That one time I ALMOST got my tit in a wringer for ‘drugs’.

I have long been of the opinion that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree when it comes to the intellect of the children of some parents. This is an old story. Hope you enjoy the insight into the monumental stupidity that I brought upon myself when I was a kid. Thank god I was marginally smarter than this when my first child was conceived. 

Thanks for reading,

Matt

This is the story of how I almost got kicked out of high school for supposedly possessing drugs.

It is also a cautionary tale of:

  1. Me, being a dumbass.
  2. Why you should always research your drug choices.
  3. My extremely good luck in times of crises.

In high school, I was the drummer in a band called Argyle (yes, retrospect has shown me that there are better names that could have been chosen). When junior year rolled around, we (the band & I) were having some communication problems with one of our guitar players. This guitar player also went to the same school as I did (a Catholic, all boys school). This guitar player was also a firm believer in Christianity, so much so, that he would go on the “religious retreats” that the school would offer from time to time.

So, we were having problems with this said religious guitar player and it so happens that one of these retreats was coming up and he was going to be a leader of said retreat. Naturally, I get the bright idea that I should go on this retreat in an effort to find out what’s been bugging this guitar player.

My other band mates supported this marvelous idea of mine.

Any normal person would have went up to Guitar Player and said “What the fuck is your problem?”

Not me.

The first two days were not that bad.

The only thing I truly disliked was that they confiscated all of our time pieces. The exact reason why is completely out of my head. But I was definitely struck by how maddening it was not to know what time it was. The effect was almost suffocating.

After that, we were bombarded with the usual retreat-y type God stuff that you’d expect. Our group leaders (of which Guitar Player was a part of) all had to get up in front of us and talk about what God meant to them and possibly relate it to a tough time in their life that they were able to work through because of his “love”.

This always resulted in, being on the verge of, or drowning in their own tears.

The skeptic in me then (as well as now) has always been of the opinion that the only one who can get you through those tough times is you. No one else, just you.

Just when we were getting ready to turn in towards the end of the second night, I was bouncing-off-the-walls bored. It didn’t look like my original goal (of having a “sit-down” with the guitar player) was going to happen any time soon. Then I remembered something that someone had told me during the 7th grade:

I had heard somewhere that smoking tea could get you high.

As in the stuff that the British have coursing through their veins.

I told this to my roommate. He looked at me like How I’m sure you’re looking at this now, like I’m a moron.

It’s ok. I know I am a moron.

I sneak off to the kitchen area and procure a coffee filter and some Earl Grey. If there was one thing I remember from this whole fiasco it was the look on my roommate’s face while I was “working”. It was a good blend of “God you’re stupid” and “Man, I hope this works because I would like to get high, too.”

The next day, it was more of the same God Shenanigans.

Right before dinner time, my roommate, his brother and myself all duck out for a quick smoke. Stupidly, we all lit up on the main path that connected the chapel to where we were all “living”. Of course I thought that this would have been as good a time as any to see if my little experiment held water. When I lit up, it smelled exactly like weed. It was uncanny. While this may be exciting for a junior in high school who was testing an urban myth to sate his boredom, you can obviously see what kind of goober I really was.

After about five minutes, one of the teachers came trudging down the path.

We were fucked.

They pulled us out of the evening happenings and said they found what “appeared to be” a joint.

I told them that it was all my idea and that the two brothers had nothing to do with it. I went out to tell them that I ran out of cigarettes and I made the “joint” as a substitute (which wasn’t completely bullshit, by the way) and I completely reassured them that it wasn’t drugs.

They told me that was all well and good but what they found still needed to be “analyzed”.

I asked them what was going to happen to us. Without missing a beat, they said that they spoke to the dean and he said that they were to send us home and we were to be suspended.

I was completely fucked. My life, as I knew it, was over. My parents were on their way to get me.

I had never seen my father so angry at me. No band, no nothing. That’s what my parents told me.

Normally I would have taken that without saying a word. However, we had a major show coming up it didn’t make sense to punish people who didn’t have anything to do with me fucking up. I managed to convince my parents to let me play the show and then suspend my band privileges.

Here’s where the story gets better.

The day before I had to go back to school, we had band practice.

Bass Player and his girlfriend at the time were the first to show up.

I explained everything to them, the stupidity of my actions, the fallout from the school and my parents and what was going to happen after our big show.

The girlfriend said something to the effect of:

“I know what would make you feel better”.

“What’s that?”

“Smoking a big bag of weed.”

From her purse she whips out a bowl and a big bag of weed.

Band practice was at the very least, fun. I went to bed that night without a care in the world.

The next day was my first day back since getting suspended. During one of my morning classes, I was pulled out of class to speak with the Dean.

Basically, he wanted to give me a pep talk and to hear what happened from my own mouth. He concluded the whole conversation by telling me that the results of the testing on the “evidence” were inconclusive and that I needed to submit to psychological analysis and drug testing.

Drug. Testing.

I was doomed! I was sure of it! I had smoked up just the other day.

I was freaking out! I couldn’t go back to the Dean and ask him what kind of test it would be. That would be way too suspicious.

After school, I immediately started to drink water. I figured that if I drank enough of it, I could even the chances of flushing out my system. I then called Bass Player and explained to him the escalation of the situation. He was remarkably helpful. I learned that it was either going to be a blood test or a urine test.

Regardless of the type of test, I could go to any “head” shop and select from a wide array of products that would mask the presence of cannabis in my system. Thankfully, this all pre-dated hair sampling.

Bass Player also suggested that I drink Pectin, a preservative commonly used in canning foods.

At this point I had all ready been drinking enough water to hydrate a third world country so the pectin wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t that bad. Had a bit of a sweet taste to it.

As an added measure I called the local NORML office to find out how long pot had stayed in your body. He told me that the length of time varies depending on your level of usage. Thankfully, I wasn’t a habitual smoker so I had about three days to clear out my system.

Relief very adequately describes how I felt after that conversation. I still drank water like a motherfucker, though. 

So the day finally came for me to face the music.

I was so nervous you couldn’t get a needle up my ass with a jack hammer. I was a relatively “good” kid. Getting in this kind of trouble was a new experience for me.

The psychoanalysis was completely unremarkable. No new emotional ground had been broken. No revelations were had. It was just an old, white man asking me questions that people have been asking me since I got suspended.

Peeing in a cup was fun. I really had to pee.

7 days later.

The dean of my school comes up to me wanting to know what was going on. Of course, I had no fucking idea what he was talking about. Apparently the clinic that I had gone to, did not inform the people of the school about my pee pee results.

The Dean told me that I needed to call them to find out what the story was.

So I call the clinic and I was informed that its standard operating procedure to not inform the drug testee if there is an absence of drugs in their urine.

An. Absence.

My pee was clean.

In a matter of three days I had managed to ingest enough water piss out all of the THC that was in my system.

Lessons learned:

  1. If you have a problem with someone, quit fucking around and address the situation.
  2. Smoking Tea will never, ever get you high.
  3. If you’re going to do drugs, make sure that there isn’t a possible drug test looming.
  4. As smart as you think you are, old age will always show you how stupid you really were.
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In which, I get “descaled” by my Keurig.

I like coffee. A lot.

Towards the end of living with my mother I had a small coffee pot in my room just for me. My wife, at the time she was my girlfriend, always found it amusing.

Seriously, who has a coffee pot of their own in their bedroom?

Just me, apparently.

At any rate, I like coffee. All of the vices of my youth are now extinct. No more drugs. Drinking has dried up to a trickle. Cigarettes have been gone for nearly a decade. My faberge egg addiction has been kicked.

9ht-bleeding-gums-murphy-buys-faberge-eggs

I am rather tame and boring by my own estimation. So you see, if it wasn’t for coffee I wouldn’t have any personality at all. 

Last year, my wife landed employment for a very prestigious institution. As a reward for herself, she wanted a Keurig. Given that she had to crawl through shit to get this job, I didn’t fight her too much. Truth be told, I didn’t want the fucking thing at all. They’re existence in the universe has never made logical sense to me: You have to make a fresh cup of coffee, every time you want coffee? And, the little k-cups cost an arm and a leg? NONSENSE. I DON’T LIKE CHANGE.

So we go to the store and she enlightens me to the features of the Keurig.

You don’t have to buy the cups, you can get a little filter to spoon your coffee grounds into. Also, the machine is basically a big hot water dispenser so you can make tea. In sum, I saw the use it could have in our home. I still didn’t like it, though. 

We buy it. Take the thing home. Run it through with just water to get smell of plastic out of the fucking thing and the rest is history.

The Keurig has been a part of our family for the past year. 

One day, I make my customary cup of coffee to get my brain working in the morning. I lift and depress the play-doh factory lever that tells the machine that it’s time to get to work and on the readout I see the word “de-scale”.

Frowning in response I say, “I don’t speak your language, but you better give me my cup of coffee, you little shit-stain” as I push the button that fills my cup up with the steaming, oily truth.

It fills my cup 1/3 of the way and sputters.

Apparently when your Keurig displays the word “descale” it roughly translates into “The person who is trying to make their cup of coffee is about to drown in a frothing rage”.

I immediately consult the junk drawer.  You all know what I am talking about: no kitchen is complete without the one drawer that holds all of the shit that doesn’t have a proper place in your house PLUS all of the instruction manuals for all of the things that you have bought.

The instructions weren’t there. Off to Google I go!

The only thing that I could find was this over at Coffee Detective.

Yes that’s right, I ditched the water tank, unplugged the son of a bitch, turned it upside down and proceeded to beat it like it owed me money. 

‘Descale’ went away but it still didn’t work. Keurig only gave me a fraction of the caffeine I needed. I make another cup and ‘descale’ comes back again.

At this point, all of the veins in my face and forehead are bulging. I am sweating with fury.

I then proceed to run vinegar through the system because I know that works. I have had to do it before with older coffee pots.

I load the tank up with straight vinegar and proceed to “make coffee”. After I run through the vinegar, I run a tank full of water through the system for good measure. No one likes tangy coffee. 

After I run through a tank of water, ‘descale’ goes away. Everything in me unclenches and I proceed to make a legitimate cup of coffee.

Yet another cup with four drops of coffee in it. As the Keurig sputtered it’s signs of completion, tears welled up in my eyes as ‘Descale’ returned, mockingly victorious. 

Defeated, I ran the coffee again in an attempt to get at least half a cup. 

Later on, I had an idea. I checked the filter that we had been using for loose coffee grounds.

Yep, dirtier than a motherfucker. We replace the son of a bitch with a new filter and it’s been kicking out the coffee ever since.

IMG_1684

Lesson learned: the simplest solution is usually the best. 

Getting kids to do things: putting away clothes

Any parent, let alone a stay-at-home Dad, needs to be a good communicator. You need to know what to say and when to say it.

Let me set the stage for you: 3 years ago one of the things that I have struggled with up until a couple of months ago, was getting my oldest daughter (who was 7 going on 40 at the time) to put away her clothes properly. This had been something that was a sore point for both me and my wife since we started having our daughter put away her clothes. (She was 5 when we started this agonizing process.)

Both together and on our own, my wife and I had taken the time to point out what article of clothing should be put away ‘where’ and what should be hung up on a hanger as opposed to what we were ok with being folded and put away in a drawer.

Our daughter speaks English. She’s not blind. There’s nothing holding her back from doing all of the normal, physical things that 7-year-old children do. She just chose not to put away her clothes the right way most of the time.

Don’t get me wrong, she’s been able to do it right the first time every so often but for the most part, she would do everything in her power to do it the wrong way. I would find dresses balled up behind her desk, underwear stashed underneath the bathroom sink… My personal favorites were the multiple times when she would cram everything that needed to be folded into one bin.

We’ve taken stuff away. We’ve threatened with grounding. We’ve made her do it over and over and over again. Then we thought we were doing something wrong. So we (my wife and I) and reevaluated our daughters clothing arrangements and made it ‘idiot proof’. Nothing was working. We had gotten to the point where we thought what might be considered effective, might not be appropriate.

It was after the last ‘idiot-proofing’ (what you see in the following picture) that my wife and I had our last straw. It was more of the same thing. Clothes stashed, knickers hidden, dresses barely on the hanger in the first place.

While my wife was ripping apart our daughters closet again, I calmly and severely reminded our child of the last room that she occupied. Prior to living where we are now, our daughter had to share a room with her younger brother (he’s 4 now) and her younger sister (she’s 2 now). It was a small room, taken up mainly by a bunk bed and crib that she, our eldest daughter, was in charge of keeping neat and tidy. It was something that she was able to do with great ease as the 3 of them only had a handful of personal belongings in it.

I told her quite plainly that it would be the same situation. Only now, it would be the 3 of them all in one room, with 3 separate beds, and all of their possessions. And she would be in charge of cleaning all of it. Regardless of ‘who’ made ‘what’ mess.

She understood me quite clearly and has long been aware of the fact that I never bluff. Her closet along with her room has never been a problem since.

A Question of Ethics.

One.

I thought we were fucked for sure.

It was the weekend and we were on our way home from grocery shopping. I was driving; my son and my youngest daughter were in the backseats. We went to the grocery store the same way every time and we came home from the grocery store the same way every time.

The path we took was by way of a main road that had a speed limit of 35 miles per hour. It traversed a relatively residential area that was perforated here and there with schools, an office park, and wooded areas.

The wooded areas weren’t substantial. They always struck me as aesthetic choices made by the developers to give the people in the neighborhood something better to look at other than the house next to them.

As I was driving, I saw this “thing” burst out of a line of bushes by the office park. These bushes were roughly 60 feet ahead of me and lined “the slow lane”.

I was driving in the “slow lane”.

I have had this type of thing happen to me before: I get behind the wheel and I’ll see something familiar happen outside of the car or I’ll pass by something familiar but it takes my brain a couple of seconds to catch up. I blame the hypnotic nature of driving. The wheels rolling on the road, the sound of traffic outside of the car, the chatter from your passengers or the radio: It’s a perfect recipe for letting your mind wander.

“What the hell is that?” I said.

Initially, I thought it was a dog. Someone’s dog had made a jailbreak, found it’s way to the office park and then got spooked. As we got progressively closer, I see that it’s too big to be a dog and it’s moving way too fast.

Our car is still cruising at 35 MPH. Two seconds later my brain finally catches up with my eyes. It’s a deer. It’s coming straight for us and I know that this is going to be a bad car accident.

(At this point in time I was 33 years old. I have been a licensed driver since I was 17. At no point have I been in a car accident where I was behind the wheel. Not to mention, I wouldn’t know what in the hell to do if that was the case).

I blink really hard just to make sure that I wasn’t seeing things. It didn’t do any good: there’s still a deer on the same trajectory, muscles rippling, flying at us in full gallop.

I had a car next to me, a car behind me and a car behind the car that was next to me. There’s no way out of this.

Two.

Our responsibilities as humans to other species are hopelessly bogged down in what you believe ethically.

Case in point: it has been common practice in Afghanistan to have surgeons train on pigs. These aren’t the fetal pigs that we all had to deal with in Biology 101. These are live pigs. After intentionally wounding the pig, the pig is brought to the surgeon and the surgeon patches it up. The reasoning is that if the surgeon is able to stabilize the pig’s condition and patch it up successfully, then soldiers as well as the Afghan people will benefit (Rosenthal, 2007).

There seems to be two schools of thought with regards to the ethical responsibilities of animals: human centered ethics and life centered ethics.

With human centered ethics it’s really a case of ‘what’s good for the goose is good for the gander’. Hence, intentionally wounding Ms. Piggy. Additionally, human centered ethics bolsters it’s way of thinking by proposing that it’s our responsibility to care for the world (even through ambiguous means) so that our preservation is galvanized.

Conversely, life centered ethics proposes that everything (yes, everything) has a right to life. Even bugs (Environmental Ethics, 2008). While this may seem a bit odd and silly, it should be taken into consideration that it is a part of human nature to dominate our environment. Even if it is in a small way, consciously or unconsciously.

As it can be seen, not only do our ethical responsibilities rely on what we believe; they also rely on where we draw the line.

Three.

I slowed down as much as I could. Just when impact seemed imminent, the deer broke hard to it’s right and crashed head first into the car that was next to me. The pin-wheeling mass of flesh landed directly in front of my car in a twitching heap.

The worst thing about the whole situation wasn’t having to explain to my kids that they don’t save deer in this situation; it was the awkward sixty-seconds that passed before I realized that the person with whom the deer collided was only going to drive off.

I was agog.

A deer crashes into your car and you’re just going to drive off?

I’m sure that it is a hell of a thing to have happen to someone. Maybe this person didn’t have their cell phone on them. Maybe they didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do when you hit a deer. Their departure from the scene of the accident is understandable to a degree.

The people in the other car were headed the same way my children and I were headed. I knew that I couldn’t sit there and hold up traffic. Something had to be done.

After getting their license plate number, I pulled into the first parking lot that I could find to gather my wits.

Animals get hit by cars all of the time. It’s intense to see a living thing get taken out by a man made object and have it slowly die in front of you.

I knew I needed to be responsible. How would I feel 30 years from now when my son is my age and he brings this up as one of his earliest memories and I didn’t do anything? 

(For the record, he brought it up a month ago).

I called the cops. I told them what had happened. I told them where it had happened and I told them, in essence who was responsible for it.

Don’t get the wrong idea: I’m not the “deer police” nor am I an animal rights activist. I am a man that saw something happen that most people won’t see nor will they have happen to them. As a responsible adult and a responsible father I needed to draw the line and show my kids the difference between humans and animals.

Sources Consulted

Rosenthal, Susan. (2007). Animal Rights or Human Responsibilities. Retrieved from http://susanrosenthal.com/articles/animal-rights-or-human-responsibilities

Environmental Ethics. (2008). Retrieved from http://www.itstheplanet.co.uk/environmental_ethics.html

A brief word on food.

One of the cornerstones of our society is the necessity of food. While our bodies can survive for nearly three weeks without it (Gandhi, yep the “Be the change you wish to see in the world guy”, also known as Sir Ben Kingsley to others…. survived 21 days of complete starvation. Obviously he had water or else he would have been dead inside of 5 days) one would think that it would be common sense for an individual to have a working knowledge of food preparation (e.g. you know the difference between your ass and a hole in the ground when you step foot in the kitchen).

Sadly, most people cannot make the aforementioned distinction. 

If you marked my progress in the kitchen from when I first started out as a stay at home parent, to now, it would be a thick, black line that traveled through smoke (the smoke being whatever the fuck it was that I was cremating in the oven), traversed canyons of boxed dinners (mac ‘n’ cheese was not only friend to my family but also really friggin’ versatile: seriously google it. People have taken that staple a real long way) and is currently supporting someone who cannot only improvise on the fly, but also follow some pretty complicated recipes.

Cooking is not scary. It is following directions. That’s all that it is. 

If you’re not completely sold on the idea that you should be working on being considered a wizard in the kitchen, cooking is also SCIENCE. And I would be remiss if I did not point out that (even if you aren’t a dad, husband, whatever) chicks dig a guy who knows his way around the kitchen.

Currently, I have a very modest collection of recipes here. Unless otherwise noted, most of them ARE NOT MINE. 

If they are not mine, I will obviously say so. I will link to the origin site, the original recipe or (if it’s something out of a book, for instance) I will link to the Amazon page featuring the book (if there isn’t any other stones for me to turn over).

While a lot of people would consider this a “hack” thing to do, I would also like to point out that they are missing the obvious: IF  A RECIPE IS ON HERE, IT’S BECAUSE THE ORIGINAL RECIPE DIDN’T HAVE ANY FUCKING PICTURES. 

My main goal in making recipes a part of this site is to educate people (men, specifically) that they should be cooking more instead of relying on simpleton shit like fast food or boxed dinners or any other garbage. The sad truth is that Men are less likely to get their asses in the kitchen if there aren’t any pictures. 

It is my hope that in posting the steps, with the pictures, and the general amount of time it took me to work through the recipe, that some of the sting will be taken out of learning how to cook.

Additionally, if people have a general problem with what I’m doing (be it the creator of the recipe or people in general), I warmly invite them to shut up: if you didn’t want people giving you free publicity about something you created, you shouldn’t have put it on the internet in the first place.

In which, I tell you what this is all about.

So, what’s this site all about? Who’s running this show? How do I navigate all of this flotsam? I didn’t realize that I was signed up for this… wasn’t this a blog of a different color?

Greetings and salutations! My name is Matt and I am a stay at home parent who currently resides in NW Florida. It is my sincere hope that “The Rank Spoon” becomes a repository for all of the information that a man needs to navigate dad-dom. Shit, even if you aren’t a family man, hell even if you aren’t a man, there should be something of interest to you: I do go on about things.

As I cover more topics, I will be updating the category list regularly. Currently, I posts lined up for:

  • Food
  • Dad know-how
  • (Occasional) Admin  (such as news, rants, what I’m doing elsewhere)
  • Man-health
  • Sex
  • Your Significant other

And yes, this blog used to be a lot different. I came to the conclusion that while I was enjoying what I was writing about, it just wasn’t for me.

For the record, I’d like to point out that when I did buckle down and tell people that I was a stay at home parent, everyone told me that I should write about it. This was over 5 years ago.

I didn’t know shit then.

I still don’t think I know shit.

But I do know that if current “me” were in a room with the “me of 5 years ago” I’d totally whoop the “me of 5 years ago” like the little bitch that he was.

Thanks for reading this,

Matt

Don’t be a dick. At least not all of the time.

When’s the last time you were nice to someone you didn’t know for no good reason?

Seriously. As in, you had absolutely nothing to gain from being nice, you were just feeling it at the moment?

Before you get a nose bleed from thinking about it too hard, let me just say that you shouldn’t misconstrue my question. I am not a touchy feely type of person. I don’t talk about my feelings willingly. I don’t give out hugs. My name is not Moonbeam and I most certainly do not believe in ‘paying it forward’.

But I do believe in being nice. Just not all the time. Who’d want to be nice all the time? I don’t have the energy for that type of commitment. Do you?

Let’s face it: being a dick is just necessary sometimes.

Your child or children not listening to you? You need to be a dick. Neighbor’s kids came in your yard and took one of your kid’s balls? You need to be a dick. Significant other constantly leaving gobs of hair in the bath tub drain? Time to be a dick.

As you can see being a dick is justified depending on the circumstances.

A million years ago, I’m trying to get two of my kids out of the house when I get a knock at the door. It was two little old ladies who wanted to talk religion with me.

I’m a sucker for little old ladies. You don’t usually have to do anything for them except listen to what they have to say. They really appreciate it.

So that’s what I did. I listened to them while I had my youngest daughter pinned underneath one arm, her hair soaked from getting sprayed down with a spray bottle full of water. I listened to them while my daughter tried to wriggle free like the Burmese python that she is capable of being sometimes. I continued to listen to them while my son was trying to talk over them, competing for my attention. The little old ladies continued to talk and they read certain bible passages, asking me questions (of which, I answered honestly and diplomatically). Given the circumstances, I think I did a pretty good job.

As they finished their spiel, they handed me their book that they passed out to the people who listened (my wife confirmed for me later that they were Jehovah’s Witnesses) and went on to the next house, leaving me to finish getting the kids dressed and out the door.

While I’m getting the kids in the car, I notice that I have to put air in one of the car tires. This was an ongoing problem with the car that I was driving at the time. I had been going to a Shell station a block away from my house but this time I decided to go to the Marathon station at the end of my street. I had a habit of avoiding this station because it was always hopping with activity and their air pump was a pain in the ass to get to because they had it right in between two of their mechanic bays.

I pull in the lot, taking great care to get as close to the air pump as possible. I take off all of the caps from the tires and as I’m taking off the last one, I see this thing dangling close to my eye. Scared the hell out of me. I follow the dangling thing up to the mechanic at the other end of it.

“Need air?” he said.

“Yes, please!”

I filled up the tires and the kids and I went on about our day.

Being nice to strangers pays off every so often.

Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett.

Admittedly, and I’m not ashamed of throwing this out there, the only reason I picked up Reaper Man was due to the fact that it was blurbed on the front cover by The Cleveland Plain Dealer (I am from Cleveland). At any rate, I had reached a literary impasse between two books and I needed something that would initiate a tie breaker and that was it.

In Reaper Man, the Grim Reaper finally gets a little time in the spotlight.

In this story, Death is essentially retired by the Auditors of Reality because he was beginning to develop a personality. However, since Death’s “untimely” dismissal from his superiors, Death realizes that he finally gets a chance to enjoy the thing that he has taken people away from for long: that’s right Death enjoy’s life.

There’s a problem though, the Auditors completely lack imagination and as such, they are unable to replace Death with a “new death”. Only the given species can do that. So while humankind drags it’s heels creating a new death, the collected spirits of the recently deceased build up because they don’t have anyone to usher them to the great beyond.

Nonetheless, this like any other book by Pratchett, is well worth the read.

 pic courtesy of: http://s836.photobucket.com/user/NoCoolUserName/media/LookoutMountainBookstore/ReaperManUSPbk.jpg.html