I remember I was hammering on a fence in the backyard when Dad approached. He was carrying a letter or something in his hand, and he looked worried. I continued to hammer as he came toward me.

“Son,” he said, “why are you hammering on that fence? It already has plenty of nails in it.”

“Oh, I’m not using nails,” I replied. “I’m just hammering.” With that, I returned to my hammering.

Dad asked me to stop hammering, as he had some news. I did stop hammering, but first I got a couple more hammers in, and this seemed to make Dad mad. “I said, stop hammering!” he yelled. I think he felt bad for yelling at me, especially since it looked like he had bad news. “Look,” he said, “you can hammer later, but first-”

Well, I didn’t even wait to hear the rest. As soon as I heard “You can hammer,” that’s what I started doing. Hammering away, happy as an old hammer dog. Dad tried to physically stop me from hammering by inserting a small log of some sort between my hammer and the fence. But I just kept on hammering, ’cause that’s the way I am when I get that hammer going. Then, he just grabbed my arm and made me stop.

“I’m afraid I have some news for you,” he said.

I swear, what I did next was not hammering. I was just letting the hammer swing lazily at arm’s length, and maybe it tapped the fence once or twice, but that’s all. That apparently didn’t make any difference whatsoever to Dad, because he just grabbed my hammer out of my hand and flung it across the field. And when I saw my hammer flying helplessly through the air like that, I just couldn’t take it. I burst out crying, I admit it. And I ran to the house, as fast as my legs could take me.

“Son, come back!” yelled Dad. “What about your hammer?!”

But I could not have cared less about hammering at that point. I ran into the house and flung myself onto my bed, pounding the bed with my fists. I pounded and pounded, until finally, behind me, I heard a voice. “As long as you’re pounding, why not use this?”

I turned, and it was Dad, holding a brand-new solid-gold hammer. I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes and ran to Dad’s outstretched arms. But suddenly, he jumped out of the way, and I went sailing through the second-story window behind him.

Whenever I hear about a kid getting in trouble with drugs, I like to tell him this story.

What does this have to do with Jews?

What is it with you and your weird obsession with JEWS?

So what was the letter about? Did mom die??

Have a similar story about when I was Jason vorhees. Not sure if it was that night but I lost a lot of friends. A guy gave me a sugar cube. Before he said anything I swallowed it. He says that was lsd. I was excited. Thought I’d meet friends or a girl. The next thing I knew I was driving around listening to the Halloween sound track in another state. Yes I managed to drive to another state and honestly thought I was Jason vorhees. I had stayed at a river spying on a party, I even had a machete. God knows what all I did before I actually came to my senses of realizing who I was now. I was fresh out if budligt and saw a party full of cuties with them. I came running out of the bamboo film speed towards the party at tree river. The party was over and the beer was mine. Not sure what happened back in the home town but I lost s lot of friends that day

In 1941, more than three million cars were manufactured in the United States. Only 139 more were made during the entire war.

This is why if I have an austistic retarded kid I'm just going to leave him at the fire station. That made me want to do drugs.