Celebrity endorsement/branding is nothing new. Pro athletes have their names plastered on all kinds of sports gear; supermodels are linked to cosmetics; there’s even a Lego set for every DC and Marvel Comics superhero that was ever created by global warming, global cooling, toxic exposure, insect bites, supernatural intervention, pickle ball addiction, etc.
Here at The Department of Lateral Thinking we, well really just Sarge and I, feel compelled to share some breaking celebrity endorsement news with you, as it were, the alert readers. This breaking news concerns a development in the world of natural anti-fungal compounds. This will be especially relevant to those of you watching “The Last of Us” television series.
The Last of Us is a post-apocalyptic pandemic tale in which a remnant of humanity, apparently located in and around Calgary, Alberta, fights to survive ravening hordes of zombies created by the mushroom Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, otherwise known as the “zombie ant fungus,” infects ants and eventually causes them to lie down and wait for baby mushrooms to sprout from their heads. This might be the same fungus that causes teenagers to, zombie-like, leave their PE equipment at school until it becomes self-aware.
Anyway, in The Last of Us, Ophiocordyceps, driven by global warming and pronoun overuse, mutates and gains the ability to infect humans. Other factors contributing to the pandemic include rampant abuse of prescription toenail fungus medication (in turn driven by incessant TV ads for prescription toenail fungus medication) and also dirty socks.
Today, in the Department Of Overstatement And Also Stating The Obvious, I am impelled to tell you about a video clip of US Vice President Kamala Harris that resurfaced recently. In it, she recounted events leading up to the May 2020 history-making first manned commercial spaceflight, which carried Bob and Doug McKenzie to the International Space Station. Here’s The Mission:
And here are the astronauts:
Ooops! No wait! I got confused! Those aren’t astronauts. They’re the Canadian toque-wearing hosers Bob and Doug McKenzie, who made history in 1981 by performing the first rendition of The Twelve Days of Christmas to feature back bacon in its lyrics. (And toques.)
Here are the astronauts: Bob Behnken and Doug Hurley.
And here are some definitions:
Trust me. This may all begin to make sense. Soon.
I embedded the Kamala video clip in this post a few days ago when I started writing it. When I reopened the draft this morning, I got this message where the clip was supposed to be:
So weird. You would almost think YouTube (owned by Google) is censoring content! Probably it’s just a mistake. Because you know, there’s supposed to be this thing called the First Amendment. Anyway, since you asked, you might be able to find the video here: https://www.foxnews.com/video/6319561764112
However, in case THAT clip also gets taken down accidentally, all is not lost. I found it on Twitter (not owned by Google) and transcribed a chunk of Kamala’s soliloquy word for word. I also grabbed some video frames for emphasis. Evidently I have a lot of time on my hands.
But here goes. Remember to brace for impact.
“…which brings me to May 30, 2020. Bob and Doug returned to the Kennedy Space Center. They suited up. (Pauses to execute elbow-tuck fist-bump).
“They waved to their families. (Demonstrates)
“And they rode an elevator up nearly 20 stories. (Points skyward)
“They strapped into their seats (pause) and they waited as the tanks beneath them filled with tens of thousands of gallons of fuel. (Points at audience and mentally says to herself, ‘You think I’m kidding, don’t you? I’m deadly serious. We need electric rockets. Now.’)
“And then (pregnant pause…) they launched (said in a half whisper)!
“Yes they did! (cackles exuberantly and points to the audience)
“Millions of Americans watched that day: in the hills, the sand dunes, Cape Canaveral, in living rooms, dorm rooms, classrooms across our Nation. We watched Bob and Doug’s rocket ride from the launchpad. We watched it climb into the sky and then, disappear from our view.”
What you have just read is what I call Kamalasplaining or K-splaining for short. It’s a way of stating the obvious in terms that a newly-hatched marine iguana could understand. It feels patronizing. It’s dramatic and eldritch. Or maybe dramatically eldritch. There’s repetition of a theme. Appendages are involved. And whispering. It’s just weird. It’s almost like the speaker is disseminating some crucial knowledge that they have only learned just minutes before gaining the podium. Or maybe there’s a private joke in there somewhere that only they know. Or maybe it’s drugs.
Anyway, to inject some scientific rigor into this post, I put together a short checklist to help you determine if you have been K-splained.
Instructions: Tick all the boxes that you feel might apply. If you don’t have a dog, substitute a parrot, or maybe a marine iguana. Apparently they make great pets. Anyway, count the ticks. Three or more ticks means that there is a strong probability that you have been K-splained.
I don’t know about you but I feel like 2022 flew by like a video of a chinchilla taking a dust bath, played at 2X speed. And since you brought it up, here’s actual footage of a chinchilla taking a dust bath. You can play it at 2X or not. It starts slowly, then builds into a frenzy of activity, just like 2022! At least that’s my perspective.
This past Christmas was especially hectic, what with Nor’easters, Alberta Clippers and Polar Vortices wandering around and disrupting travel plans with reckless abandon. We had to rejig our travel plans at the last minute to avoid spending Christmas in the Toronto airport. I felt like a hatchling marine iguana fleeing for its life with a pack of ravenous snakes in hot pursuit: or maybe cold pursuit, since snakes are cold-blooded.
In fact, I wrote about an actual hatchling iguana caught on camera fleeing for its life from a pack of ravenous snakes in a previous post saying the following: “That clip is the best thing I have ever seen. Seriously. Even better than that picture in which two guys are dueling with van de Graaf generator-based weaponry. You will be on your feet cheering your heart out for that iguana.”
Immediately after I embedded that clip (below) in this post I watched it again and sure enough, there I was, up on my feet, cheering my heart out for that feisty little bugger. If Tom Cruise and Gal Gadot (aka Wonder Woman) got together and somehow produced an iguana baby instead of a human baby, that hypothetical love child iguana’s butt would totally be kicked by the Planet Earth II iguana featured below. Trust me on this.
I know, I should get on with the python stuff but I also want to say that if Planet Earth II iguana had a Mom like the one in this next clip, the snakes would be a non-issue. Especially if they in any way resembled elongated, streamlined raccoons. The Mom in question, who I’m almost positive works part time as a baggage handler for (insert the name of any major airline here), starts her day by rushing out the front door when she hears her daughter Reilly screaming whilst waiting outside for the bus.
Mom finds a plus-sized raccoon clinging to Reilly’s leg and promptly disengages it while Reilly attempts a fairly complicated horizontal gymnastic manoeuvre against Mom’s hip. Mom calls for help, shouting something about rabies and shoos Reilly back inside after detaching her daughter from her hip with one arm whilst the raccoon clings tenciously to her other arm. After giving the raccoon, still clinging tenaciously to her arm, a practice swing, Mom yeets it a good 20 feet or so into the front yard. It’s awesome. Unharmed and possibly feeling a little sheepish, the raccoon gets up and waddles away nonchalantly. You actually wind up feeling a bit sorry for it. Reilly and Mom got away with a couple of scratches and a brace of rabies shots.
OK, now I REALLY need to get on with the python stuff.
Late in 2022, somebody in the know told me about a Burmese Python in Florida that died after eating a 5-foot alligator. I got the lowdown from the WSAZ News Channel site. Motto: We need better news correspondents. Or maybe just better proofreading.
Here’s a photo of the victim, freshly excavated from an 18-foot python:
According to Jeanne Moos, CNN National news correspondent: “The state of Florida encourages people to kill Burmese pythons because they eat so many other species and produce rapidly.”
“They” can be a dangerous word, sometimes leading to needless confusion. You’ll notice that I struggled at bit with the use of “her” in the description of the raccoon battle although I think I managed to avoid needless confusion.
Anyway, my first question is: Who’s doing the eating: the people or the pythons? My other question is, (assuming that they refers to the pythons) is: What do they produce?
Ophidiophobia (fear of snakes)?
Herpetophobia (fear of reptiles in general)?
Vorarephobia (fear of being eaten alive/swallowed whole)?
I feel like a pretty good case could be made for any or all of the above phobias. And possibly the methane.
Interestingly, Rosie Moore, one of the scientists who necropsied the python, has also made a name for herself as a successful free-diving bikini model. I am not making this up. The footage Ms. Moore posted on Instagram pertaining to the necropsy rapidly went viral. For some reason.
Turns out that alligator-snacking pythons are old news. I got to poking around and located another article detailing the October 2005 discovery, made by South Florida Natural Resources Center researchers, of a dead, headless python sporting a mostly-intact alligator protruding out of a hole in its midsection. The headline on the Mongabay blog post was “Python explodes after swallowing 6-foot alligator in Florida Everglades”.
I swear on an Exploding Kittens card game that I am not making any of this up.
There are various competing theories about what happened:
(a) The python successfully engulfed and suffocated the alligator but eventually exploded due to intestinal gas buildup.
(b) The alligator was engulfed but somehow remained alive and fought part way out of the python before expiring.
(c) The python successfully engulfed the alligator but a second alligator came along, ate the head of the python in retribution but was unable to free the imprisoned alligator.
Those are pretty improbable theories if you ask me because (a) and (b) don’t account for the missing head and in (c) we don’t know if the snacked-upon reptile was still alive or “just resting” as the saying goes. Why would the second alligator attempt to rescue a dead alligator? Admittedly, I might be overthinking this.
My theory, shamelessly modified from a theory posited by the person who told me about all this python-alligator stuff in the first place, is that the alligator in question may have contained the long-sought-after carcass of disappeared notorious former Teamster’s Union President and convicted felon, Jimmy Hoffa. Before his demise, and in an eerie twist of fate, Hoffa could have accidentally ingested a set of nesting Matryoshka dolls bearing the likenesses of, in no particular order, various ruthless political leaders such as Nancy Pelosi, Genghis Khan, Erik the Red, and Margaret Thatcher. The innermost doll probably contained a grenade which was eventually detonated by powerful pythonic contractions.
Maybe that’s not such a great theory but “The Pythonic Contractions” might seem like a pretty great name for a band. Or at least an OK name. If you happen to be somebody who was fifteen years old in the early 70’s.
Not that I’m getting maudlin or anything but I felt like I wanted to say a few words about Reggie aka “The Reg”, faithful Corgi canine companion of my good friend Bob. Reg passed away yesterday after struggling with some health challenges over the course of the past year. I didn’t know Reg for that long but he was a real character, low-slung and feisty. He would have made a great character actor. Reg and my dog Sarge got along OK despite the size disparity. If he had enough, Reg would grumble a bit. Not a growl. Just low-pitched muttering in the back of his throat.
Bob got Reg when he was a year old pup. Reg had to literally hit the ground running because he was joining a pack that already consisted of two Golden Retrievers. He learned to swim and fetch in short order and when he looked at himself in the mirror, Bob was pretty sure Reg saw a Retriever looking back at him. A small one, but one with a heart as big and as faithful as those of his larger adoptive brothers.
According to Bob, The Reg was, “As fast as a rabbit. Loved to chase birds and squirrels. Stood guard day and night. Loved to play the ‘out and in’ game in which he would charge you in the nards until you let him out, then wanted back in two seconds later. Friendly to all but took no crap from other dogs no matter their size. Always wanted to be with us even if it meant just waiting in the car. Always called shotgun.”
I know Reg accompanied Bob on many rambles through the bush and many long car trips. He was much loved and will be sorely missed. Hopefully he’s now happily reunited with the two other members of “Gold Squadron” who went before him.
Here in The Department of Being Somewhat Fixated On Dogs, our team of researchers consisting of me, my friend Bob (not his real name) and Sarge (my dog) somehow ran across a post which talked about dogs who climb trees. We’ll get to these dogs in due course but first I need to deal with some unfinished business regarding the last post about Garden Hermits.
Alert readers know that I never explained exactly what the contraptions in the Featured Image were. Instead, I said this: “I know that you’re wondering about the devices depicted in the Feature Image, so I’ll tell you what they AREN’T. They’re NOT fraternal twin companion robots. They’re also NOT the components of some kind of futuristic, regenerative, zero-emission composting toilet.”
Here is the mystery duo:
Once again, your mind might literally be brimming with speculation and puzzlement so I’ll come clean(!). first noting that I also should’ve pointed out that the mystery duo are NOT the components of some kind of futuristic bidet.
Speaking of the future, admittedly, the quasi-barrel chair on the left looks like something from the bridge of the USS Enterprise: something that steely-eyed starship commander James T. Kirk would have sat on. Especially if Captain Kirk had issues with his prostate. (More on that in a minute.)
Seriously, the pelvic floor is basically a sling composed of four muscles. No one except urologists and Latin teachers can pronounce the names of the muscles. According to the Cleveland Clinic (Motto: We try to just get to the point and not talk over your head): “Your pelvic floor muscles help stabilize your core while assisting with essential bodily functions, like pooping, peeing and having sex.”
Thank you for just getting to the point and not talking over our heads, Cleveland Clinic!
Pelvic floor problems include urinary and fecal incontinence as well as impairment of sexual function. These problems arise for diverse reasons, including but not limited to childbirth, surgery, neurologic diseases, bad decision-making, prostate enlargement, being audited by the IRS and/or CRA and, of course, trauma arising from activities such as pole vaulting, beekeeping, multilevel marketing, mountain biking, counted cross stitch and run-on sentences. (Run-on or no, that’s a pretty diverse list of causes if I say so myself.)
Anyway, where was I? Yes! The Emsella. You’re probably wondering how it works. The chair houses an MRI-grade magnet that emits trains of electromagnetic energy pulses which stimulate the muscles in the pelvic floor repeatedly during a treatment session:12,000 pulses (give or take) per session. The thing beside the chair is the combination power supply/pulse generator/beverage dispenser. There might be a urologist in there too. I don’t know. Ask William Shatner.
If you know what Kegel exercises are, I can tell you that the pulses emitted in an Emsella session result in about 12,000 Kegel exercise contractions (give or take). Even if you don’t know what Kegel exercises are, I can still tell you that each session consists of about 12,000 Kegel exercise contractions (give or take). These contractions retrain and strengthen the four unpronounceable pelvic floor muscles but also retrain/re-engage the associated nerves as well.
Here are unretouched images of an unstimulated, relaxed, loosened and mixing bowl-shaped pelvic floor (left) and the same pelvic floor having its doorbell rung by an electromagnetic Emsella pulse. Note how the floor has risen up to the dotted line and looks more like a saucepan (right). If I was a judge in the Olympic Pelvic Floor Reverse Pullup and Cooking Ware event I would for sure give the Emsella a 9.5 and maybe even a 10. I also think Julia Child would agree with me, for what it’s worth.
Several important points here:
The treatments may improve sexual function and orgasm.
12,000 pelvic floor contractions is a lot of contractions. You could never do that many Kegels on your own even if you were born on the planet Krypton aka the home planet of Superman, his urologist and all of his Superpets.
Despite that the Emsella-generated contractions are also more sustained and intense than homemade contractions, they’re not painful. You have full control over the intensity of the effect.
Did I mention that the treatments can help sexual function and orgasm?
A course of Emsella therapy typically consists of six 28-minute sessions spread over three weeks. You just walk in and plop down on the chair although I recommend getting an appointment first. You don’t have to undress although I guess you could sit there in the nude if you really wanted to. Many people bring a book. My suggestions include the Kama Sutra, The Power of Positional Thinking, and Good Vibrations, authored by…wait for it…Mike Love.
So. Here we are. As threatened, I will now hold forth about dogs that can climb trees. I just got a little sidetracked. Here’s the Cole’s Notes version, distilled from a blog post called The Daily Wag. It was an OK post except one of the somewhat circumlocutionary sections was entitled “Signs a Dog Can Climb a Tree.” Never mind rambling on about breed history, temperament, phase of the moon, favorite snack, etc. I think that the best sign would be if your dog just bombed up to a tree and next thing you knew, it was peering down at you with a satisfied look on its face. That would pretty much settle the question of whether it can climb trees. Just saying.
The following dogs are renowned for their tree-climbing tendencies:
Catahoula Leopard Dog
Jack Russell Terrier
Treeing Walker Coonhound
New Guinea Singing Dog
Assorted Border Collies, Dobermans and Golden Doodles are also reputed to scoot up trees when the mood takes them. Apparently this has been documented by video footage.
I wrote about a Catahoula named Stella who learned to communicate her inner thoughts to a speech therapist by using programmable talking push buttons. As far as I know, Stella didn’t say anything about trees. My buddy Travis had various Jack Russells but I never saw any of them climb anything except your leg. Treeing Walker Coonhounds are prone to something called “hound-dog funk.” Don’t ask.
I had never heard of the New Guinea Singing Dog or the Raccoon Dog but come to find out they are quite photogenic:
Whew! It took me a while but at least now you’re up to speed on the Emsella AND tree-climbing mutts. Sorry it took me so long; I just don’t like to leave things hanging.
It’s Fall here in the home town of The Department of Misinformation, Disinformation and Possibly, Sock Puppetry. Time to cut the lawn one more time, drain the swamp, clean out the garden and flower beds, replace the cadmium rods in the reactor, rake the leaves, reorganize the storage shed, my sock drawer and the garage, put away the outdoor furniture and do twenty other things I’ve probably forgotten.
Before I get started though, I know that you’re wondering about the devices depicted in the Feature Image, so I’ll tell you what they AREN’T. They’re not a pair of fraternal twin companion robots. They’re also NOT the components of some kind of futuristic, regenerative, zero-emission composting toilet. Come to think of it, that would be a pretty fair dinkum guess though.
Today is a banner day here in the Department of Making Fun of Lawyers. For the first time ever, this blog features the work of a guest author who, for some obscure reason, prefers to be known simply as “Captain Tie-Dye”. I met him last week while I was wandering around in the mountains of Colorado and he seemed like a decent chap. We somehow got to talking about many things including but not limited to Quantum Physics and Lawyers. He revealed to me that he had, in fact, written a piece to amuse some lawyers he knew. He showed it to me and I liked it.
“Bonus Round”, I said.
“I’m overdue to put up another post. You can be my guest author.”
A couple of weeks ago, one hot afternoon in the dog days of summer, I was walking my dog Sarge. We were about 1/2 or 3/4 of the way home. I dunno. Maybe it was 7/8ths of the way. Or 15/16th. Anyway, in the interest of not splitting hairs, suffice it to say we were close to home and Sarge still hadn’t pooped. The immortal words of Dave Barry spring to mind here: “The objective is not so much to walk your dog, as it is to empty him.” Despite that we were walking along a stretch where he (Sarge) doesn’t usually poop, I said, “Sarge. Poo-poo dog.” I swear I’m not making that up. That’s what I said to him. It drives my wife nuts because Sarge is NOT a cute little puppy. He’s a115-pound, 15 month-old galoot of a Bernese Mountain Dog. She doesn’t think I should talk baby talk to him. She’s probably right.
I just finished Liane Moriarty’s latest bestselling novel: Newton Was Wrong: Apples Defy Gravity. She has been punching bestsellers out like clockwork every couple of years in case you didn’t know. This has put me right back where I was in October 2020 when I wrote a post about Blakiston’s Fish Owls. In that post I commented:
“I learned about these owls from a book given to me by my son, Drew: Owls of the Eastern Ice: A Quest to Find and Save The World’s Largest Owl. I have to confess that I needed a good rebound book after finishing reading pretty much every word that Australian author Liane Moriarty has written. Owls of the Eastern Ice filled the beak as it were. Plus there were no owls in any of Ms. Moriarty’s books. Not even one. Not that I was counting.
You know what I’m talking about. You get into a certain author or a good trilogy or-God forbid-Stephen King’s nine-book Gunslinger epic series.. When you emerge out the other end you feel kind of lost, like a fish owl who has lost its mate. You just want a new, cozy literary friend to roost with.”
So. I’m on the rebound again but pleased to report that Ms. Moriarty’s not-mentioning-owls-in-any-of-her-books streak is still intact! Also intact is her uncannily impish ability to conjure up plot twists that you NEVER see coming. I mean, you know something is up, but it NEVER turns out to be what you think it will be. Dammit.
Just look at her. If that isn’t an uncannily impish expression, I don’t know what is. Full disclosure: I lied about the title of her book.
Seriously, Moriarty might be impish but she is a very honest writer whose characters think the same thoughts that all of us think but never talk about with anyone except our shrinks. Her books also center around gritty topics, including tennis, with just the right dose of compassion, incisiveness and humor. She has a wonderful knack for putting a great spin on things(!).
There are a lot of gritty topics out there, such as pandemics, the favorite sexual positions of the Vikings and whether hot water freezes faster than cold water. Seriously, when I was in high school in the mid-70’s, my father and I somehow got into a heated argument at the dinner table one night about why hockey rinks are sometimes flooded with hot water. Dad maintained that hot water freezes faster than cold water. I was dubious.
For context, my Dad knew his way around hockey rinks. He was a goalie and played on an Allan Cup-winning semi-pro Senior A hockey team (the Owen Sound Mercurys) back in the early 1950’s. The Mercs won the Cup in 1951 and were in the running in 1953 but the weird thing is that my Dad wound up facing the Kitchener Flying Dutchmen 21 games in a row in that Allan Cup battle. Here’s how it happened:
The Kitchener Flying Dutchmen beat Owen Sound in the quarter-finals, going seven games and proceeding on to meet the Sudbury Wolves in the semifinals. There was this weird rule back then that in the playoffs, a defeated team’s goalie could be called up by the next opponent of the winning team, in case of injury, spite, bribery or whatever. Sudbury therefore called up my Dad who wound up facing Kitchener again. Kitchener defeated Sudbury in seven games and went on to face Penticton for the Allan Cup. Penticton called up (guess who?) my Dad, who faced Kitchener for another seven games. The Dutchmen won. You know how the saying goes: “If you ain’t Dutch, you ain’t much.”
By that time, Kitchener was so sick of my old man that even though they had won the Cup, they still complained to the powers that be and got the call-up rule stricken from the books. Or maybe it was Penticton that complained. Or Sudbury. I dunno. Somebody complained.
Fast-forwarding to rejoin that dinner table debate in the mid-70’s, I snorted into my soup or whatever at one point and started spouting off about thermodynamics, entropy, etc and how it made zero sense that hot water would freeze faster than cold water. My Dad chewed my backside pretty hard and told me to zip it because I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was.
Back in 1963, Erasto Mpemba was a young Tanzanian fellow who was making a lot of ice cream in high school against heavy competition. All the boys would boil milk, mix it with sugar, let it cool and race to get it into the refrigerator freezer compartment. (Space was limited.) One day, a kid didn’t bother to boil his batch so he stuck it in the freezer at room temp. Erasto saw this and fearing there would be no more space left in the freezer, stuck his batch in without waiting for it to cool. Lo and behold, his hot batch froze faster than his rival’s cooler batch.
These and other anecdotes from older, more experienced ice cream-making acquaintances led Erasto on a voyage of discovery/experimentation which culminated in 1969 with him publishing a paper in collaboration with Donald Osborne a physicist at University College in Dar es Salaam. Here is the citation: Cool. E B Mpemba and D G Osborne 1969 Phys. Educ.4 172. If you want to read it yourself, here’s a link to the paper: https://iopscience.iop.org/article/10.1088/0031-9120/4/3/312.
And here’s a graph from that paper, if you don’t believe me.
Mpemba went on to pursue a career in Wildlife Management and later published a paper about how to weigh 25,000 penguins using aerial photography. Actually, I’m lying about that. He didn’t study penguins as far as I know, because although Namibia has them, Tanzania is devoid of penguins and probably Fish Owls, now that you mention it.
In any case, the curiousity of Erasto Mpemba impelled other physicists to continue delving into the “hot water freezes faster than cool water” controversy. Sixty years later, the physicists are still arguing. Physicists like to argue.
Turns out that sticking a container of hot liquid into a freezer is a highly unstable, nonequilibrium situation. This means that all the standard equations that physicists know and love don’t apply because the temperature is not the same throughout the whole system and is changing constantly but not smoothly. This is neatly summarized by Mann: “If nothing else, the theoretical and experimental work on the Mpemba effect has started giving physicists a handhold into nonequilibrium systems such as arguments with their fathers, that they otherwise lack.“
Sadly, my Dad passed in 2016 but he would have loved to talk about this whole business. He had a phenomenal memory and probably remembered the conversation as vividly as I do.
In closing, and since the average Australian know very little about hockey in general and ice in particular, I hereby challenge Liane Moriarty to write a hockey-based bestseller with a plot that eventually takes an extremely clever twist somehow based on the Mpemba effect and also deals with the gritty, ages-old saga of a young man striving to find his independence by rebelling against his father. Talk about an unstable, nonequilibrium situation!
That should keep her busy for at least a couple of years.
Somehow two months has elapsed since the last post. I wish I knew how that happened. Actually, there are a lot of things I’ve been wishing for lately and I feel like I should share them. This is actually a great tactic when you have a bunch of random things that have cropped up and you happen to be writing a post but don’t have an overarching theme to write about. I feel like overarching themes are also overrated anyway. So let’s get started.
One of the things I wish I’d known sooner is when to use “a while” and when to use “awhile”.
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