more about ‘popup’,’width=500,height=500,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′); return false”>
Errol Flynn, Tyrone Power, Basil Rathbone, Chow-Yun Fat – all those Hollywood swordsmen lacked the visceral threat you’d feel from the sight of a man standing there, blade in hand, eager to have your guts for garters. In ages ruled by steel, sword wounds could range from nasty duelling scars and fast, deadly heart-strikes to horrible intestinal gashes that caused you to wither and waste until you succumbed to septicemia. You could die by katana stroke, claymore hack, wakizashi slice, rapier thrust. You could kill with edge or tip, flat or hilt. You might have been a king’s musketeer, a cut-throat highwayman, a samurai or a norse raider. You might have been this guy, a distant cousin of Melville’s Queequeg, with rippling muscles and a savage elegance. But you would likely never have been cast in milk-blue plastic until you were centuries gone from the one fight you ever lost, and toymakers saw the need to preserve, reproduce and merchandise your last, best stance in the only color-batch available that week of the cheapest molding material on earth.