Thomas Galvin
Purveyor of Fine Pulp Fiction

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Every once in a while, I get to say something that’s just kind of cool. I had one of those happy moments tonight. To wit:

I’m the scariest guy you know. The fact that he concerns me should tell you something.

I’ll leave the context of that little nugget to your imagination.

I dropped by Wal Mart on the way home tonight. The cashier asked the woman ahead of me if she wanted to spend a dollar on one of those hearts/shamrocks/whatevers that go to feed starving soldiers without puppies or whatever. The woman stopped, considered, and then asked:

“Is it tax deductible?”

I just kind of stared at her. No, this one dollar donation is, sadly, not tax deductible. No, the woman working the overnight at Wal Mart will not be writing you a receipt to document, for the benefit of the IRS, your lavish generosity. This dollar, this single, lonely dollar, will be forever lost to you, earning you no reward and no recognition, save maybe the warm feeling in your heart.

The woman said “no thanks.”

I was asked this afternoon if it would be possible to develop a new user interface over the weekend. I hate questions like this, because the answer is usually “yes,” but a “yes” qualified with “if I work seventeen hours a day, every day between now and Monday, stopping only long enough to get more potato chips and soda out of the vending machine, and occasionally using the loo.” I relayed this fact, and the guy doing the asking got a thoughtful look on his face, then said “I’ll ask management,” and wandered away.

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