Culinary Marshal Law

Clifton tossed his coat into the booth and plopped down. The small Asian woman that seated them sat waters in front of him and his girlfriend Kim.

“You habbabuffay today?” she said.

“What?” Clifton was bewildered.

“Yes,” Kim said. “We’ll have two buffets and two Dr. Peppers, please.”

“Meesa Peeb?”

“What?” Clifton said.

“Mr. Pibb is fine,” Kim said.

The waitress hustled away to get their drinks.

Kim began to stand. “Watch my purse while I go get some food?”

“What? Why can’t we just go at the same time?”

She sat back down. “I can’t just leave my purse here, Clifton.”

“Why not? I’m leaving my coat here.” He held it up to and sat it back into the booth to demonstrate.

“But my money and stuff is in my purse.”

Clifton shifted and reached into his back pocket. “I’ll leave my wallet in my coat. Would that do it for you?”

“Please don’t be impossible tonight,” she sighed.

“You know how much I hate these places. I just don’t understand how someone can voluntarily put themselves in a situation where they have to compete in the least for their food. I mean, you’re up there; there’s no direction. There’s just people coming at you from every which way to get that last piece of old, tepid food. This isn‘t Oklahoma, Kim,” he said.

“Well, I like this place. You’re just going to have to suck it up every once in a while. I go to places you like.”

“I always kind of thought my reciprocation for that was going to Long John Silvers with you.”

Kim stood up without replying. “Watch my purse, baby. Please. I’ll be right back.”

Clifton put his feet up Kim’s seat and slouched back. He spitefully stared at her purse to see if it posed any threat of sprouting legs and walking away. The waitress returned with the sodas.

“Thank you very much,” he said.

“Oh syure,” the waitress said, then walked away.

Across the restaurant, an obese man with a long grey beard sat alone with a heaping plate of food. Three empty plates lay stacked on the other side of the table. Everyone in town knew the man, he rode a three-wheeled cruiser bicycle around town. Clifton had heard his name was Stan, but he and his friends always called him Mr. Blurg. The closest thing to a celebrity that small town had.

A piece of spare rib hung loosely from Mr. Blurg’s beard, threatening at any moment to fall. The sight disgusted Clifton. The nausea wave increased three-fold when Kim returned with her plate.

“You’re serious? Buffet sushi?” he crinkled his nose.

“I like sushi,” Kim replied.

“Yeah, me, too, but … at a buffet? Raw meat that’s been sitting out at room temperature is like eating a petri dish of Ebola.”

“It was on ice,” Kim said.

“Oh!” he threw his arms up. “That’ll scare away the bacterium!”

Her stare grew icy. “Just go get some food.”

He reluctantly stood to go to the buffet. “That’s probably for the best. I don’t even want to breathe the same air that hazardous material occupies. I might get the avian flu.”

“It’s fish, you asshole. Go get some food.”

Clifton took the top plate from the spring-loaded dispenser, set it aside and grabbed the second one. People moved in every direction, jumping erratically from item of choice to other. He took a moment to plan his point of entry into the madness. The intention was to pick a spot and a direction and just stay the course until he had gotten what he wanted from each spot. He intended to load his plate as much as possible, to avoid having to return to the chaos.

The salad bar seemed least bustling, so he opted to begin there. He prodded the lettuce with the tongs and decided to pass when he noticed it nearly floating. The woman he got in line behind moved suddenly in his direction, making him jump. She scowled at him.

“Sorry about that whole having mass and taking up space thing. It’s one of the drawbacks of existing,” he said as she continued on her way. “This salad bar ain’t happening.”

Next stop in the tour of culinary marshal law seemed safe enough. Nobody was there. He looked along the bar: sweet and sour chicken, lemon chicken, sesame chicken and fried chicken. Sesame chicken appealed the most of those options. As he moved to get some, a boy of maybe five appeared right next to him. Eyes magnified by his huge glasses, he looked up at Clifton.

“What you got there?” Clifton asked, looking at his plate. “Pizza, nachos and mac and cheese, huh? Looks like somebody’s getting an authentic taste of the orient. Wow, what’s that? It looks like a little piece of hot dog wrapped in bacon with a toothpick through it. Wow.”

The boy stood on his toes and reached for the sweet and sour sauce ladle. His fingers barely missed it. Clifton pushed the handle closer so he could grab it, curious what he planned to do with it, considering the contents of his plate. He spilled the majority on the bar before dumping the remainder on a blank spot on his plate. After putting the ladle into the sesame chicken, he scampered away. Down to lemon chicken or fried chicken on that side, Clifton scanned the other side to find nothing of interest. His eyes widened when he noticed Mr. Blurb moving at him with surprising speed. Clifton bee-lined to the next table.

He returned, frazzled, to Kim at the table. She looked his plate over.

“Pasta salad, a roll and some fruit?” She shook her head.
“Least likely candidates for contamination,” he explained.

“You’re unreal.”

“Let me tell you something; I worked in the food industry for almost ten years, and I know how things go. The health department rolls in here and notices that they’re not rotating stock and keeping the food on the bar heated or cooled properly. The people that run this fine dining establishment just shake their heads and say ‘Oh yah. Syure, serve nooo bad food.’ Those health department guys don’t even want to fuck with it. They know they could move on to a restaurant where they can understand the people and ream their asses instead. Meanwhile, people flock here, blissfully ignorant of the potential poison they’re ingesting,” he took a drink of water to cool down from his diatribe.

Kim breathed deeply through his nose and shook her head. “Just eat your fucking pasta salad and fruit so we can get out of here.”

They ate silently for several minutes.

“So I’m thinking … sex tonight?” he said.

She closed her eyes and fought a laugh. “We’ll see.”

Kickin’ It Old School–Peotone Style

After almost thirteen years, I’ve just started reconnecting with some of my old high school friends. I went to school in a very small town, so small, in fact, that there still isn’t a proper traffic light. Peotone, Illinois still has probably less than 5,000 residents, and despite the fact that you can see the orange arc-sodium glare of the whole Chicagoland area, it feels like a distant world. It looks like, and is, classic Small Town America.

When I graduated and went off to college, I stayed in touch with about four of my friends. It happens–after graduation, people go their own way. But I’ve recently found my way back, and it’s been so much fun. Around Christmas time, one of my best girlfriends invited me to come to a Christmas party with her. It was thrown by some kids we went to school with and hadn’t seen in years. They’d gotten married, had a few kids and were holding it down old school.

We’ll call them the Wills, since I don’t want to be exposing peoples’ names in public. Anyway, I went to the Wills party, hoping it wouldn’t be awkward, since I hadn’t seen or talked to anyone in over a decade. Not to worry. As the night wore on, as the home-made absinthe made an appearance, as the keg ran down and and as sisters J’s and A’s mom’s famous beef sandwiches diminished, a sense of “Where the hell have I been and why have I not been hanging out with these hysterical, fun and kind people?” overcame me.

At one point, I laughed so hard, I literally choked on one of those tasty beef sandwiches. My girl, D, had to smack me on the back. She saved my life.

In the last few weeks, I’ve made it back to my hometown to go to a couple of girls’ nights, I’ve hung out and sung karaoke in the bowling alley (the BA if you’re nasty), hunted down all the 2nd Street bars (there are only four) looking for my best friend’s brother, and harassed the cop on the beat because he drilled me in the face with a snowball as I stood at the bus-stop when I was twelve years old.

Relationships take a lot of work, it’s true. Finding time to cultivate our friendships while trying to be a good family member, go to school, work and have some kind of personal life is a balancing act. It’s not easy to keep it all together; who has the time, right? But I had a chance to reconnect with old friends, and become better friends with people I knew but didn’t really hang out with, and I’m glad I took it. It’s done way more than open different social avenues.

For me, it’s reminded me of the fun I had growing up in the home of the Will County Fair. While everyone has done all the grown up things, like forging careers, starting families and settling down to the job of living life, it’s been good to see that we’re all pretty much the same people—but better. It’s been more than just rehashing good times and asking for refreshers in cases where my memory was stunted by Busch Light. I’ve got one of my old school buddies in on the blogging action, and some of my other friends have agreed to submit some writing to Alors, Et Toi?

It’s awesome to get the people I know involved with the creative aspects in my life. I’m one of those people that thrives on cooperation and collaboration. Getting back in touch with my old school people hasn’t just been an exercise in nostalgia, it’s been an exercise in creativity and it’s made me feel … just good. And happy to be around people I’ve known since I was a kid. “They” say you can’t go home again. In my case, it was not only possible to go home again, it was highly a recommended move.

Stay tuned for the Peotone files. I have to run some ideas past my friends and have them pick out code names to protect the innocent, and more importantly, the guilty.

Here’s Your Focus Group! Jude Takes On The Grocery Store

In today’s issue of Juderonomy, Jude exposes the evils of grocery store marketing. Remember–I grew up with this savvy shopper. She says a mouthful, but she’s just getting started. Shop the Jude Way, and you’ll save money, lose weight and stymie marketing execs everywhere …

Well, I’ve just returned from my weekly grocery shopping expedition and there are a couple of things that have really ticked me off for years about these venues.

First and foremost is product placement to entice your impulse buying. I want to meet the Machiavelli of Marketing! This bastard has gone far and above the call of duty to make what is an annoying but necessary chore a game of dodge the free standing shelves in the middle of the aisle.

Have you tried to pass another basket pusher mid-aisle with one of these Towers of Crap in the way? Impossible. Each shopper goes forward, feints back and it starts all over again.There are no rules as to who has the right of way.

Simple solution? RAM SPEED–all baskets ahead. This does make some nervous,but do not be faint of heart, fellow shoppers.Soon the managers get the idea and some,if not all of these 10/$1.00 impediments will be moved.

Along with all that, look and see what your little tyke is staring at from basket level. All the sugar in the Western world is right in eye level. The non-sugared good food is either ceiling- or floor-level. No wonder we’re becoming the largest creatures on Earth. Try to get through a grocery list with the wailing for all those BOO-Berries and Count Choculas ringing in your ears.

This brings me to another gripe: the 60s and 70s elevator music that lulls you into a slower pace … OOOHHHH, The Beach Boys “Wouldn’t it be Nice?” At first you don’t realize the music playing its Siren Song of spending. Then you begin to slow down and listen. Soon your hand is reaching for the Double Stuffed Oreos. This is always my cue to pick up the pace and outflank my Marketing Nemesis. Forget the dairy; it’s off to the check out line for me.

The world is fraught with dangers. Whoever expected the neighborhood grocery store to be such a minefield? Beware,it’s just the beginning…

Mitzi Produces with DJ Primfisees

What’s up, sluts? I scored a major journalistic coup by securing an interview with DJ Primfisees. Our little sit-down took place on his compound in Hotlanta. I felt like I had stepped into an episode of Cribs. In fact, I experienced an eerie sense of déjà vu when we settled in for our talk in his theater room because I actually had seen his house on Cribs.

MP: So, DJ Primfisees, Drop the Floor is blowing up on the Billboard charts. Are you resting on your laurels, or are you getting ready to start on a new album?

DJ P: Well, I been havin’ these mad rhymes bouncing around in my head all the time. I’ve already sat down with my boy DJ Blackwoof and laid out some tracks for the next album. I’ve already got one that’s gonna be the single. It’s called Thow It Up.

MP: Thow It Up, eh? That’s sure to be an anthem for all the actresses in Hollywood. Heh. Hm. Right on. You’ve made a name for yourself by being willing to collaborate with … well, anyone. How many guest, um, artists are you featuring on Thow It Up?

DJ P: I’m really trying to keep this one about self … um … selfness. There’s only going to be nine or ten people working with me on this.

MP: Wow. Yeah, that should keep the focus on your … selfness, for sure. Great! So, I hear you’re trying to break into film, too. Care to share the details of the project you’re working on?

DJ P: Tru dat! I’m working on a film that will chronicle my life and tribalations growing up on the tough streets with a dream of becoming a big time rapper. It’s going to be about me overcoming growing up in a tough neighborhood and going to a private school. I’m thinking about calling it Bring it On.

MP: Great premise, but I think that title was already used for that cheerleading movie franchise. Is it in development yet?

DJ P: What? A cheerleading movie? Aw hell nah! I’m gonna have to do something about that.

MP: Well, you could think of a new title. How about Step Off? Hey, if you use that, can I get a producer’s credit?

DJ P: You know what? You. My. Nigga. I’ma use that.

DJ Primfisees showed a softer side during our interview–I caught a glimpse of the sensitive artist beneath the bling and the ice. Look for my name in the credits when Step Off hits theaters! Meanwhile, Drop the Floor is out in stores now. See you next week when I’m back in Cali bringing you latest news and all the hottest goss.

Weekly Recrap – March Madness!

I’m super stoked about some college basketball tomorrow. Memphis vs. Texas is undoubtedly going to be an awesome game. I watched them both last night, and they played like motherfuckers. The big one for me, though, is Kansas and Davidson. You know I’m going for KU, since they kick ass, but Davidson is tearing it up lately. There’s a lot of talk about them being the Cinderella team of this tournament. Hopefully, when Kansas is done with them tomorrow, it’ll be because they wear pretty dresses and ride a pumpkin all the way back home.

Have you been following the games at all, Nora?

What games? The Olympics? No, Mitchell, I’m afraid I’m not much of a sports fan. I’ve been keeping busy tracking the orbits of some of the more threatening asteroids, planning for the zombie apocalypse and trying to keep my dad busy while my mom writes Juderonomy. Hey, maybe he needs to start watching college basketball. That ought to keep him out of her hair.

There’s always an open beer and a seat open for him if he would like to join me. It’s consumed me lately. I’m a little worried about Stephen Curry. They guy scores thirty points a game like it’s easy. I think the Jayhawk defense can keep him at bay, though. They seem to thrive on a fast-paced, tough game. If they don’t win tomorrow, I’ll be the guy crying in the corner, clutching a picture of Bill Self and asking why he has forsaken me.

Would it be mean if I pointed and laughed? Yeah, Jude would send you a fruit basket if I sent my dad to Hutch for the remainder of March Madness. Whatever you do, if he asks you to “pull his finger,” don’t indulge him. Hey, Mitchell, not to kill your basketball buzz, but how did you like interviewing Juliette Lewis?  What the hell was she smoking, dude? She’s a little nuts.

She’s a lot of nuts. We’ve got to stop scraping the bottom of the Hollywood septic tank for my interviews. It’s getting a little tough.

Back to basketball! My prediction: after all is said and done tomorrow, Texas and Kansas will be advancing and things are going to get crazy. If not … well … I’ll just stop fucking watching. What are your predictions, Nora?

*YAWN* Huh? Wha…? I must have fallen asleep there for a second. Well, even though I couldn’t care less about college basketball, I sure hope KU wins for your sake, dude. And don’t worry–we’ll work on getting you some better interviews. I’ve almost gotten through to the cousin of a girl whose neighbor does Dustin “Screech” Diamond’s mom’s nails. That would be cool, right?

Do you hate me? Is that it?

MitchTalk – Juliette Lewis

Well, you’re in for a treat, gentlepeople. Tonight I’m interviewing … oh … Juliette Lewis. OK, well, tonight you’re in for something. Here we go.

Mitchell: Good evening, Juliette, what’s up?

Juliette: Good.

Mitchell: Right … so, you’ve been in movies, huh?

Juliette: Yeah, I played the retarded character in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?.

Mitchell: I thought Leonardo DiCaprio played the retarded character.

Juliette: No, I did.

Mitchell: Actually, I’m positive Leo did. I’ve seen the movie several times.

Juliette: One time I ate a bug.

Mitchell: That’s amazing. Who has been your biggest influence as an actress?

Juliette: Well, every time I get a part in a movie, I just ask myself “How would Molly Ringwald do this part?”

Mitchell: Molly Ringwald on a bottle of vodka?

Juliette: What?

Mitchell: Huh?

Juliette: …

Mitchell: So … Natural Born Killers was pretty badass.

Juliette: Was it? I heard it was good.

Mitchell: …

Juliette: Did I ever tell you about the time I ate a bug?

Mitchell: I heard you’re in a band …

Juliette: Yeah. It’s called Juliette and the Licks.

Mitchell: I saw you play Letterman. I really never knew music could make me bleed rectally.

Juliette: I’m a real good singer.

Mitchell: Right. Well, that concludes your interview. Now I’m going to kindly ask security to get this nasty piece of trash out of my office.

I hate my life.

Ryan’s Afraid of Zombies!

Here at SWC, we believe in encouraging everyone to share their irrational fears and paranoid rants. Joining us today is Ryan, one of Nora’s old high-school chums. By the time you’re done reading, the zombie apocalypse is probably going to be well underway. Either that, or the Earth’ll be wiped out by an asteroid.

Let me first start off by saying I’m not crazy. Well, not lock me up in an asylum crazy, but normal functioning crazy. After having a long discussion with my friends, I wanted to share what really scares me. You can have your Freddy Krugers, Jason Voorhees and Michael Myers. They are all good movies, but they never really frightened me. The only thing that scares me (in the movies and real life) are zombies.

If you think about it, it makes sense. A zombie walking down the street is an incarnation of what we all fear…our own mortality. I don’t care who you are–anyone who says that they are not afraid to die is lying. We all have a natural instinct to survive. Zombies are physical manifestation of death that is 180 degrees from something so ingrained in our being that even though you may not act scared, deep down you know you’re terrified.

Another factor involved here is the minuscule chance that it could happen. What if a meteor crashed to earth and all the dead started walking around eating people? Who’s to say that it can’t happen? I certainly don’t know everything that is possible in nature. Do you? Yeah, I’m talking to you, there, religious people.

There’s a famous line form the 1978 classic, George Romero’s “Dawn of the Dead”. It goes, “When there is no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.” Think about that Promise Keepers! If you want to believe that a giant invisible man watches over us and keeps us safe, then you must also believe in the bad–the demons, the zombies and all the fictional bad things. I’m not here to shit on anyone’s religion, I’m just saying that if you have one you must have the other. Yin and Yang. And let’s not forget all those stories of Haitian Voodoo rituals that raise the dead from the grave. I know they’re probably just stories, but there is a grain of truth in every story.

Finally, what better way for the human race to go out? Nuclear war? Nah…too quick. Asteroids?…No chance to fight for survival. Plague?…That’s not fun at all. No, If i had a choice, I’d choose zombie apocalypse. The survivors (those with a plan already–like me!) would band together and fight off the zombies. It would be awesome! Anyway, the next time you’re leaving a bar, walking down a dark lonely street and see someone walking towards you staggering around the sidewalk moaning, don’t assume it’s just a drunk. The zombie apocolypse may have already begun!

The Harness: Just THINK About It

As promised, Juderonomy is back to discuss the pros and cons of harnesses for children. I don’t think SWC needs to tell you Jude is Pro-Harness.

Well, here we go! This is a topic that brings a lot of anger to the table. There are two evenly divided camps on the use of a child restraints or harnesses. I lead the Harness Your Toddler Crusade.

Safety is the first issue involved here. Little Johnny will not disappear under the rack of the Oh So Chic workout clothes on sale at Marshall’s while Mom’s doing her best Army crawl to find the miscreant tot. This form of recreation for the child is fun, a terrorizing game of Hide and Seek. For the parent, it is a heart-wrenching, hormone-crashing nightmare.

The second issue is the comfort of both end-users of the harness. I’m a tall lady. I know I always found it very uncomfortable to lean down to hold my toddler’s hand while walking, and my toddler had to stretch up to hold mine.

(Nora’s note–I was one of those toddlers many years ago. She’s an Amazon. I learned how to walk fast at a young age, but I never got used to dangling from a six-foot blonde.)

You can see where I’m going on this.

I have the perfect solution: the adorable and fuzzy Eddie Bauer harness. It has a cute backpack and a padded (oh God, here comes that dreaded word ) leash. Little Johnny can begin to feel a bit autonomous, while the parent can have some control over preventing his venturing out onto the busy Highway to Hell.

Camp I-don’t-want-to-treat-my-child-like-an-animal is on the other side of this debate. They assume that using the harness on a child is akin to child abuse. I’m not saying you should ever put a shock-collar on your kid (but at times the thought did cross my mind. Fleetingly, of course), or put their dinner plate on the floor, where the food ends up anyway.

What that camp must realize is that small children have animal instincts, fleeing being one of them (not to mention eating off the floor). Ultimately, in the efforts to teach our little animals to be human, I see the use of a harness as a method that promotes safety and comfort. If you are so afraid that you are treating you child like an animal, please don’t put him in a crib at night–it’s an awful lot like a dog cage, don’t you think?

Staying Humble

I know it’s important to recognize my own strengths and weaknesses. When my self-perception is balanced, life is good. Obviously, harping on personal weaknesses can suck the shine right off an otherwise good day. But when I start feeling a little too cool for school, I can always count on the universe to set me straight.

Let’s take my last trip to the city. I got off Lake Shore Drive on Foster and as I headed west into Edgewater, some stroke cut me off. I pulled out my finest strand of cultured insults, hurling them at him as he sped northward on Broadway. Fucker. I was feeling mighty self-righteous when I almost labeled a cab and heard the horns of consternation blaring all around me. Oops. I made the universally recognized “My Bad” face and skulked off toward Damen.

The road is a great giver of perspective. That is to say, almost as soon as I get pissy with a fellow driver, I pull a stunt that puts me exactly three levels below that driver on the dick-move scale. It’s simple math, really. When I let other drivers’ transgressions slide, when I remember that I’m not without sin, I feel like much less of an asshole when I do cause a fifty-car boo-boo on the Dan Ryan.

It’s not just on the road, either. My husband and I went down to Florida for a wedding and decided to road-trip a little. We went to Key West and had a lovely time. I felt a little too smug our first night there, watching some really wasted individuals stagger their way down the strip, looking a hot mess. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have even thought it. The next night, I was that girl. I woke up the morning after, hurtin’ for certain. I went to the pool area for breakfast and I noticed I got a few looks. I read them very clearly. They said, “You are a very loud, very rude lady. Enjoy that coffee. You look like you need it.”

Despite the fact that we were on vacation and had the luxury of slipping out and escaping, the lesson stuck with me: Don’t talk shit, sweetheart. You’ll get it all over yourself.

But don’t worry, I apparently hadn’t learned that lesson to the appropriate degree.

I know taking an unhealthy interest in Hollywood gossip is hardly the path to Nirvana. But come on; it’s harmless to soak up a few rays of sub-tropical sun and see what kind of disasters are befalling those hard-partying starlets and leading men, right? It’s good innocent fun, especially when I can congratulate myself for having way fewer under-eye wrinkles than one of the Jessicas.

Yeah. Vacation was fun. And after my serious case of giant-sunglasses induced raccoon-eyes faded away, I was left with a sizeable, noticeable sun-spot to remind me of what good innocent fun it was. Gloating while sunbathing causes sun-spots–I have empirical evidence on my cheekbone.

One night after we came home, not long after my sun-spot (liver-spot, age-spot, whatever you want to call it) settled in for good, I went to Target to stock up on baby food. I also picked up my favorite goss rag. I figured I’d stop out for a spicy tuna roll, a Kirin Light and a gossip binge.

Had I learned nothing?

I sat at the bar drinking my beer, looking at Ashlee Simpson’s renovated face. A super-fabulous make-up artist-by-day drag-queen-by-night sat a few seats over. We struck up conversation and began to pick apart Ashlee’s visage.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Thirty. Almost thirty one? Why?”

“Girl. You are way too young to have sun damage like that,” he said. His index finger hovered over my Cuba-shaped sunspot.

“Don’t I know it, dude. Don’t I know it.”

Please Curb Your…Child

Mitchell and I have the distinct honor of introducing my mother, Jude. We decided to offer her own column, Juderonomy, because … well, we can. We thought we would be remiss to deprive you of her infinite wisdom.

I know I’ll probably sound like a curmudgeon to some people– you know who you are.You are the ones who are using Pop-psych on a two year old, who only wants to be home in his crib, trying to explain to him why throwing a crescent roll at my table isn’t nice! Meanwhile I’m trying to enjoy my overpriced glass of wine at 8:30 p.m. in a semi-fine dining establishment.

Yes, let’s negotiate with the little tyrant…who then is let out of his restraints to terrorize anyone within hearing distance (read 300 yards), “I wanna get pudding! I wanna sum ice cream!” Mom and Dad sit there calling the Future Terrorist to come and sit like a nice little boy.

What ever happened to getting a babysitter for a few hours,or going out at an age-appropriate time for the child? Or how about one parent taking the child outside while the other pays the bill and gets the leftovers wrapped to go?

We are in an age where we can’t diminish Little Johnny or Suzie’s self esteem. To that I say BULLSHIT! Work on self-esteem after you’ve taught them proper behavior and use some common sense yourself. You cannot negotiate with a toddler. You set the rules. A good one to start with is: don’t take him to dinner at 8 p.m. Unless, of course, you go to Chuck E. Cheese, where you’ll never see me…for obvious reasons!

Stay tuned for the next installment of Juderonomy on SWC: Harnesses for Kids–Teaching or Torture. You be the Judge!