It was Sunday, the first day of the month, and the lighting through the shower curtain showed the unmistakable silhouette of a medium-sized scorpion. I pulled the rug away, grabbed the closest magazine, knocked “him” to the floor and slapped hard twice to assure that his deadness was for real. As I was tearing off the page that I had messed up, I noted this statistic: “A recent Barna Grou...
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