Happy Scribe
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This is exactly right. And welcome to my favorite murder, the many soad, we're going to fast one, a quickie, you know, it's a quick one. Yeah, it's Friday for us. It's Monday for you. Welcome to Monday. Welcome.

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It's a lot like Friday, except it's the kind of different, very similar these days.

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And I go first.

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Yeah, do it. You, me, me. Oh, I thought you said I'm a first. So I said, you wanna go first, but I can go either one. You do it. OK. OK, let's do it. This is called the Cracker Barrel murders. Loving it. Hi everybody. Ever since I started bingeing your podcast not too long ago, I've been tempted to send in this hometown murder. I put off writing the email because, you know, laziness.

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But then I heard a recent episode where Georgia expressed such glee over visiting a state where she could finally, finally eat at a Cracker Barrel. And I knew I had to share what is known here in Naples, Florida, as the Cracker Barrel murders.

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These murders took place back in 1995 when Naples was a seriously small town and violent crime was nearly unheard of in the area around five a.m. on November 15th that year, Donna Howle arrived at the Cracker Barrel restaurant to begin her shift. She pressed the restaurant's buzzer to be let inside. But after 15 minutes of ringing and pounding on the door with no sign from within, how sensed something was wrong and called the police. When authorities arrived and entered the restaurant, they found three employees dead inside.

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Vickie Smith, Jason Wiggins and Dorothy Sidel were all found in the freezer floor with their hands duct taped behind their backs and their throats slit. Oh, God.

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Bloody shoe prints led from the freezer through the kitchen and ended up in the office where the safe was found open. Behind the restaurant, there were scattered bills, a knife, a pair of bloodstained gloves, an air pistol and shoe prints leading away from the restaurant. And the days following the murders, police interviewed other Cracker Barrel employees, and it didn't take long for the investigation to point to a couple of suspects Brandi Bain, Jennings and Charles Jason Graves, both former employees of the restaurant back.

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Jennings and Graves were arrested in Las Vegas about a month after the initial crimes were committed. They were driving a truck that had been reported stolen by another Cracker Barrel employee. Turns out the two had planned the crime for more than a month, apparently disgruntled over losing their jobs. Jennings and Graves were hoping to steal around fifteen thousand dollars. Whether or not they had planned on killing their former co-workers is unclear. But for whatever reason, Jennings slashed the throats of the three victims while Graves stood at the freezer door with a pellet gun to prevent their escape.

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Oh, my God. They probably thought it was a real gun. So they didn't like, of course, had tried separately. In the fall of 1996, Jennings was convicted of three counts of first degree murder and one count of robbery with a deadly weapon and sentenced to three death sentences for the killing. Plus fifteen years for the robbery charge, Grais was sentenced to three life sentences for the killings, plus fifteen years for the robbery. They both remain in prison today.

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Meanwhile, Georgia, that Cracker Barrel is still there and operating.

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No. So if you ever make it down to the west coast of Florida, you can eat there. If you want to know, could they make a mean Reuben sandwich?

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SS DGM, Andrea.

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Oh, my God. That's I mean, what a pointless, vicious sociopathic crime.

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Just horrifying. It just seems like every robbery that there is, especially of a fuckin restaurant where people are just trying to earn their wage, is always going to go bad. It's always going to get caught. There's no fucking point in it.

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There's no when you're mad at the corporation and you're killing your co-workers, it's so shortsighted and insane and awful. It's just.

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Yeah, wow. Yeah, horrible. And also it's so sinister because the Cracker Barrel is such that like Corney family style, you know, the waitresses are so nice and. Yeah. And they treat you like they know you. And it's like everything about the actual place is great. Yeah. Aside from of course the severe cholesterol issues.

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But you know, it's all very bad. OK, OK, here's my first one. That time a psychic saved my best friend's life is the subject line. Here's maybe one of my favorite greetings so far. Hello, spooky queens.

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Oh my best friend of 15 years and I spent several years working in food service during our younger days. We've both had our share of sketchy customers, but one of her stories absolutely takes the cake and still sends chills down my spine. My friend who will call Rosie had a regular customer at her chain restaurant wait staff job who seemed generally harmless, though definitely on the weird side, he would follow her around while she tried to close up her section for the night, telling her in detail about the fanfiction he was writing and other shit nobody wants to hear about.

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Oh my God. Can you imagine trying to close your section and this person is following you wrong? I don't care what they're talking about. And he's like, so on my blog, Monck has this other life where he doesn't have to wash his hands all the time fanfiction.

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So Rosie found him annoying as shit, but she's a nice person who wanted to keep her job, so she never told him to fuck off. One night while Rosie was at work, I was at home with both of our husbands, both exes now and instantly, both total shit.

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That's all parenthetic love it. When her then husband got a phone call, he went white and it was obvious that something was very, very wrong. Rosie had called to let him know that she was coming home from work early because she had just gotten an incredibly fucked up phone call and needed to leave the restaurant immediately. Here's what happened.

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Rosie was in the middle of her usual dinner shift when she got called into the manager's office because someone was on the phone for her, a lady on the other end who explained that she was a psychic and that one of her regular clients was none, none other than the weirdo restaurant customer. He had spent all caps, thousands of dollars on her services over the last several months to talk almost exclusively about his obsession with, you guessed it, Rosie, so much so that the psychic knew where to call and who to ask for.

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Holy shit. After the guy had told her about his plan to gather some buddies, abduct Rosie in the parking lot after her shift and then gang rape and probably murder her, what the fuck?

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She called Rosie to warn her because according to the guy, the plan was going to be executed imminently. After hanging up, Rosie somehow managed to keep calm and immediately called the police who showed up at the scary guy's fast food job and put the fear of God into him. There parentheses. There wasn't enough for an arrest. Unfortunately, she never saw or heard from him again. She left her job soon after that incident and she's now kicking ass and taking names in nursing school.

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She's on track to fulfill her lifelong dream of providing health care for women in need and delivering their babies. As a nurse practitioner, she's an awesome mom, a bad ass role model, and I'm so fucking proud of her. Stay sexy and don't let the bastards grind you down with me.

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Oh, my God. He was going to do a psychic. She's incredible and called this woman, which is, yes, to step in and be like this isn't just pretend.

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Yeah, and he told her all that, like that alone is like, oh, this guy, he's not OK. Wow. That is not fun.

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Not good. That's one of the crazier stories I've been saying. Yes. OK, this is just a hometown story just starts. I was listening to the episode of Bananas where Georgia says that she refuses to stand on balconies at parties.

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Do have that fear. I won't. I won't. I get it. And since I share the same peculiar phobia, yeah, I thought I should write in about the most awful thing that happened a few years ago. Twenty, fifteen. I was taking a summer course in statistics at Berkeley City College. I was taking it for fun. I was the only 30 year old in this in a sea of high school students in the class. I was riding my bike to class.

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Early one morning I passed a bunch of fire engines and police cars parked across the street from my classroom. Being a lifelong, you know, I tried to be a subtle looky loo and find out what was going on, but I couldn't see what all the emergency vehicles were gathered around. I looked up the local Berkeley news and saw that tragically in the wee hours of that morning, that day, a bunch of young people were having a party and the balcony collapsed, sending a bunch of people falling five stories to the ground below.

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This is my worst nightmare, I think. Did she say what year this happened? 1990.

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I mean, 2015. Oh, because there was one in the nineties.

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I lived up there. Oh, really? Yeah. Yeah, it was really bad.

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Well, six people died and five of them were Irish students spending the summer working and living in California. Oh, no, it's just one of the most awful things I can imagine and one of my biggest fears. I'm heartbroken for those young folks and everyone affected by the tragedy. On a lighter note, last year I was working as a marijuana delivery driver, and one night all of my deliveries were concentrated around the UC Berkeley campus for guys with super Irish sounding names.

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I asked the first guy on my route if he was here for the summer work program, and he said that he was and that earlier that day everyone in the program had learned about marijuana delivery. It was great. It was a great night. And I gave a bunch of Irish kids weed and had a lovely time chatting with them. And they helped me create new positive memories that come up whenever I hear about the summertime Irish population in Berkeley. Stay sexy and blaze it.

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Lily love it.

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Just makes me think of everyone as well. Chris Fairbanks Junior. I will go into a kind of a Rosta character and blaze. It sounds like something that character would say. Oh, I want to hear that.

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I it's very funny. I love that. I love that she was looking to do some like memory a replacement. Yeah, I was hanging on to the same idea, but I mean, what a terrible group tragedy.

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Yeah. Yes. Horrible day in the apartment everyone. Yeah. Plays it, plays it indoors.

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Not only lays it out a window, front porch, sidewalk, it's legal. Now legalize it. Sorry I'm stealing Christmas bit because I'm the one in the nineties that happened. I can still see the the clip that was on the news because and this is maybe something you remember from San Francisco, those back porches or like kind of like they were like fire escapes, basically, right? Yes. And they were wooden and they were basically broke after the fact attached onto the apartment building that and the staircases would go up and there just be a landing.

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Yeah, right. Yeah. It was like they had to put it in for Fiachra. There was one in Boston not that long ago too. That was like. Yes, horrifying that maybe that's the one I'm thinking.

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But either way there's been tons and it's like when those things don't get built to code and then you got forty people standing on the balcony. I mean horrifying to everybody. Be careful.

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Yeah. Chekist don't go to parties anymore. If you're going to go to a party that has a balcony, get it checked by the City Zoning Commission call.

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Don't be afraid to call the city now.

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It's not going to happen any time soon. No, don't go to parties, period. One more reason to stay home.

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Yeah, this just starts. Hello. I have a bad ass nano story for you today, right? Bit of a background. My nana is ninety lives alone and is very proper parentheses always looks immaculate in matching outfits and some sort of pearl hellyeah.

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She's incredibly independent, perfectly healthy and no new friends is her motto.

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Wait is that she mean does that mean that she's like everyone's an old friend to me or is it like she doesn't want me.

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She is done with making friends. How come I felt that like thirty eight. Yes. Thank you Nana for validating. Yeah. You don't need that many now and you certainly don't need new ones, especially if you've been around for ninety years. That, God damn it, that makes me laugh a couple of years back, her bridge club of 50 years dissolved and she told me there was no point in finding a new one because they'd all die sooner.

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Oh, damn it, I missed my grandpa. I'd tell my grandma is like one hundred and two. I drove her twice a week to her. It wasn't mahjongg, but it was some card gin rummy or some gin game. Yeah, wist. I mean, an old lady card game. Yeah. Like the Jewish Community Center.

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I drive her in midtown. How old is she. How old did she live till four. God that's amazing. Those last couple of years, I don't think she was counting the cards. Right, but that's OK. I mean, hey, look, she got to go get out of the house, stay home and get out of it. But stay home and don't go to parties. OK, sorry. Go.

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After my grandfather died, she was living alone in the country and unfortunately got robbed twice. They took all her jewelry and obviously she was feeling fairly vulnerable. So she made the decision to move into the city a block away from my parents. After finally settling in a year later, her house burned down. I'll never forget that day because I was visiting home and was supposed to have tea with her. I was walking over to her house when I saw two fire engines down the street and black billowing smoke.

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I started to run, realizing that it was her house, frantically trying to pick her out of the crowd that had gathered. I found her standing with her arms crossed.

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Oh no, this woman so much. I found her standing with her arms crossed, calmly staring down the fire. She looked at me and said, Dear, I'm so sorry to say we'll have to postpone.

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My mom immediately grabbed me, shoved some money in my hand and said, Go get your grandmother some gin. So we spent that night drinking gin and looking through the only thing. She had grabbed an old tin box with some photos and old papers cut to a couple of years later, my nanna had her house rebuilt and she was sitting on her back porch. A strange man hopped over the fence and started peeing in her garden. She took one look at him and said, You shouldn't be here.

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Startled, he ran away. Later, the police came by asking if she'd seen a man of a similar description. Turns out he'd just attempted to rob a couple of houses and it probably attempted to rob hers as well. Her back window had been smashed the night before, something she apparently wasn't too alarmed by this.

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I want to live for real. I absolutely adore my nana and I'm always inspired by her strength. She is such an awesome, no B.S. attitude, and I hope I'm lucky enough to be a bad ass nana like her one day. Although the stiff upper lip mentality isn't always the healthiest attitude when it comes to mental health, I think it's gotten her through some pretty tough times, wishing you all health and happiness stay sexy and when in doubt, have some tea or gin with your nana.

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Oh, man.

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Hey, if you're going to write into us about your nana, please tell us her or your grandpa, please tell us their first name. Oh, yeah. To know who these people are at least a little bit first names a picture would be awesome.

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I mean, any of it. I have the picture of her standing in front of her burning house with her arms.

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Girls angry at the fire. You got to be kidding me. Wow. She took it in stride.

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Good for her handling shit. In 2012, a 72 year old man named Samuel Little was charged with three Los Angeles murders dating back to the 1980s.

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So we finally got to where we're going. The crowd at Liverpool roar after only one appeal.

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But since then, it's become clear he is the most prolific serial killer in the United States has ever seen, 93 victims, 19 states. Samuel Little has become infamous, but his victims, some of whom remain unidentified, are stuck in the shadows. It's time for that to change.

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My experience in working with some of the victims families is that he was dead wrong. They were missed. They were very loved and their families were hurting.

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The fall line presents a special limited series. The victims of Samuel Little will cover both solved and unsolved Southeastern cases and tell you how you can help the victims. Still waiting for justice, featuring rare interrogation tape, FBI interviews and in depth detail. This is a series you won't want to miss. Episodes begin on September 16th from Exactly Right Network. Find us on Stitcher Apple podcast or wherever you listen. OK, this is my last one. This is called another perplexing public pooper.

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Oh, dear goddess's animals at all in your last minute.

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So you mentioned a backyard pooper on next door. And while you didn't specifically ask for more public pooper stories, this one is too good to keep to myself. I don't think I think it's a given that we want more public pooper stories. No, I wouldn't agree.

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But I come on a fight with you. Not during a quarantine.

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In the late 1990s, I worked in a commercial law firm.

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First off, every TV representation of law firms is true. They are particularly lousy with sociopaths. So I'm a baby lawyer in this firm that only had five women in it.

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One day my co-worker and I went to the restroom to cry common occurrence and discovered that someone had full on pooped on the floor right in the stall in front of the commode. Not an oops I missed poop, but an actual intentional, neat pile right there on the floor.

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What was it? Bring your dog to work. Day was a bring your dog to the bathroom. I worked it and then don't clean it up day. Yeah. Needless to say, my female coworker and I called the cleaners and then used our lawyer interrogation skills to question the other women to find the culprit to had alibis and the other vehemently denied it. And we believed her. We chalked it up to weirdness and went back to our soul destroying jobs.

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Looking at document discovery, flash forward to two days later, a co-worker calls me into the bathroom to see another pile, this time right in front of the stall door, another round of interrogations, no leads. This went on for weeks and the pooper got bolder and bolder until one day my coworker opened the door of the bathroom to find the boldest pile yet, this time right at the threshold. She spotted it one second too late after she had already slipped in it.

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No one picture, a cartoonish, flailing woman in a suit, arms akimbo, trying to avoid the inevitable, only to land ass down right on the pile. No, I'm glad I'm not ending with this. And you heard your story. No more these stories. Sorry, sorry.

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No, I'm telling people we kept complaining but with no luck and eventually became a joke among the partners. And we nicknamed the elusive offender, the Fecal Bandit. So one day one of the senior attorneys gets fired and escorted out of the building for an unrelated gross violation of conduct, offensive enough that security was called low and behold. We never encountered the clandestine work of the fecal bandit ever again.

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It turns out it was the seemingly normal, attractive, clean cut lawyer who, unbeknownst to all of us, was a secret shitter. Among other things, I can't mention for legal reasons. One oh, and and the small handful of women at the law firm full of sociopaths could go p. without fear. Once again, he eventually got what?

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I'm sorry. I just realized it was a man going into the women's bathroom. Yes, that that's there. That is a very bad sign.

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Yes. He eventually got hired by another law firm because of course he did. And I presume he's still up to his putrid pastime. It goes to show you, you never know if that cute rich guy has a pension for public pooping you didn't know about. Thanks for reading my story. Stay sexy and beware of the fecal bandit, Aaron. And we never read a pupping story again.

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I'm sorry. I just was so well-written and and so visual and a lawyer and I was just.

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Well, it's that idea that that sometimes we have, especially when we're younger, that if you have money, that if you're good looking, that if you have a good job somehow, that that takes you out of the realm of something mentally wrong with you.

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I'm so glad I went first because I want you to end. OK, ok, OK.

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Because this is, I think, a pretty good idea. This subject line is kid doesn't listen, mom saves. And the first line is I love you bitches. So this isn't a murder, but it is about me as a kid thinking I knew better than my mom. I was probably about seven years old when we visited my stepdad, sister, who was super rich. She had a bunch of livestock. And at the time I felt I had a special connection with animal, with all the animals ever children.

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We all think that it's so was true with me, though. Cats fucking love me.

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Sure. So I'm seven. I'm seven. We toured the cow pasture and rode ponies. I was in heaven later that day while my mom was helping my aunt prepare dinner. I asked her if we could go back out to see the cows. She said not now because she's busy, but that we could go out in the morning before we left. I knew that was a lie and that we wouldn't squeeze in this time. And so this was my chance.

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Wow. That's like that's the logline of my childhood. You're lying to me. I'll just do it by myself. Anyway, I asked if I could go alone and she said no, to which I continued begging. Still a hard no. Obviously I knew I'd be fine without her. Anyway, I snuck out of the house. Ventured over to the pasture, climbed over the wooden fence and walked over to the grazing cows one by one, their heads raised up to see me.

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And as I got closer, a nervous pit in my stomach grew. I stopped about 10 feet from the herd, feeling the unease that set in because they were all now staring at me, not and not eating. I slowly turned right back around and walked away. Then I heard the low murmur behind me grow louder and louder. I looked back and the entire herd was charging at me.

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Oh my God. I started running as fast as I could climb the gate, and for some reason I turned around to see how far the stampede was when the fucking leader of the pack rammed me against the fence, bucking his head against my chest over and over again, my feet dangling and the cow holding me up against the fence. I started yoga.

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I started screaming for help. When I realized my mom was already sprinting down the driveway to rescue me. My mom lifted me out of danger and then immediately yelled at me for not listening. Meanwhile, my older sister was this is my favorite part. Meanwhile, my older sister was about 30 feet away watching all of it and uncontrollably laughing. I knew it.

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I was bawling and mostly felt betrayed by the animals who I thought were one with me. But also fuck you, Lisa, for not helping me and fuck me for being dumb. Well, that's that. Stay sexy and don't pretend you're fucking Jane Goodall with cows when you have zero experience with animals. Katie.

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Oh, my God. She could have been killed. This reminds me of the dangling the feet in the hippo enclosure.

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Yes, right.

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But this is a little more of that. This used to happen to me on my my Aunt Jean's farm where you got this idea in your head of like, I'm out here with you every day. We're friends, whatever. They're animals. They don't they're just like, get that thing out of here. I hope she's vegan now. That was I was so nervous. I was peeling my nail polish off. As you told that story. I just like that sounds that sounds like a nightmare.

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I bet she actually is.

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As opposed to being vegan. She's like a double meat eater. She's like only meat lover's pizza as all day every day I'll have a double cheeseburger.

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Motherfuckers. Yeah, motherfucker. Motherfuckers, that was fun. That was that was such that you guys have time now. So send your stories into us. No more excuses. My favorite murder, Jameela, on our website or I don't know other places probably. And thank you for always participating with us. We love it so much and stay sexy and don't get murdered.

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Good bye, Elvis. You want a cookie and.