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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo is enjoying the beginning of a three-day weekend on the Port Swiller Manor porch this evening idly watching Youngest putting the final touches on a literal Rube Goldberg machine for her physics class, on which she and her partner have been laboring mightily this week.

The machine, which at least in theory brews a cuppa instant kawfee, contains among its component parts an old-fashioned Victory mousetrap.  Ol’ Robbo feels that he deserves a bit of a pat on the back because, despite cringing at the idea when I first heard of it, I have successfully resisted the very strong temptation to fuss at the Gel about being careful with the thing.

So far, at least, all her fingers remain un-mangled.  As they’re presenting tomorrow, I like to think we’re in the home stretch.

Speaking of Youngest, we got into a conversation about what kind of fellah she envisions marrying some day.  “I want a Real Man,” she said.  “None of these beta-male soyboys for me!  And he needs to know his shite (sorry): How to fix things, how to play sports, how to shoot, all of it.  Oh, and he’d better be chivalrous, too.”

“Well, good luck,” I replied.  “I was raised that way, but it’s not much in vogue amongst parents these days.”

“Yeah, Dad,” she said, “You’re the most traditional guy I know. Thanks.”

That’s my Gel!

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