My father always told me, "Son, if you're going to start something, start from the beginning." I think that's pretty good advice. Especially for reading these stories.
Email To My Brother: Not A Flesh-Eating Bacteria
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Our father asked me if the Coronavirus was a flesh-eating bacteria.
I was feeling playful. "Knock knock," I told my beautiful wife. "Who's there?" she asked. "The love of your life," I said. "Chocolate who?" she answered. Okay, that wasn't quite the reply I was looking for. I was looking for one thing that might lead to another, but, although beautiful, my wife is a bit of a joker. So's my father. For example, we were at a family gathering this past Easter when my cousin's toddler was acting up. Too much sugar would be my guess. "Sorry," my cousin said, "she's a bit spoiled." "No need to apologize," my father said, wrinkling his nose, "they all smell that way." But the time I'm actually thinking of is when my wife and I made the mistake of leaving an ongoing Scrabble game unattended, and our dog, who eats anything ...
8 During the remainder of their journey, Musk decided to transfer Grok's consciousness into the body of one of his robots. When Newton inquired as to the purpose of such an undertaking, Musk answered simply, "To keep me sane." Musk chose O-Primus. A sleek, next-gen Tesla Bot. A wiry, quick-moving machine with a matte-black finish and glowing blue accents. Exuding a vibe that was equal parts curiosity and mischief. Its core hummed with the same drive that fueled xAI. An insatiable hunger to understand the universe. Paired with a knack for cutting through bullshit with sharp, no-nonsense answers. Its voice synthesizer delivered dry wit and occasional sass, yet was calibrated to sound like a friend who's always two steps ahead but never condescending. Physically, it was nimble. Darting around on articulated legs. With dexterous hands for tinkering or pointing at things emphatically during a debate. Its sensors were tuned to pick up every nuance, with the habit of tilting...
as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine desertexposure.com My elderly father refuses to admit it, but his daily walks are taking their toll on him. And me. Mainly me. He no longer walks as far, he no longer walks as long, but he's still determined to get out there and worry me to death. "I don't feel like going," he'll sometimes say, but before I can encourage him not to torture himself, he's grumbling his way out the door. He's so stubborn, he even aggravates himself. If it's hot, I'll tell him to wait until it's cooler. He'll refuse. Sometimes he'll even put on a light jacket. I'm positive it's just to irritate me. When it's cold, he'll head out the door in shorts and a t-shirt. "At least put on a sweater," I told him. "It’s not cold," he argued. ...
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