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This is exactly right. And well, and welcome to my favorite murder, the many Soad, that's Karen Kilgariff. That's Georgia Hartsock. Hi there. Oh, that's not enough explanation, period. It's Sunday night. Yep. Really feels it feels like Sunday.


Makes me very tired. I just woke up from one of those naps where it was light outside when I fell asleep. And it's dark outside now. And so the rest of the night is ruined completely. I did a little napping in the middle of the day while I was trying to watch a documentary series. So then I have to go back and watch it to find where I fell asleep and not just where you fell asleep, but like where you stopped being there.


Yeah, you know what I mean. Which could be a 10 minute. But if I fell asleep right on this because this conversation is so boring.


All right. Let's start. Okay. You. I mean, what what do you want? What about your needs? Oh, you do? Oh, yeah. Yeah. Go for it. All right. Here we go.


This is the subject line is farming childhood trauma. Dear Karen, Georgia Stebenne and pets. I'll save the compliments and cut right to my story in Minnesota. Oh, you asked for childhood trauma stories. And boy, do I have one for you. I was in the eighth grade and my brother Keith was in sixth grade. It was Mother's Day.


My mom wanted nothing more for us than to plant a tree for her. We went we went to the greenhouse and we were on our way back when we noticed our neighbor's cows were out. We live in semirural Wisconsin. So this was a normal occurrence, especially since we had our own dairy farm to these neighbors. Cows always got out. So it was common, a common neighborhood occurrence. My dad dropped off my brother and I and told us to get our two ATVs to help push the cows back into our neighbor's pasture.


My brother ran out of the house as I put on a pair of boots. So I was behind him. I came out of the house two minutes later and found him lying face down in our dirt barn driveway. My grandma Carol, who lives across the road. This is so rural, like farming. Yep. My hero lives across the road and she was watching them out the front window. So my grandma Carol, who lives across the road, came running toward me and told me my brother had rolled off the eight and had ATV and had been thrown off.


My mom, who materialized out of nowhere, was trying to calm thirteen year old me and my grandma down while also calling 911 and making sure my brother was OK. She was a registered nurse and had the necessary training for these situations because she was a bad ass. My mom assured all of us my brother was just unconscious and everything would be fine as she hopped into the back of the ambulance. Well, it turns out it wasn't. The ambulance took my brother to our local hospital.


They found he had a skull fracture and a brain bleed. My brother was taken on the Flight for life helicopter from that hospital to Children's Hospital of Wisconsin. The local sheriff's deputy who showed up at the scene and was at the hospital getting my parents statements, overheard my brother had to be flight for Lyft to Children's. So the deputy told my parents there was no way they were driving to Children's Hospital while dealing with such major trauma. So the officer gave my parents a personal escort to Children's Hospital in Tulsa, which is spelled a U w a T OSA.


So if they didn't put it in parentheses the way they did, I would have never gotten that right. Sure. Well, my dad says that's the only time he's ever written in the back of a cop car, but also remembers that they were keeping pace, doing 90 plus miles an hour on the ninety four with the helicopter. Sirens blaring Oh, my God. If you're wondering where I am throughout this portion of the story, I was at home on our dairy farm of approximately sixty five milking cows and fifty heifers and calves.


I, a thirteen year old at the time, was left in charge of everything. Holy shit, that's not like a little farm.


That's a no, that's a sick company. Sixty five cows is truly it's cheese central. Okay. I assign task to the neighbors and family for helping to take care of our animals and to get things done while my parents are at the hospital. My brother survived and had a full recovery with no loss of any brain functions. Who I credit this trauma with, teaching all of us to be slow and WorkSafe were on the farm. It also gave all of us a really dark sense of humor.


As for my brother, all that's left of that day is a long scar on the side of his head that he uses to pick up girls.


I was going to say, that's cool. That's hot. Hey, what's up, Frankenstein? Hey, he turned twenty six this past Wednesday and he works as a diesel mechanic.


Hey, mechanic, we are wet. Oh, Staci. Singing Always wear a helmet, especially when wrangling your neighbor's cows l P.S. I live I currently live in Monroe, Wisconsin, and that is the cheese capital of the world, not Athens, Wisconsin, contrary to popular belief, humble brag. But I actually do know that she she stays ambassador, a.k.a. the Cheese Days Queen. She's pretty cool. Let me know if you would like me to connect you if we like.


Yes. Free question. Does she get free cheese during her reign. That's a question.


Can she roll down the street on on a giant cheese wheel like we've fantasized?


So this one's called old timey Wild West murder hometown library librarian story.


And we need we love librarian stories, High Queen's Stephen and pets included.


I'm a grad student getting my degree in library and information sciences so I can do cool shit in archives. I used to work in an archives department at the university library and was tasked with digitizing old newspaper clippings written by this guy, Alfred Dotan, besides being a terrible racist human in general. Oh, he loved to write about murder. And one of the most interesting murders he talked about in his column was the murder of Julia Bulette in eighteen sixty seven.


I'm too lazy to find the articles and feel like you wouldn't want to read Deltans. Terrible handwriting. Think old timey cursive, but super shaky because he was always drunk. So I'll give you a quick a quick synopsis.


What a bummer to be like tasser archive. An absolute piece of shit writing. Yeah. You're trying to pick through, get the information and leave the racism and shaky handwriting behind.


Fumer. That's all right. So Juliet Goulet was born in London in the nineteen thirty two and moved to Virginia City, Nevada in 1859 during the California Nevada mining boom. If you've never heard of India, Virginia City, think of a stereotypical old West mining town and that's literally it. She was one of the most popular sex workers at the time. I was great friends with all of the miners in town. She made a lot of money because of her shining personality and exceptional sexual prowess and would often donate to the city's fire stations.


Because of this, she became an honorary member of Virginia and engine number one Jaysus.


That's the first one ever probably, and was even elected queen during the Independence Day parade on January 20th. Eighteen sixty seven, Julia was found murdered in her bedroom. She was strangled and bludgeoned to death. The next day, a funeral procession took place down Main Street. Thousands attended and the shops were shut down out of respect for her. She was truly loved by the entire town. A few months later, a man named John Million was arrested for her murder after attempting to sell jewels clothes just a few towns away.


He may or he may or may not have been the actual murderer, but like, hey, don't go selling the clothes of a recently murdered woman. My dude, he was charged and hanged on April twenty fourth, eighteen sixty eight. Approximately 5000 people attended his execution.


Julia Bulette was truly a hero to her city and was memorialized after her death. Saloon's hung pictures of her up on their walls. People wrote countless books about her life and the Virginia and Truckee Railroad even named one of the rich people cars after her mom. I actually first heard about Julie Epaulet from my grandma, who lives on a street that was dedicated to Miss Boulet. It's be you if you might look up anyway.


Thank you both for bringing me joy during my work days. If you are reading this, I just want to tell everyone to go to into an archive once they reopen. Archives are filled with incredible materials and hard working archivists, librarians who are doing amazing work to preserve the history of everyone, not just old white dudes say sexy and support sex workers. Challan Challenge. That email truly had everything. It was a great tale. You know, I really liked it.


And also, I think that's the kind of history that because of our pure technical country, you know, like a sex worker like that would be the hero of this town or this area or a huge part of this community. And then that would kind of get erased, totally whitewashed from the history because how dare totally. Now we have challen in their back and setting it straight, straight, man. Librarians are cool.


It's very cool. Yeah. You got library stories or archive stories back then.


Send them in.


Are you an archivist that discovered some crazy old fucking fascinating thing about it?


Or even I want to hear about it, even though you just found old rat bones that can tell us about a snake. Folks, describe what what's the weirdest thing you found in a book? You know what I mean? Can you describe a snake skin wrapped in a rat bone to us?


OK, I just realized that I. Definitely have gone with a theme, but this is just the batch I got, but these are all harrowing medical stories.


Essentially, that's a fun theme, though. We don't yeah, we don't ever we don't take long to pick these. So if there's ever a theme, it's never on purpose. No, it's it's fate.


OK, that's fun, though. I like them. OK, this email, the subject line is a groundhog almost murdered my dad.


Hi all. I'll jump right in because how can you not be intrigued? I grew up on a farm in rural. Right, a very rural county in Illinois. In the 1970s. Groundhogs were not very popular with farmers because they would munch the tender new crops coming up in the fields and cause crop damage. My dad was a funny, sweet man with a buzz haircut who never got mad at anyone, but he was not fond of groundhogs. He purposely would not allow anyone to hunt coyotes on our land because they were the natural predators of groundhogs and kept the population in check.


I was in elementary school and my sister was in junior high when we got off the bus to an empty house. Our mom was a teacher in another town that should have been there. But all we found was a note that said I cut myself, went to the doctor, dad, the scene was pretty bloody with bloody handprints on our avocado green telephone and the bathroom sink absolutely covered in blood. Even in fourth grade, we knew this was worse than just a car.


From there, details are a blur, but we got whisked off to a grandparents house for a few days. This is how my dad told the story. Later that day, he was working on his tractor near a shed in our woods when he saw Fat Groundhog waddling along and decided to choose violence and grabbed from the toolbox and tried to chase down the guy. He caught up to it as he was as it was diving under a stack of old wooden fence posts.


My dad bent down swinging with the hammer at the same time, but did not judge a fence post with a sharply angled end that was sticking out farther than the rest of the post. He hit his head on it and it cut a five inch gash in his scalp from just the front of his head, lying to the back of the top of his head. This is hot. This is hot head scarves themed again. Yes, I.


I swear to God it was not conscious, but it's so obvious now as I'm reading it.


Could I have a passion also because head wounds bleed like crow, right.


Because the skin so thin right there now. OK, so he immediately felt the warm trickle of blood and crammed his cap back firmly on his head and calmly walked the three minutes back to the house. He went to the bathroom to assess the damage in the mirror when all the blood is hot, had been holding splashed all over. Being that it was very rural, there was no 911 one and no ambulance. He had to call the local funeral home to get a ride in the hearse to the nearest hospital about an hour away.


Why talk? Talk about a conflict of interest. But that was a common practice at the time there. If there had been someone to ride with him and keep pressure on the wound, it would not have gotten so much worse like it did. He lost so many pints of blood that he died on the operating table and had to be shocked back to life. Thankfully, he made it and got to come home a few days later, when he was strong enough to go back to the scene of the accident.


There was the hammer laying next to a very dead groundhog. Oh, rest in peace, little guy. My dad never fucked with groundhogs again. Stay sexy and don't ride to the hospital in a hearse.


Amy, what conflict of interest was my favorite? I know so.


But it's so good. It's like rural accidents. I could listen to rural accident stories all day long because like I can't think of the suburb I grew up in and how I mean, just completely different that life is. And I'm fascinated by it. Yeah, it's far away from things. You're far away. It's almost like you move out to where no one lives and you start working with all of the sharpest and most dangerous tools you could possibly be working.




Right. And anger at little Marmot's or one of the rodents. What are badgers? I think maybe a rodent could be a mammal. Maybe a mammal. OK, but this was a groundhog. That's right. I don't know if you want to talk about badgers separately, but I would love to talk about badgers, about mind for just a moment. OK, for a second. This one is I'm not blaming him, but hello. Podcasters and podcasters with the W Paws podcast.


Oh, and Haribo Search. Yes. Podcast Podcasters.


I may be a bit late on the Celebrity Encounter's, right. N that's there's never too late. No, never. Nothing ever closes. None of our asks ever close. That's right. And if they do feel right exactly what you've requested something it's for life. Yep. But given that yesterday was a much awaited. Inauguration Day, I'm writing the story on Kamala Harris touched my arm. I guess I could have read the subject. It's the time I met Kamala Harris.


I work too many years at a luxury hotel in California. I knew I was in for it when I met Cameron Diaz on my first day and Kirsten Dunst the next week. Over the years, I learned to keep my cool when being asked by Zooey Deschanel for recommendations for, quote, lovely parks nearby or when Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani jokingly invited me on their wine tour, I pointed out Bill Nighy, what is it, Niyi?


Bill Nighy. Yeah, I. I pointed Bill Nighy to the restrooms and tried to upset Lisa Vanderpump on a luxury suite and then it says in parentheses, it didn't work. I'm a terrible salesperson. If you get upset Lisa Vanderpump on anything. Yes, but it's she's made of money.


I know that isn't her whole thing. Like spending money. It's true. Always upgrade. I forget an option to upgrade. Guys, I don't care where you are. Upgrade. That's not true. I once got treated to an impromptu concert by Pink who started singing in the lobby. I probably made my dad prouder of me than he'll ever be when I made Bill Murray laugh. But brag, brag, I always treated those people just like that as people.


I always, with the whole series of namedrop I love normally, but I think sure, I like it.


I always stuck with the hotel policy of discretion, except for now. Oops. And not breaching the wall by acknowledging their fame and asking for an autograph or a photo. All that changed when then Senator Kamala Harris came to stay with her husband. I escorted them to their suite and as I was leaving, I couldn't help myself.


I blurted out, I voted for you and wish and I wish. I had thanked her for her service, but instead just blushed bright red and turned to leave. She put her hand on my shoulder, glanced at my nametag, then looked me in the eye and thanked me by name. In addition to the huge, numerous milestones for vice presidents he brings, I can now say that I've met the vice president of the US and it says in parentheses and be proud to say so.


Thank you for reading. I love your show and all you do. Stay sexy and vote.


L l you can say that you met the first female vice president of in history.


That's that's something you tell your great grandkids someday and they write to our great grandkids. But that's my favorite word. Or that I know where our great grandpa. What's like a what's a payoff for our pets. They took over the podcast but suppos. Yeah. Still, they write into our pets who are running the podcast by then because they've created the app that you can hear with pets are saying, hoo!


That concept was big and tough. The subject line of this last email of mine is, baby, let's get in the ball pit. Yeah, I'll bet Doris Roberts are best friends. You recently asked for ball pit stories, so pull up a chair and sit a spell. I grew up in a very small town in Louisiana, very conservative and very religious. Every Tuesday in high school, I attended a Bible study at my town's McDonald's at six thirty a.m. before school.


All those Christians love six thirty in the morning. I wouldn't I'd be out immediately. Besides being surprised, you give God your glory. Glory enough over our pancake platters with the side of Jesus. My best friend and I started eyeing the ball pit. So we developed a plan. We began to arrive a little bit early to Bible study with empty backpacks. For weeks we fill those empty backpacks with bottles and dump them into the back of my ninety three Ford Explorer until I had a full ball pit in that beloved truck.


Oh, high school parties in rural Louisiana meant backing trucks up in a circle around a bonfire hanging in those truck beds, drink and drinking. Red Dog, my favorite alcoholic beverage, malt liquor. My ball pit quickly became the hookup spot at these parties. You virginities were lost in Walpeup.


Look, the juxtaposition of Bible study balls and hookup balls is not lost on me, but the existential crisis of growing up in Southern Baptist, a Southern Baptist in rural Louisiana, is the reason my therapist has a designer bag, say sexy and never trust what's in those balls.


Ruth. P.S. As a nearly 40 year old woman, I am deep in the throes of the most difficult time of my life thus far. Listening to your podcast has been a rock. During this time you have quite literally saved my life and some of the darkest moments, moments when I cling to your voices simply to stay alive. Thank you. Doesn't begin to cover it.


Oh my God, it's not lovely. See, Ruth, Ruth, thank you. And also, I have an assignment for you. I need you to write ten essays about your existential crisis of growing up in Southern Baptist rural Louisiana. Because of that is one story. Yeah, I bet there's fucking at least ten more that we need to hear about.


And the memoir is called Back-Seat Ball Pit. It's your memoirs. Please tell us that you between parties disinfected those bottles, because all I can think about is the many fluids that were on it and the germs before you even took them out of the ball pit.


And then the ones that came after. No, no. Basically saying she didn't and they didn't. They're high school students. OK, right there. I mean, there's what what are they going to do?


Some down spilt beer, hopefully disinfected some stuff. All right. The love, the love disinfected. Oh, that was beautiful. Yeah. My last one is called My Bad Ass Mother Indigenous Rights and Paul Brandt. Hello. My favorite Motorino wine aunt and crew were aunts, also favorite spelled with a U. S, you know, they're Canadian.


Let's get right into it. I'm in small town Alberta.


Socializing pretty much consists of hockey in the winter, swimming and rivers in the summer and doing all the suburban teenage shit you do in small towns.


However, I was raised by my amazing, incredibly hippy mother. We are talking Force Fort Building. We are tea drinking and aromatherapy hippy. Not your local Urban Outfitters loving oh milk latte drinking hippie. So an authentic hippie is what she's saying. So the real one. Yeah. So needless to say, there was never a dull moment in my childhood. Now I could tell you several stories about me and my mom only speaking in British accents when we get bubble tea, the pudding fiasco or the time she was in labor and only sent me a text.


But by far the most amazing thing she has done in my eyes is assisting the Canadian government with programs to help find missing and murdered indigenous women. Mm hmm. My stepdad is a well known Blackfoot elder. Blackfoot is a prairie group of Canadian indigenous peoples, and elder is more of a rank than an age thing and has traveled all over the world sharing his teachings.


Recently, he and my mom have been working with the Canadian government, even through coronavirus, to help the families and friends of these lovely women who have lost their lives.


One day when my mom and stepdad were in one of these meetings, my mom realized that Paul Brant, a very famous country singer in rural Alberta, and his wife were at the meeting, too. Paul and his wife to a lot of work, was stopping human trafficking and educating those about my missing and murdered indigenous women. Now it's polite and traditional to have a blessing in the form of a Blackfoot song to start her and a gathering of significance. And my mom was so.


Freaking excited because she is a raging hippie and humanitarian with a perfect pitch, I might add, God to bless Paul Brant with her beautiful voice and help put a stop to the atrocities happening in our own backyard. The tragic deaths and disappearances of these women are not something to be taken lightly. And it's people like my mom, stepdad and everyone using their platform to amplify the voices the masses do not hear that are putting an end to these horrible happenings.


Thank you for everything you do. Stay sexy and always be prepared to serenade the famous country singer, your Canadian friend.


Wow. Imagine having such inspiring while your mom's a nurse and your dad's a firefighter. So you do have inspiring parents.


No, but that's that's next level because that's a that's service. And that's really that's people working in an area and with a problem that she's exactly right that that people don't hear about enough or know about enough. Yeah. And like a group of people whose voices need to be amplified and the fact that that is it's starting to happen, you know, slowly but surely. Yeah, but and that kind of work is like it's beautiful. It's thank God.


It's really it's really it's got to be so inspiring to see your parents like that. Yeah.


Well, yeah, it's such a great example of that. That's what's that kind of social work and community work is for. It's caring about your neighbor. It's caring about the people in your country, you know what I mean? It's just like it's getting in there. I mean, that's like that's classic hippie shit. That's what the hippies are all about. It's nothing to do with fucking Urban Outfitters that's just style, you know, mean. Yeah, because they're like said, this stuff's real humanitarianism, not capital humanitarianism.


And and a little bit of weed, which never hurt anybody is natural.


That's right. Tell us your stories of your inspiring parents. You always love to hear that and that they have to be inspiring, like JuJu's, inspire me like dogs, that we need more Skar stories. Oh, yeah. They have to be baby survivors of terrible injuries that they're self-inflicted accidentally.


They're good people.


They are. No, I think separately also like good stuff. Like scare stories. Did you think like how you got your fix? I'm a grown man, but as a parent though. Oh, sure. Send in a well written story. I didn't even know what that sounds like. Ruth did it. You just heard of Ruth. Just did she set something up? I'm Christian. I'm I'm at McDonald's six am. But what you think I'm going to tell you is not we're going to take a left turn into the ball pit.


Now we're talking about stealing from McDonald's and support. We'll always tell us about where you stole from McDonald's. Please. Anything. You know, I work there and they would just steal like the packages of the monopoly cups when Monopoly came out. Sure. Fill each other's trunks with the monopoly pieces, come to the documentary trailer.


It didn't matter anyway because no one was going to win a matter and they didn't even know it. I love that. Dr. McMillans. McMillion one.


Oh yeah. And then stay sexy and don't get murdered. Good bye.


Elvis, do you want a cookie? I.