How to Give Your Postal Carrier Nightmares

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blue fembot mailbox

If I was your mailgirl, I would walk on by your house rather than put mail in this blue fembot's head. If you tried it, I am sure she would swallow your arm. This is the creepiest mailbox I have ever seen, and I've seen a lot.

I can only say one more thing about this, oh HELLS no. I wonder what their toilet looks like. Shiver...

Top 10 Best and Worst Celebrity Neighbors

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My upstairs neighbor walks like King Kong. He's a nice enough guy. He's not particularly heavy and his feet aren't big ass flippers, so I'm not quite sure why he kerplops around up there. All I know is that the stomping sometimes makes pieces of popcorn fall off my ceiling (yes, I still have cottage cheese on my ceilings. Stop turning your noses up at me.).

Today the stomping dislodged a popcorn from my ceiling that landed on my keyboard. Sometimes the universe really does fuck with me. Anyhow, I started wondering what kind of neighborly issues celebrities have. My imagination decided to do what it do and before long I was deep into the Divasphere's celebrity neighbors' road show. ENJOY.
  • For borrowing some sugar
    • Worst: Amy Winehouse. She'd confuse her crack with it and your children might be on the short bus from then on.
    • Best: Paula Deen. She'd bring the sugar already baked in a cake you'd trade for sex.
  • For babysitting your kids
    • Worst: R. Kelly. 'Nuff said.
    • Best: Angelina Jolie. Your children would enjoy elephant rides, puppet shows by Jack Black and jet back from France in time for breakfast. You may want to look elsewhere though, if you like your children. There is a chance they'll be adopted while you're out.
  • For watching your dog
    • Worst: Michael Vick. Your dog might greet you by tearing your face off.
    • Best: Caesar Millan. Your dog will be setting the table for dinner when you return.
  • For neighborhood gossip
    • Worst: Perez Hilton. Not only would the gossip be pseudo-juicy, homes would have lame smiley faces and squiggles spray painted all over the walls.
    • Best: Joan Rivers, a straight shooter with red carpet observation skills. You'll just have to get used to that scary clown expression. Small price to pay for the low down.
  • For celebrating holiday cheer
    • Worst: Tom Cruise. If you don't construct a shrine to the supreme being, he might just rip all your Christmas lights down with his teeth while Katie beams with pride.
    • Best: Oprah. She would affix a giant red bow to the roof of your house and pay off your mortgage. WOOT.
  • For chatting up hair styles
    • Worst: Victoria Bekham. Unless you want the angry scalene triangle look.
    • Best: Ken Paves. Okay, not really a celebrity but the guy's got skillz.
  • For feuding with
    • Worst: O.J. Simpson. I hear he's got a short fuse.
    • Best: Will Ferrell. How could you stay mad while wetting yourself laughing?
  • For carpooling
    • Worst: Britney Spears. A wild ride to say the least.
    • Best: Donald Trump. That helicopter would cut your commute in half.
  • For block parties
    • Worst: Martha Stewart. She's much better after prison, but still, too much pressure to coordinate.
    • Best: Sharon Osbourne. Roll that crazy train down my street anytime!
  • For medical advice
    • Worst: Howard K. Stearn. You might wake up in the morgue and return home to your neighbors watching his videos of you cracked out of your mind in clown make-up.
    • Best: Dr. Oz. I don't think I'd ever be sick again with him next door to guide me.
Okay, if you've read this far you deserve a bonus #11!
  • For karaoke
    • Worst: Ashlee Simpson. Oh wait. Actually that might work.
    • Best: Bruce Springsteen. Sweet.

Bacon Flavored Vodka Makes Me Hurl

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I love bacon and I love vodka, so the bacon flavored vodka was a logical, albeit trepidatious, experiment. I heard about bacon vodka on TV and was curious. I'm always up for new experiences and if you've read me before, you know I love me some cocktails. So, off to the Net I went to find a tried and true recipe. Bingo:

Makes up one pint -

  • Fry three strips of bacon
  • Add cooked bacon to a clean pint sized mason jar. Trim the ends of the bacon if they are too tall to fit in the jar. Or go hog wild and pile in a bunch of fried bacon scraps.
  • Optional: add crushed black peppercorns.
  • Fill the jar with vodka. Cap and place in a dark cupboard for at least three weeks.(No need to refrigerate.)
  • At the end of the three week resting period, place the bacon vodka in the freezer to solidify the fats. Strain out the fats through a coffee filter to yield a clear filtered pale yellow bacon vodka.
  • Decant into decorative bottles and enjoy.
I followed these directions with wired anticipation. The bacon smelled so good. The vodka poured so smooth. It felt freakishly blasphemous to combine the two delectables, but I pressed on, twisting the jar closed and sequestering it in my closet. The three weeks scraped by and as evidenced by the cryptic bacon sticker on my cubicle calendar, ended yesterday. Yessssss.

So last night I removed the bacon vodka jar from the hallows of my closet and just took a moment with it, alone. As it cured in my freezer, I debated whether I should share the decanting with someone special or indulge privately. I chose the latter, just me and the BV.

My first warning was the slightest brush of nausea when I removed the coffee filter coated with bacon fat. I picked it up by one side. My finger slid down and into the greasy yellow residue. Whatever. No big deal, right? I decanted and put my tumblers into my chiller set.

Finally, bacon vodka meets the Divamouth and its cocktail red carpet, my tongue. I sip and try to swirl a bit. My mind is hiccuping around the blending of vodka and bacon. I can only describe what happened next as a sort of vapor lock of the senses followed by a burning rush from my gut upwards to the back of my throat. Flashes of bacon fat danced in my head and I steadied myself on the bar. I'm sorry to tell you that a small spurt of reconstituted bacon vodka shot through my teeth and fingers and dribbled down my arm.

I am so totally dismayed at my hurling of the bacon vodka. I have read such euphoria experienced by drinkers of the potion that I really don't know what to say. Except that bacon vodka makes me hurl and maybe you, too, should proceed with caution.

Amy Winehouse's Sick Bag of Tricks: Emphysema, Crack, Eyeliner

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No one who knows who singer Amy Winehouse is could possibly be surprised by recent reports that she is sick with emphysema, TB or some other lung condition. Dammit. She is such a talent with her dark lyrics and throaty voice. Her appearance is well, original. I like bits and pieces of it, but all together the effect is disturbing, sort of crackhead slumber party-esque.

But we should never judge a book by its cover, even if the cover looks like its been gnawed on by rabid doggies all night. I like listening to Amy without looking at her. Her songs are genuine, smooth and emotional. My favorite is "You Know I'm No Good". Remember the lyric, "I cry for you on the kitchen floor"? At one point or another, all girls cry for someone on the kitchen floor.


Well, it seems Amy's pushed her envelop past the point of no return at the ripe old age of 24. Her Dad blurted out her respiratory illness and warned drug dealers who continue to supply her with crack "must take responsibility". No, that's not gonna work. Drug dealers don't have a conscience. There won't be any change of heart on that end.

I'm not sure what will help Amy, but I hope someone or something does soon. At least get her to wear longer skirts. Seriously, is that a tampon string hanging out? Poor girl. Her husband is a clown. Her "famous" friends are trainwrecks. Her parents seem like enablers. I've seen live shows where she's clearly cracked out of her mind and they're both there cheering her on by the stage. My Mom would pull me off by my hair and lock me in my bedroom.

Many blog entries about Amy's latest health crisis are pretty harsh. There's even a website asking for predictions on when she will die. Winner gets an iPod Touch. Bleh. Now that's tacky. Another said she's inhaled too much hairspray with that planet on her head. Now that's a thought...Whatever the disease, I do hope Amy recovers. She sure takes the phrase, "pick your poison" to a whole new level.

One Birken Bag or Plumpynut for 9,000 Starving Kids?

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Birken Bags start at $9,000, about the same cost for feeding 9,000 starving children in third world countries with Plumpynut, a vitamin fortified peanut butter backed by Doctors Without Borders in Niger. A daily dose of Plumpynut costs about $1, thus my calculation. I have made quantifying things into shocking realizations a fun hobby.

The World Health Organization says 178 million children suffer from malnutrition across the globe. That's only about 20,000 Birken Bags at the bargain model price of $9k each. I read Posh Beckham owns about $1 million worth of Birkens. That's a LOT of Plumpynut! Well, how can you compete with the thrills of choosing from precious metals of silver palladium, ruthenium, guilloche or 24 karat gold for the hardware on your bag, or waiting on Hermes' purse list for two years?

All Plumpynut has to offer are life-saving nutrients for starving kids. The mixture is simple to prepare and does not need refrigeration. Reports say its sweet taste appeals to children and they eat it willingly. But, the Plumpynut tube is not paveed with diamonds or made of pink ostrich skin, so really that's like bringing a knife to a gunfight.

The Birken Bag's been around for 24 years and took off right away with celebrities recognizing it as essential. Plumpynut was created in 1999 but has only recently received international media attention thanks to CNN's Anderson Cooper and Doctors Without Borders.

Our world's funny that way, idden it? Things are different in the Divasphere. Plumpynut over Birkens, hands down.

Victoria's Secret Thong Lawsuit: Thongs Behaving Badly Part II

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The thong assault lawsuit filed this week puts Victoria's Secret right in front of a whole new level of the creative lawsuit floodgates! I've put some thought into the circumstances of Marcrida Patterson's case and have some predictions beyond my original thong article. It's time for "Thongs Behaving Badly, Part II".

If this suit is settled in favor of the plaintiff, stand by. If the court finds that Victoria's Secret sold underwear with faulty design capable of personal injury, where does this abstract interpretation end? This particular thong is part of their "Sexy Little Thing" line. Some gal buys the thong with hopes of being sexy and gets no sex. What then? Does she sue Victoria's Secret for false advertising? Well, sure, because someone's always to blame for our misfortunes, right? Riiiiiighht.

Another scenario: someone, say a 52-year-old woman, wears her thong in the locker room at the gym. Mean girls laugh, they say things, mean things, like "OMG! I would die if my mom wore a thong," or "I threw up in my mouth a little bit". This hurts and angers the thong wearing woman. Should she file a lawsuit? Of course! Mental stress and psychological suffering incurred from a product marketed without warnings of such risks sounds like a slam dunk to me.

Well, maybe manufacturers should be more responsible with their product design and marketing. Someone might go blind if they used a certain shampoo incorrectly and a little bit ran down their head and into their eye. The shampoo's consistency was probably too thin and the company should be accountable for any burning, redness and whatever mental stress results. "Warning: Keep Away From Eyes" is not the same as "Warning: This Shampoo Might Run Down Your Head and Into Your Eye Even Though You Didn't Purposely Put It Into Your Eyes So Be Very Careful And Hold Your Head Back With Your Eyes Shut Tight!"

I think manufacturers of everything better follow the alcohol industries examples and put warning labels on all products that say misuse or just plain regular use may result in injury or not getting exactly what you want in life. Or maybe we as a society could simplify CYA and have every parent sign a declaration on behalf of their child when they're born that reads, "Shit happens. I will be a reasonable human being. Promise."

Lindsay Lohan to Emmy: Thanks but No Thanks, Emmy: Huh?

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Lindsay Lohan's cart was out in front of the horse this week when she withdrew her name from Emmy consideration. For her four-line appearance on "Ugly Betty". The Diva (me, not her) is not amused...well, maybe a little amused in a guffaw and teeth sucking kind of way.

Is this noble or obnoxious or just plain meaningless Lohan drama? "All of the above" is an acceptable answer, by the way. When you withdraw your name from consideration of anything, you do so because you don't want to win. And you make this effort because you are fairly convinced you will win, right? Otherwise there's no point.

So I'm going with obnoxiously meaningless drama. Saying thanks but no thanks to Emmy means you must have something to be thankful for in the first place. How hilarious is it that Lindsay Lohan would think she's on track for an Emmy for nano seconds of face time? Hil-Frickin-Larious.

Is this the blissful self image you spawn once you're swallowed up by the land of milk and honey? How sweet it must be to sit yourself down and really try to minimize all that adoration coming your way in hopes of evening up the playing field for those in your shadow. I can't type that sentence without the circus big tent theme playing in my head.

I think it's totally fantasmic to do such a thing! Just leave your name alone. Lindsay's minimal guest role on Ugly Betty couldn't possibly have clenched a nomination let alone the win. No, it's much better to draw droves of attention to yourself and your altruistic nature by following in Katherine Heigl's footsteps of mercy and deference to those more deserving.

Burp.

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Well this oughtta warm your heart. Seventeen girls aged 16 or younger are pregnant at Gloucester High School in Massachusetts. And they couldn't be happier! The girls reportedly entered a pregnancy pact to have babies together any which way they could. Several of them don't know who the fathers are (yeah, right) and one admits to sleeping with a 24 year old homeless man she didn't even know to get pregnant. Their parents must be so proud.

Let's see, when I was that age we made pacts like friends forever or marry brothers and swore each other to secrecy about our wild times at the mall, first crushes or perhaps, kissing a boy on the mouth (GASP!). A pregnancy pact would have been "ewwwwed!" and "no wayed!" off the board.

But girls today are so much more sophisticated and educated than two decades ago. And they have such great role models, too. I think we can't but thank some of those fine examples for young women for publicizing lifestyles that this fun and exciting pregnancy pact emulates. Tila Tequila, cyber whore wonder, regularly prostitutes herself on MTV with men, women, sons, daughters, moms and dads to everyone's amusement. She makes me want to wash my hands. Jamie Lynn Spears, although not as conspicuous as Tequila, is still showing young girls that getting pregnant before you are trusted to vote, drink or play cards is just fine. And on it goes.

Seventeen Gloucester families spin in a vortex of shame. Let's throw a shout out to producer Ryan Seacrest in this context. I thank him for bringing young minds such grounded and morally sound "reality" shows like "The Kardashians" and "Denise Richards: It's Complicated".

Yes, life and motherhood is all fun and games, just like on these reality shows. These young pregnant teens reportedly high-fived each other in the school clinic after getting positive results. Some of the babies' dads may not be as happy when they're in court for statutory rape. This is just a mess, isn't it? And what about the extra money the girls' parents will have to shell out for babysitters to watch the moms and their babies? Sigh.

All I can say is, oh HELLS no. Pregnancy pacts? Our society's moral hairline is receding fast.

Thong Assault Law Suit: Thongs Behaving Badly Part I

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If your underwear doesn't fit, do not acquit...fire off a law suit! Marcrida Patterson, 52, filed a law suit in Los Angeles today against her killer thong. She alleges her Victoria's Secret thong launched a metallic decoration at her eye as she attempted to navigate her 52-year-old onion into it. Straight off, Marcrida you are about a decade beyond legal thong-wearing age, okaaay? This situation could have been avoided had you chosen age appropriate booty wear.


Butt, what's done is done, so here we go. Marcrida claims the decoration shot off the thong and damaged her cornea as she was stretching putting it on. Hey, I'd be thankful the piece didn't fly up her hoo ha. Yowch! Of course eye damage is no laughing matter. What is HILARIOUS is how she will be demonstrating the injury in court. I might just take a day off to go watch this trial. Screeetch! Wait a minute, who am I kidding here?

There won't be any trial. How much do you think Victoria's Secret will settle for out of court? I say $50,000 - the complaint says damages will exceed $25,000. I know, I know, how can you put a price on cornea damage for god's sake? Well, who's going to compensate me for damage to my eyesight imagining this tard in a thong? I picture cinnamon rolls exploding out of their Pillsbury tube. I say we call it even.

So thanks, Marcrida, for sucking up my tax dollars on a silly lawsuit and for all the "warning" and "user instruction manuals" that will now be coming with underwear when I buy them at their new inflated prices. This is totally FUBAR.

Blog Troll Tool

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Isn't this badge cute? A picture's worth a thousand words, right? RIGHT. Well, I've seen a thousand totally ridiculous posts on various social media discussion boards lately. Instead of taking time to eloquently explain, as so many do, how annoying these attention whores' posts are or how badly I wish some hyperactive users had pause buttons, here's a little troll graphic to paste right into threads that says it all so nicely.

Simple and to the point, with a dash of humiliation. Right click to download for yourself and join the troll patrol. Snap!

Bird Poop Facial: Called It!

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I must have found the perfect calibration for my trend watch radar because, hello, my prediction hit just outside the bulls eye on this one. Did I not prophesize animal poop facials in my recent fashion trends prediction? Maybe I was a little off on the animal, but who's that detailed when we're talking about slathering poop on faces? Monkey, bird, kitty cat - poop is poop people. And it is not coming in contact with my face no matter how chic our society considers it. Pfffft.

The Geisha Facial is proudly offered at Shizuka New York spa for $180. That's only about $100 more than the average facial. Who wouldn't jump at the chance to absorb nightingale shit through your face pores? The Japanese powder is advertised to be rich in the amino acid guanine, which brightens and cleanses your skin.

I'm thinking the brightening is from your angry skin cells screaming, "WTF are you doing? Clogging me with butt butter??" Okay, stand down skin cells. Let's examine the scientific merits of the poop facial. It seems geishas and kabuki actors used the powder to clean heavy white makeup off their faces in the eighteenth century. Today's technology uses ultraviolet light to kill the bacteria before you smear it on your face. Yay! That's what I call advancement.

I read one customer of the bird poop facial was a little tentative, but was delighted there was no poop smell and found the mask to be very creamy and rich. Oh hells no. Someone is laughing their ass inside out every time the cash register rings with our complete willingness to do anything in the name of beauty. I am not ever pressing bird shit into my face, let alone pay $200 for it.

The only thing that makes the bird poop facial less ridiculous is a procedure I discovered in my research called a poop sock. Apparently, it's common practice for World of Warcraft, Everquest, or other video gamers to shit into a sock when they're engaged in battle online and absolutely cannot get up to use the bathroom.

Ladies, I suggest you add a question to your man shopping list: "Do you know what a poop sock is?" If the answer is yes, walk on by.

How Hillary Clinton Can Relax After Conceding

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Whew! It's been a long, hard road that seems to be coming to an end tonight for Hillary Clinton. Campaigning is indeed stressful and that kind of pressure can surely take its toll mentally and physically. So, loving lists as I do, I've compiled one of several activities sure to help Hillary Clinton relax after conceding to Barack Obama. In descending order of relaxation:

  • Ride a mechanical Bill bull.
  • Get a tattoo. A classy "I'm in it to win it!" on her left boob would be a timeless reminder of campaign fun.
  • Affix Maxi pads to some of the female senators' vehicles in the parking garage who didn't support her. (Trust me, this is BIG fun!)
  • Get drunk on Two Buck Chuck. (Now Google Adsense will really think I'm an alcoholic.)
  • Do some freestyle rapping at the local club under the stage name, "Hill-Rod". Be sure to incorporate the lyric, "Ima bust a cap in yo ass, O-Dog!" She already eluded to his assassination, so why not go there?
  • Put on a thong. Pop and lock in front of a mirror and realize there are more terrible things than losing a nomination.
  • Play air guitar to Santana's "Black Magic Woman". Oh wait, she didn't work any magic on the blacks. Reconsider that one.
  • Get in line at Best Buy, fire off some silent but deadlies and share disgusted looks with others near you wondering who did that. *Bonus* Find a line with an old man it it.
  • Go crazy shopping on QVC, ordering anti-wrinkle and hair care products. Ship them to Michelle Obama's house.
  • Cut holes in the ass cheeks of a pantsuit and walk around the Capitol. When people stare, say, "Why are you tripping? I'm just pimping my pantsuit. Don't be a hater."
  • Come to this blog and post a rant comment. Please include, "You want a piece of me?" somewhere in it.

Ten Percent of Rap Songs Make Excellent Points

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The other 90%, sound like angry people with cotton in their mouths - kind of like what you hear at the dentist's office, but with woofers, more bass and a lot more "bitch" and "mufuggas" thrown in. But every now and then, a cRap song comes along that really teaches society something.

Consider Webbie's "Independent" song, or better recognized by white people as that catchy tune about a hard working young lady who doesn't need a sugar daddy. First, he speaks clearly enough for me to understand most of the lyrics and they're pretty good advice. For example:

She got her own shit.
She don't never trip
'cause all she want is that dick.
She bouncy flossy, keep them hoes off me.
Gotta little slang, man I love when she talking.
A independent chick, do you know what that mean?
She cook, she clean, never smell like onion rings.

Deep! Right off the bat I'm in his corner, pumping my fist. It's always a good idea for us to have our own shit. I can't go along with "never tripping", because a good crazy tripping does wonders for a relationship every now and then. But he wins me back with the next line. Moving on, not too sure what "bouncy flossy" means, but what girl in the game doesn't want to keep hoes off her man? Hold on. Let me Google "bouncy flossy". We can all use some more tricks in our hoe removal tool box...

And we're back. From the Urban Dictionary:

Votes: 1499 up, 100 down -
Flossy: Extremely flashy or showy.

Alright, I'll leave the "bouncy" part up to interpretation. So back to Webbie's verse. A little slang goes a long way at making your conversations more meaningful. I like to say, "What it do, what it do, bitch?" when greeting my girlfriends and also, "Quit icin' my grill, aiight?"when someone expresses an unfavorable opinion of me. Try out some urban slang and see how you feel. I suggest you do it at the office.

And finally, I'm not too sure what's so bad about smelling like onion rings. I mean, there are a lot worse smells to have. After a day of cooking and cleaning, I usually smell like, oh wait, I don't cook or clean. I'm independent enough to pay people for that stuff.

Let's bounce, beyotch!

Trend Watch 2008

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I'm a real barometer when it comes to trend setting - fashion, politics, food, drink - whatever. If it's on the horizon, it's covered right here on Diva Cosmos. I was doing some research yesterday and I just can't keep these predictions from you any longer. Take a long hard look at my list, and then blink because your eyes will probably be kind of dry.




  • The Newest Coffee Drink at Starbucks: Grande Obamamano
  • The Newest Plastic Surgery Trend: Earlobe Botox
  • The Newest Delicacy: Russian belly button lint with Shitake mushrooms and pine nuts
    The Latest Gadget: The iRag, an iPhone that doubles as a tampon case and Dove dark chocolate dispenser.
  • The Latest Disease: Glitter Text Blindness
  • The Newest Superhero: Is it a skunk? A rotten egg? A loaded diaper? No, it's Gas Man, fills your car's tank in 30 seconds after a fibrous meal.
  • The Latest Scandal: Britney's NOT pregnant
  • The Newest Realty Show: Holy Rolling with Reverend Wright
  • The Latest Google Acquisition: Air
  • The Newest Popular YouTube Video: The take a number machine in Brangelina's house at bath time.
  • The Newest Fashion Trend: Ass crack glitter (Pimp Your Coin Slot!)
  • The Most Popular Make Money Online Blog: http://www.thanksyoustupidlemmingskeepsubscribingandpayingmymortgage.com (I was going to hyperlink that but, you know, lawsuit nation!)
  • The Newest Fast Food Burger: The double Jack and Tater Cheeseburger Dream - a quarter pound of beef piled high with bacon, cheddar cheese, a small baked potato and a shot of JD on top, sprinkled with a fine dust of crushed Zoloft.
  • The Latest Spa Service: Organic Monkey Poop Heated Face Mask (it's imported!)
  • The Latest Thing Outlawed as Religiously Offensive to Non-Christians: Crossing your fingers (analysts predict a lot more bad luck).
  • The Newest Self Help Best Seller: "If You're Not Dead, You Can Be Happy!"
  • The Latest Financial Trend: Vigilante justice for unscrupulous subprime lenders. Thousands are snatched off the street, only to return to their estates with "Greedy Fucker" tattooed on their foreheads and their bungholes stapled shut. (More after the break!)

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