It's Snarkurday!

We haven’t heard a lot from Kanye lately, perhaps because his meds are, well, were, balanced and working. But now, after his—as The Queen might call it—annus horribilis ... not bad anus, but horrible year ... Kanye is ready to make someone pay.

Namely his insurance company; yup, Kanye is suing Lloyd’s of London $10 million he says he’s owed because he had a mental breakdown last year after cancelling his last tour.

It all started last year with the highly publicized “jewel heist” in Paris when Missus Yeezy had her costume jewelry stolen; that made Kanye cancel two shows and he wants to be reimbursed. But then came his, not one, but two, onstage, Dear Baby Jeebus he’s lost his mind moments in both San Jose and Sacramento before finally putting the tour, and his audiences, out of their misery and checking into the UCLA Neuropsychiatric Hospital Center.

Two days later, while still being cared for crazy, he submitted the first of his loss claims to Lloyd’s, though now Kanye says he hasn’t seen a penny.

The suit goes on to say Lloyd’s have not “provided anything approaching a coherent explanation about why they have not paid” but that they have implied that “Kanye’s use of marijuana may provide them with a basis to deny the claim.”

Look, here’s the deal, Yeezy, your wife had a meltdown after a robbery and you took time off; you don’t get paid for that, it’s called being a husband. Then you freaked out on your audience—who paid to see you, though I have no good reason for that—and you want more money for ranting and stomping off-stage and checking into a hospital to determine you’re crazy, though you were ALLEGEDLY sane enough to file a claim from your bed?

Yup, you Krazy.

[photo]

Anthony Scaramucci, we hardly knewcci.

I stole that from Twitter.

Anyway ... like a once bright shining star that burned too hot, and died too soon, The Mooch is gone, and before we knew what happened; or do we?

See, what had happened was that The Married Mooch’s relationship with Fox news correspondent Kimberly Guilfoyle may have been one of the reasons for his ouster.

It appears that, since The Mooch was dating the Fox news blonde, that certain gossip sites had begun looking into White House shenanigans, like the dinner The mooch and The Mistress attended at the White House that was leaked to the press and lead to Scaramucci’s “tirade” about, um, well, servicing his own Little Mooch.

See, the gossip sites wanted the real deal behind why The Mooch was out and about dating when his wife, nine months pregnant, was about to give birth.

Yup, when a man squires his jump-off to the White House while his wife is giving birth to his child, people talk, and maybe the White House needed one less scandal. And, as of this week, Anthony, who sent a text to his wife congratulating her on giving birth to their child, still has not seen his new born.

But, you know, he’s been busy trying to sell his ten-minute story to the news media.

[photo]

Remember when Aretha Franklin faxed her displeasure with Dionne Warwick over some lingering beef from Whitney Houston’s funeral? I mean, the fight was real, but it was the idea that RiRi faxed the info to the press that was high-larious, because I thought she’d send a telegram.

Well, now Franklin maybe ponying up some cash to get the Pony Express the relay her next story: her feud with Patti LaBelle.

LaBelle has an interview with PrideSource—she has a new jazz album, Bel Hommage, to peddle—and it seems to go along the lines of an interview she gave back in 2014, where she claimed she was no longer a “diva” because “all these little heifers who can’t sing are called divas.”

Now, in case you forgot, the original beef between LaBelle and Franklin was pie ... and chili. See, Pattie began going door-to-door hawking her Sweet Potato Pie and so Aretha got all up in the frozen food biz and began driving around the country selling Aretha’s Chili, Gumbo, Chicken, and Desserts. Patti gave a five-octave, Oh hell nooooooooooooooooooooooo and it was on.

Patti said in that interview:

“Now, there are a lot of ladies in this industry who don’t care for Patti LaBelle but I look at them and I smile. Because what can I do? I can’t change your mind, boo, because I don’t wanna change your mind. You go on thinkin’ about me the way you think.”

In case you missed it, ‘boo’ is Franklin and, in this case, ‘boo’ means you best watch your step Franklin or else I’ll snatch that wig off your head and those dead animals skins off your back.

Still, why not do us all a favor, stop cooking, shut up and sing.

[photo]

Queen Elizabeth II is 91 years old and maybe she’s lived this long because she follows one strict rule; alcohol. Yup, she’s pickled. Well, she gets pickled ion a daily basis.

Business Insider has a list of all the things The Queen likes to eat and drink in a day, like the usual suspects, tea and biscuits, toast and marmalade, tea sandwiches.

But it’s her cocktails that are interesting: The Queen has four drinks a day ... or drinks four times a day ... and ALLEGEDLY starts before noon with a Dubonnet and gin with a slice of lemon. That’s right, booze on booze; I bow down to this Queen. 

Then she has wine with lunch, followed by a dry gin martini and after dinner, she has a glass of champagne.

Wait; what happened to the before dinner drinks and the during dinner wines? I think maybe the Queen has a bit more than four, and , yeah, I’ll party with her.

Maybe, if I get her drunk enough, she’ll let me wear one of her hats ... and tell Prince Harry to sit on my lap.

[photo]

Speaking of getting your drunk on ... didn’t Ben Affleck spend some time in rehab last year for alcohol abuse? Then please to explain why Ben and his girlfriend of three months years, Lindsay Shookus, were spotted at a liquor store in Maine.

Both Radar and People report that Ben and Lindsay were spotted at the Umbrella Factory liquor store in Naples, Maine on Sunday. But, maybe he had nothing to hide, because NotBatmanAnymore Affleck posed for pictures with a store employee.

And the best part is the employee posted the picture to social media and then added other pictures from the store security camera, of Ben and Lindsay, Bindsay? Afflookus? in the store the day before.

And, to be fair, an alcoholic in a liquor store isn’t an automatic relapse. Maybe he was just helping Lindsay with her stash?

[photo]

Ever since The Beauty And The Beast live-action remake shocked everyone by not being a Big Budget D-I-Saster, everyone has been tossing around live-action remakes of Disney movies. 

Lin Manuel-Miranda is ALLEGEDLY bringing The Live-Action Little Mermaid to the screen, and Will “I’m No Scientologist” Smith has signed on to be the genie in an Aladdin reboot.

Robin Williams be damned, I say.

But now comes word that Beyoncé is close to signing a deal to voice Nala in The Lion King and that Disney is expected to fork over $25 million for it. Seriously? For $25 million you don’t get the ass-shaking, weave-whipping, fierce-grunting Bey? You just get lip-syncing Beyoncé?

Walt Disney’s frozen head must be spinning in his cryogenic freezer.

[photo]

So, back in 2013, ex-Real Housewife Brandi Glanville appeared on Watch What Happens Live and Andy Cohen asked her about some story she’d told once about fellow ex-Real House Joanna Krupa having a smelly, um, er, well, it’s the Age of _____ so, pussy.

Brandi says ex-Real Housewife Yolanda Foster’s ex-husband, Mohamed Hadid, told her that he’d slept with Krupa and she smelled bad ... down there. He's quite the gentleman. So, Brandi took the tale to TV and the world and Krupa took her to court, though that begs the question:

How does one prove their vah-jay-jay don’t stink and how do I avoid that jury duty.

Doody. Hee hee. Brandi demanded a “trial by jury” and Krupa wasn’t walking away, so it looked like this mess would happen but ... it’s case closed now.

The feuding reality “stars” have reached an out-of-court settlement with the stipulations remaining confidential, though Krupa’s lawyers say she’s pleased with the outcome and Brandi eating ... no, not that ... crow:

“I want to apologize to Joanna Krupa for the statements I have made about her. I regret making such statements about Joanna Krupa; I also certainly never intended my statements to be taken so seriously and out of proportion. I apologize as I never wanted my statements to affect Joanna Krupa’s reputation and I wish her nothing but continued success in life.”

Wow. I never thought Brandi would back down! Perhaps she stopped drinking for half a minute and realized she’d never win that case unless she took a trip ... down there ... in court.

Ick.

[photo]

More Beyoncé ... back in February, the family of Anthony Barré, AKA Messy Mya, filed a suit against Beyoncé for using his voice in her song Formation.

Messy Mya was murdered in 2010 and then Beyoncé used samples of his voice in her song with no citation, no credit, no permission and no coins. And so the family sued, but since Beyoncé believes all she does is right, even stealing the art of a dead person for her own personal bank account, she filed to dismiss the case and went on about her business.

Not so fast, gurl, said Judge Nannette Jolivette Brown, who denied the request.

At this stage facts ALLEGED by the plaintiff are deemed true, and Brown found that Barre had made a case that Beyoncé’s use of the clips was not transformative and that, although the samples were short, it was a “qualitatively significant” use. She also notes that a motion to dismiss for failure to state a claim, like this one, is “viewed with disfavor and is rarely granted.”

In other words, Beyoncé may think she’s all that, but Judge Brown say, Not today, Satan.

[photo]

So, Silver Foxes, the Golden Girls homage featuring aging homosexuals, is as dead as Sophia’s cooch. And Hollywood homophobia is ALLEGEDLY to blame!

The creators are saying that Hollywood is shutting doors on Foxes because of ageism and homophobia because mature gays aren’t the most recognized demographic and they tend to be generally ignored ... especially from younger gays who don’t yet know that this will be them in a few years.

Co-creator, and co-writer of several Golden Girls episodes, Stan Zimmerman says he can’t get a major network to even look at the script:

“In all my years in television, I’ve never seen a script reading get so much attention. I think this proves that there’s a great interest in seeing a sitcom like ours come to life. Ageism and homophobia are not only keeping the show from getting picked up, but from even being read by a major network.”

The creators and the cast—George Takei, Leslie Jordan, Bruce Vilanch, and Todd Sherry—met up for a table read in June but that may be all that this turns out to be. And while I might have liked to see a gay Golden Girls but if I ever get to thinking about it, I’d realize there already was a gay Golden Girls called ...

The Golden Girls.

[photo]

Another Golden Girl Heads To The Stars

Rue McClanahan died today.
Another cheesecake delivery to Heaven, please.
Rest in peace, Rue, and thanks so much for the laughter.

The Golden Girls Made Me Gay

UPDATE:

David Dust said...
Darling Bob -
I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I thought Christwire.org was a satire site.
XOXOXOXOXO

Damn!
I been had!
Or......have I! ;)

I found this on Christwire.org, a website for "Conservative values in an unsaved world."

I know what you're thinking: What in the Hell were you doing over there? Well, it's because this story is just too good, and too deeeeeeeee-lish to pass up.

It seems that the good folks over at Christwire believe that The Golden Girls TV show , ahem, cough cough, made me gay. I know! Deeeeeee-lish! Right?

From the site:
"The Golden Girls television program was never much to look at. A foursome of Florida geriatrics getting agitated about pharmacy bills and shoulder pads– who could ever find such a thing interesting? But somehow these perky and absurd women wormed their ways into America’s homes for an 8-year run in the 1980s. Maybe it was our desire to see our grandmothers having fun that encouraged us to watch. Maybe we wanted to believe old age wasn’t dominated by infections and hip problems, loneliness and crushing depression before death finally stomps us out like the acrid end of a damp cigarette."

Or maybe we just wanted to laugh. How gay!

Then they proceed into a homophobic hate-filled rant about "The Boys" who watched "The Girls." According to Christwire, we were "too delicate for sports, too awkward for girls, too “artistic” for labor-intensive work and too flamboyant for peer acceptance in high school."

Well Christwire people, I'm a lot of things, but delicate is not one of them, neither is flamboyant. I just liked the idea of a good laugh and a smidgen of Bea Arthur sarcasm. Does that make me gay? No, honey, I was queer long before "The Girls" showed up on Saturday nights.

But, apparently, as the good folks at Christwire have noted, there are buttloads [The good folks at Christwire seem to like the word butt, so I thought I'd help out] of studies as to why The Gays love The Girls. Mostly, they say, it's because we lacked a good masculine role model in our own lives and we were drawn to these aging matrons.

Matrons. Their word. I called them Golden. How gay.

You see, they think that, with Reagan as president, the possibility of being annihilated by "them"--whoever "they" were at the time--and the second coming of Christianity, in the form of Jerry Falwell [though they fail to mention those paragons of virtue Swaggart and Bakker--they think that The Gays began skipping out on the discos and the cocaine, and started looking for something else. Something Estelle. Estelle Getty, I say.

And they point to, yes, The Golden Girls Agenda, as the root of the rise in young queens in the 80s. Since we were the delicate kids, the ones who lived in broken homes which destroyed our faith in "traditional relationships," and we began listening to, and watching, groups like Duran Duran, with their " big hair and overactive libidos" and we were instantly overcome with the desire to turn off women and focus all our energies into man-oh-man-on-man love; man love with big hairy men of differing ethnicity's. Oh, yeah, they went there.

"With the utmost cruelty and immorality, The Golden Girls seized upon this opportunity to cross the hormonal wires of America’s lost generation."

And with this agenda, we had no choice but to seek out other Girl-o-philes and mimic the voices and the gowns; our delicate nature made us turn from masculinity and become Dorothy or Blanche or Sophia, and the occasional Rose. But when we tired of the acting-out of our fave episodes, we turned again toward what Christwire calls a "harder thrill." Go figure. A harder thrill called same-sex sexual experimentation.

Yes, after quoting Sophia and eating cheesecake, my next step was to feel up the boys. Honey, I didn't need fattening desserts and TV characters to know I wanted to feel up boys. I knew long before any Dorothy showed up; Dorothy Zbornak or Dorothy Gale.

But it gets worse, if that's to be believed.

Christwire goes on to say that if, today, you run across a middle-aged homosexual, he is likely to quote a Girl-ism, most likely something uttered by "liberal activist and Archie Bunker-foe Bea Arthur." You see, they believe that Dorothy's masculine voice, her coldness and temperament, taught us, and by us I mean The Gays, to "disparage everyone in [our] orbit. She schooled them on insulting people’s clothing choices, body odors, organ sizes and educations. Dorothy taught the gays to speak very fast and have the most superior attitude possible." She didn't teach me to have a superior attitude, I am superior. Deal with it, Christwire .

"In whatever afterlife world she inhabits, Bea Arthur is surely pleased by your outrageous outrages, you homosexual anarchists of America."

Oh, Bea's in Heaven, dear. And she is laughing. At you. So, Christwire says we learned snark from Dorothy; what did we learn from Blanche?

Sluttiness, of course! Blanche Devereaux taught us to have an insatiable sexual appetite and do anything and everything to get a man into our beds, and, like Blanche, we "demand expensive dinners and presents from [our] 'dates'." Her promiscuity is a common model for today's homosexual, because, as Christwire notes, most homosexual relationships last a week; and they're right, Carlos and I have lasted a week.....well, 470 weeks and counting.

They also believe Blanche taught us older gays [Older? How dare you?] that we "need a new strange man on your arm every seven days" and now, with syndication, the younger gays need five new boyfriends a week! Goddess! No wonder the young ones are exhausted.

But our exhaustion is dissipated by the comedic styling of "x-rated comedienne Betty White", who played Rose. What does Christwire think we learned from Rose? Hmmmmm. Oh, we learned to be stupid. "Every buff beefcake I’ve ever met has been tremendously brainless. They can bump out the beats to any Madonna song on a club railing, but are incapable of telling you the difference between Acapulco and an avocado."

Um, avocados are used in guacamole which you eat with chips.........in Acapulco. Happy?

And then, Christwire says The Girls ruined "Miami's masculine" reputation because it was no longer the city of Cuban drug dealers and pastel wearing [Pastels?] cops it had once been; now it was thongs and Cosmos, gay bars and discos, hot sex and.... where was I?

Ah yes, Christwire. They've informed us about what lies ahead for us Turned-Gay-Boys-By-The-Girls. With our hair thinning, our guts getting bigger [I think they're confusing us with The Straights] and the realization that we will never become a "CEO to make [our] fathers proud", where are we headed?

Florida!

We all retire to The Sunshine State and move into gorgeous homes in Boca Raton and sit around and dish about sex and men and men and sex and eat fabulous food.

Oh, wait, we do that now.

But Christwire is afraid we'll move to Florida and bring "the worst 1980s fashions [...] High pants and feathered hair and modern architecture". Honey, we gave up 80s hair and fashion, um, In.The.80s. You're the ones who keep trackin' it around town.

And they're also afraid that, when The Gays move to Florida, we'll vote out "Florida’s married Christian Republican leaders, like Governor Charlie Crist." Oh, honey, he may be married, but rumor has it that he's as Golden as any of us.

Now, I make light of this article, because it's, well, unbelievably stupid and one-dimensional and written by a man with his own homosexual subtext, who can't go more than a few sentences without talking about "butt munchers" and picking up young boys in a Sears dressing room, or nameless sex with a swarthy man of questionable ethnicity.

But, even in his idiocy, he perpetuates the hate, because, low as his IQ might be, his audience's is even lower. See, The Golden Girls didn't make me gay. Neither did old Rock Hudson movies or Boy George or George Michael or Elton John. I didn't became gay out of repeated viewings of a TV show.

Born gay. Born. Gay.

But The Girls made me see that it's okay. While Rock Hudson hid, and Elton married a woman, and George Michael dated Brooke Shields, The Golden Girls helped me see that it was okay.

Thanks Dorothy, and Blanche, and Rose, and especially, Sophia, because , really, I am Sophia.

Full story HERE.

We'll Miss You Old Friend

Bea Arthur died today.

Bea Arthur.

God, I loved her. As Maude. As Dorothy. As Vera Charles. As Bea Arthur.

She was, what my grandmother would call, a pistol. She was her own woman, funny as hell, smart as a whip, with a voice that could carve grooves into granite.

But she went peacefully, and that's good; surrounded by her family, and that's good, too.

Carlos and I had the pleasure of seeing her one-woman show in Ft Lauderdale a few years back and she was fantastic. Funny, self-deprecating; singing, laughing, sharing recipes. She was a true gem.

A true Golden Girl.

As Maude she spoke for a generation of women who'd never before has a voice.

I admired her.

As Dorothy she was mother and child, and piss and vinegar and sweetness and light.

I adored her.

As Vera Charles she was the best Bosom Buddie a gal, or gay man, could have.

She was spectacular.

And she's with Sophia now, threatening with Shady Pines.

Bea Arthur was born Bernice Frankel in New York City, and by age 12 she was five-feet-nine, and not quite the petite blond ingenue she dreamed of being. But she took advantage of her height and that voice; she played the male roles in the school plays.

She moved to new York and began working in theatre and that lead to television and Maude and Dorothy and great great memories. She was in the original company of Fiddler On The Roof and, of course, Mame, opposite Angela Lansbury. She took home the Tony for her portrayal of Vera Charles. But she might best be known as Maude and Dorothy, women who said it like it was, took no prisoners and damned the torpedoes. I wanted to be Dorothy and Maude and Vera. I wanted to speak my mind and cut through the crap with a quip and a one-liner.

So, in tribute to Bea, I'd like to tell a story she told in her one-woman show. I'll paraphrase because I don't know it verbatim, but you'll get the gist:

A woman is invited by her son John to visit him in New York and she makes the trip. She finds her handsome son living with an equally handsome man named Michael. She spends a week with them and watches how Michael and John interact and she wonders about their relationship. One day she decides to ask John and he cuts her off, saying Michael is a roommate and nothing more. She leaves it at that and heads home.

A week later she gets a letter from John. He says:

"Dear Mom,

We haven't been able to find the silver gravy ladle that we used when you were here. Now, I'm not saying you took the gravy ladle and I'm not saying you didn't take the gravy ladle. All I'm saying is that we haven't seen it since you left.

Love John"

A week later John received the following reply.

"Dear John,

I'm not saying that you and Michael are lovers, and I'm not saying that you aren't lovers. All I'm saying is that if Michael had been sleeping in his own bed you would have found the gravy ladle by now.

Love Mom"

Rest well Bea, and travel in peace. You left us with thoughts and joy and laughter. What a remarkable gift you were, and are, and will forever be.

Confessions Of An Addled Mind

Okay, so here I am sick again, feeling feverish and stuffy and sniffly and all that crap. I could blame it on Carlos but he only brought doughnuts home the other night, not cold symptoms. I could blame it on The Friend's dog who--as you know if you read me every day and hang on my every word as people are apt to do--pooped on my bedroom floor.

See, Carlos and I have a policy around our house. I take care of what goes into our pets and he takes care of what comes out of them. If, say for example, I wake up in the morning, groggy, sleepy-eyes, and stumble down the hall to the kitchen, and spot a hairball, I stop dead in my tracks, and shout:

Hairball.
To which he answers:
Where?
Hallway.
He comes running and cleans it up and Resolves the carpet and so on.

If, God forbid, we come home and our dog has left a message on the rug, the conversation is similar to that above, except I substitute poop for hairball.
You get the idea.

So, back to my cold. But first, about The Friend's dog's poop. I seriously thought about leaving it on the rug until Carlos came home, but it happened about 9 AM and Carlos gets home about 6 PM, so that was out. I'm not good with poop. I'm not good with bodily fluids of any sort that are left on the floor. I once had a party at my house and one of my very good friends was about to be sick, and someone said, Bob, Stacey's gonna puke. So, I did what any good host would do and I ushered her outside to vomit in the bushes, and closed the front door so I wouldn't have to see it. Seeing puke, hearing it, smelling it, just...typing...it...makes me want to puke.
As does the dog poop.

But I did clean it up, cursing The Friend who, now that I think about it, left very very quickly, and all of the sudden. I wonder if he knew about the poop? I grabbed a roll of paper towels and scooped the poop in about thirty sheets and took it to the garage and put it in the trash can, Then I scrubbed my hands with acid to clean off the smell, the germs, and my skin.
Anyway, so I am looking for someone to blame for my current state of ill feeling. And it boils down to this freaky weather. One day it's in the 70s and I have windows open and shorts on, flip-flops. The next day I have flannel pants, socks, slippers, T-shirt, and sweater, heater on, drinking hot tea, wrapped in a blanket.
How's a body not supposed to get sick?

So, in an effort to make myself feel better I am just going to talk about me. The person I know best, and, in fact, like the best. I'm always there when I need me, willing to lend myself a hand. If I need a ride somewhere I'm always available. When hungry, I make myself something to eat.
I'm good to myself.
I like me, dammit!
And what else do I like:

Anne Hathaway, who, when asked at the Palm Springs International Film Festival what she hoped Barack Obama would do as president, said, "I expect him to explain that choice of Rick Warren. I don't get it. All my friends and I were trying to figure it out, but we just can't. So I'd love that."
Love. Her!

And I love Bonnie Hunt. I love when she just tells stories. She reminds me of my friend, Laura, who is also from Chicago. They both start a story and then head off in a completely different direction, before bringing it all back together. Basket weaving, I call it, with words. It looks like a mess until you're done, then it all makes sense. Of course, you're left wondering what the basket is for, just like the story.

My cat Tuxedo, who slept by my side all night when I wasn't feeling well, and who stayed in bed with me this morning long after Carlos left for work. And because he curled up in my lap last night and let me watch Top Chef.

Top Chef. Because I love to cook, and love to watch what and how people cook. And because I wait with baited breath for David Dust's Top Chef Recap which is as good a s the show itself.

Melissa, from Top Chef, who got the Pack your knives and go last night, because I got the impression she has no idea what she's doing in a kitchen. I know I could never be on Top Chef; I couldn't gut a fish, much less fillet it; I don't have all those knives in the pretty little knife suitcase. But I could last longer, and sound like I know more, that Stammering Mel.

I loved Iced Tea. Even when I am feverish and sniffly. Carlos tries to tell me I need Hot Tea when I'm sick but I love the cold cold tea. So there! I'm drinking tea now, Carlos.

Tattoos. I have six, all on my right ankle. I got five in Hawaii and one in California. I love them because they aren't cartoon characters that I'll look at when I'm ninety and not know who they are; because they aren't names of people I once loved and now don't like so much. I love them because people look at me and would never believe that I have tattoos. So much so that, when I tell people I have them, and then show them, I also say that I once shaved my head and had a map of China tattooed on my scalp and to this day I part my hair along the Great Wall.

I love the fact that I'm slightly nuts and will say just about anything. I'm like Sophia from The Golden Girls, only I am not an eighty-year-old short Italian woman.......yet.

Speaking of speaking your mind and eighty-year-old women....nice segue Bob...once, while living in California, I was on my way to work. Came to a stop light and waited. It was a beautiful sunny day, the windows on the Mazda were down and the BoDeans were playing on the CD player. The light turned green and the car in front of me took juuuuuust long enough for me to tap the horn. But I didn't; the car finally went. I followed along and at the next light, same thing. But I didn't honk. Third light. Same thing. But instead of honking, I say, in a regular voice, not shouting at all, C'mon pigfucker. Green means go.
Pigfucker comes from the Latin porkus fornicatus, which means to love pig.
Anyway, when I said it, there was a break in the BoDeans CD and the woman in the next car, quite elderly, caught my eye.
Pigfucker? I've never heard that one.
Feel free to use it, I say.
I will.
And the car in front of me moves on.

I'm a giver like that.