An infinite number of other barns.
A crate full of vintage Thompson submachineguns.
This please!
Federal Government, meet Scumpup. I hope you enjoy the next 85 years in maximum-security federal prison.
My ex, the pathetic deadbeat, went to a farm sale in Kentucky where he picked up a beautiful dresser with a gorgeous inlay pattern in it. I would have liked that in lieu of all the money he owed my son. However, he wouldn’t give it to me.
That’s what I want. That dresser.
He didn’t ask for any ammo.
Not necessarily. I never said anything about selling or distributing them. Or even telling anybody about them. The Feds ain’t telepathic yet.
If we’re staying true-to-life (more or less) than I’d like a Shelby Cobra.
This collection.
Ok, ok…another prayer for Anna Kournikova. Or evlkitty.
<SLAPS Vinyl Turnip with a Wet Trout>
One of these, gravid with fertile eggs.
Failing that, I wouldn’t turn my nose up at one of these, also bearing fertile eggs.
It’s barns all the way down!
I’d like to find a tin box hidden by some kid from 1899, with things that were sacred to him and only him. Pocket knife, metal likeness of someone or something, maybe a pipe and a dine novel or two. I would value that the most, should I happen upon one in a barn way out on some back 40.