I live in the valley, at the bottom of a hill. Absolutely none of the property around my house is zoned for retail, so if either I or my brother want to buy snacks we have to hump it up the hill to the Husky station at the top of a pair of aging wooden stairs, flanked by crazy homeless people and other, more harmless but no less crazy homeless people.

My brother, Mac, was up there buying stuff yesterday when the cashier took a look at the name on his receipt.*

Cashier: McConnell? Are you related to Carson?
Mac: … She’s my sister.
Cashier: I still have the scar on my arm from when she hit me with a rake.

In my defense, I was seven.

*Mac never uses cash for anything. He will put three dollars on his debit card. It makes me crazy, which is probably why he still does it.

I guess my drag queen superhero comic isn’t that far-fetched an idea after all.

Check the date on that article. Nineteen-fucking-seventy-three.

My favourite line:

“We didn’t even ask questions,” said the Rev. Ray Broshears, 38. “We just took out our pool cues and started flailing ass.”

These guys need a low-budget ’70s-style exploitation flick made about them. Complete with cheesy voiceover. Now.