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  • Patrick W. Crabtree "The Old Grottomaster" - Superb for mole, chigger, roach, and cicada reduction!

    I placed this intriguing figure in my Grotto and *peace* has prevailed ever since! Neither creatures of this world such as roaches, chiggers, cicadas, moles, ospidillos, Tasmanian devils, hornets, fleas, lice, millipedes, nor any of the otherworld (a *big* issue in my Grotto!) such as hob-goblins, orks, trolls, leprauchauns, or wood elves have plagued me since I did so.

    I have had no problem interactions with Klingons for the past year or so as they are focused right now on battling the Romulans near the Twin Star Centaurus and, with that in mind, I'll have to stand by to see how it works on them. They are sure to attempt a return to my Grotto, assuming that the Romulans don't extirpate them in the current conflict which would be just fine with me.

    The only thing I've noticed is that the arachnids were not affected one way or another by this particular figure but to eliminate all those previous nefarious critters, I think that $2,500.00 is a perfectly reasonable price to pay for near-complete relief. Plus, I bought a can of spider spray at the local feed store for $1.59 and that took care of my singular final concern.

    So... *happy customer* here!

    Highly recommended!

  • Paul Foster - The H-5 saved my life...

    Mine is a cautionary tale--a tale of greed, success, lust, fame--and depravity. You see, I... am a slice addict. As you will see, I was among the greatest and most profligate banana slicers in the world. My slicing was legendary. I sliced with John Belushi, Lindsay Lohan, R Kelly, George "Cowboy Banana Cowboy" Bush, Barack "Slicedaddy" Obama, Keith Richards-I once sliced with Chris Farley for 60 hours straight. I was living the high life, until it all came crashing down around me.

    You see, for years, I was lost in a morass of banana-slicing impotence, aimlessly wandering through life obsessed with finding the perfect banana-slicing instrument. A simple google search yields thousands of competent and admirable banana-slicing products and methods, or b-slizzle as we slice addicts call it, but none measured up to my expectations of banana-slicing grace. I was a substance addict, my tonic being a soft, smooth, perfect banana slice. At first, it was a simple hobby. Like most of you, I would spend no more than five or six hours a day slicing, displaying, posting on facebook, and then consuming. Of course it's probably obvious to most of you now that for those of us with the sliceaholic gene, this level of slicing is not near enough to satiate our desires and can only end up in disaster. But being a true addict, I was blind to the pain I was causing others and deaf to the warnings of friends, family and activists. I ended up hurting those who love me the most: kids, grandkids, wives, parents, and my pet hedgehogs. It got to the point where I would stay awake for days straight pushing my bananas through the strings of my guitar and then shaking them out of the hole or shoving bananas through the chicken wire surrounding my hedgehogs. But the banana slices, magnificent as they were, would inevitably end up getting eaten by the hedgehogs or tasting like guitar. From there I began to explore new and dangerous slice methods-methods that would connect me to both the glamorous side of b-slizzling and the deadly underworld of slice addicts.

    A typical day for me would begin at the banana factory, trading sex or drugs or cash for a fresh batch of newly-minted bananas. Green, yellow, brown-it mattered not. It was all about the slice for me, as any slice addict can attest. From there I would cruise the whittling district with nothing but a knapsack or barrel full of bananas and a bowie knife, selling my flesh to knife artisans for their crafting of slices. But still, the bananas were sliced only to near-perfection, leaving me craving more and better slice every time. I had already been kicked out of every Japanese restaurant from Houston to Chicago for throwing bananas at the chefs to cut in the air. In my insatiable lust for the smooth sensuality of fresh banana slices, I was blind to the racial insensitivity of this practice. I cannot even begin to count the number of kids around town whose bicycles I stole, just to feed my lust for the reckless and dangerous practice of spoke-slicing, or "splicing" as we call it.

    As I found newer, more efficient-and often ruthless-slizz techniques, I became more and more careless and violent, but still, it was ever enough. I was arrested at home furnishing stores for pushing thousands of bananas through their window blind displays (blindspotting). I was walking around day and night wearing nothing but multi-blade ice skates just to slice the thousands of bananas littering the floor of my home and yard at any given time (figureslicing). I can't tell you how many poor hedgehogs I killed or maimed because of those shoes. I wasted tens of thousands of dollars on designer grade electric and solar-powered fans with razor-sharp blades to accommodate the immense volume of slicing I was pushing on a daily basis (blowing). I always tried to use solar fans to reduce my carbon footprint.

    Of course this enslaving lifestyle could not be sustained forever. My picture was on the wall of every Benihana in the southwest. Children all over the state had replaced their traditional spoked wheels with solid spokes, and the motocross bullies would turn their bikes on me and beat me senseless when I would stand alongside the supercross track shoving b into their frenzied wheel-spinning (motoring). On October 3rd, 2007, I had hit rock bottom. I had just slizzed with Sean and Biggie in the Hamptons (he's still alive, turning tricks for b in the banana underworld). I awoke from a potassium coma to find my bank account, formerly over twenty million dollars, completely dry. Everybody talked about the housing and equities markets crashing, but let me tell you, the crisis hit the slicers bad!. My credit cards were all cut off, and my lines of credit with the banks and various banana slicing venture capitalists were dry. And the hedgehogs had revolted in a bloody uprising, known as The Bloody Hedgehog Uprising.

    As I write to you today, from the comfort of my humble country cottage, I do so giving grace to god, with sorrow and gratitude to those whose lives I crushed and those who stood by me through all the finger cuts and slipping on peels. I have found a tranquil peace, all thanks to the hundreds of amazing, beautiful people who made the H-5 a reality.

    I will skip the platitudes so pervasive in all the reviews of this magnificent product and cut to the chase. CUT TO THE CHASE. That's what the H-5 does. I call it the H-5 for short and because H-5 sounds almost as awesome as the H-5 is. Who knew that I could find peace from such a complex, yet simple, engineering marvel. You would think that I would have had to walk away cold-turkey, but for me, the game was all about the perfect slice. You see, once you find the perfect slice, your life is at peace. And that is what I have found-what I find every day-the perfect slice. Although my H-5 background check revealed to many illicit banana incidents in the past to procure one legally, I was able to receive a presidential pardon from George Bush because he knows I could blow the whistle on his falsified reports on Saddam's WMB's (Wildly Massive B-Slicers) and from Barack Obama because of the help I offered in getting Obamaslice to the socialists.

    So kids, understand that banana slicing is not as glamorous as all those billboards in the 70s portrayed it, and can be done in a safe and fun manner from your own home for under five dollars. I sincerely hope that the scientists and board members of Hutzler continue forward and attack similar cancers on humanity like methamphetamines, aids and immigration. So much gratitude goes to Anthony Weiner for bringing bananas into the public eye and to Fox News for having the conviction to doggedly pursue this story in hopes of bringing down the banana-controlled senate. May you all experience the joy and frivolity of the H-571. Peace and love to all.

  • Ken Berglund - The Best Rock Album of All Time!

    A masterpiece in every sense of the word. Pink Floyd's epic, sprawling tome on loneliness and isolation should be in every serious rock collectors shelf. There isn't any album out there that sounds anything like this, and probably never will. It also contains the greatest Pink Floyd song of all time, "Comfortably Numb". Forget Eminem, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, or whoever the flavor of the month is, this IS Rock and Roll.