Who’da thunk, huh? Talking about some silly Rhode Island Hot Dogs (New York System Hot Weiners) and this person claimed it was “curried beef” on a hot dog.
Called them out and posted the local’s recipe/lore and they told me that.
SIGH, SMH my head.
I think he is average, from Clayton, NC, single and DTF, if you know what I mean…. 🦫
The rain came sideways over Andover Town Hall the night the banners went up.
On one side of the square stood the head of the Andover teachers union, Eleanor Vance, wrapped in a long blue coat with stacks of contracts tucked under one arm like shields. Behind her stood hundreds of teachers carrying sharpened pencils like spears and chanting for smaller class sizes, better pay, and functioning copy machines.
On the opposite side stood Governor Maura Healy, arriving beneath floodlights and state police helicopters, wearing a green blazer that snapped in the wind like battle armor.
“You cannot blockade Interstate 93 with marching bands and substitute teachers,” Healy declared from the granite steps.
“We already did,” Eleanor answered calmly.
The crowd erupted.
For three days the conflict consumed Massachusetts. Cafeterias became supply depots. School buses formed barricades across suburban roads. Debate club students served as negotiators. Retired gym teachers drilled volunteers in parking lots at dawn.
Then came the Battle of the Merrimack.
Under gray skies, Eleanor Vance and Maura Healy met atop the old bridge outside Lawrence. Teachers hurled dry-erase markers like darts while state officials retaliated with endless procedural paperwork. The river below churned with loose printer paper and broken coffee thermoses.
At sunset, just as both sides exhausted themselves, a third force appeared from the west.
A convoy of crimson SUVs rolled over the hill.
Elizabeth Warren stepped out first.
She wore a long black coat and carried a massive leather binder labeled “Historical Claims.” Behind her marched an army of interns, historians, and volunteers pushing wheelbarrows filled with genealogy charts.
“Enough,” Warren declared. “This land belongs to older stories than either of you.”
The wind stopped.
Even the helicopters went quiet.
Maura Healy narrowed her eyes. “You can’t just arrive and conquer eastern Massachusetts.”
“I already filed the paperwork,” Warren replied.
The battle that followed lasted only twenty-seven minutes. Warren’s forces overwhelmed both armies using devastating procedural tactics. Entire battalions were trapped in endless public comment periods. Teacher militias surrendered after being assigned mandatory committee meetings extending into eternity.
At midnight, Warren stood victorious atop the bridge while Eleanor Vance and Healy sat nearby sharing exhausted Dunkin coffees in silence.
Then Warren did something unexpected.
She planted a wooden marker into the muddy riverbank.
“This land,” she announced, “will be returned to the stewardship of the Native communities whose history was here long before any governor, union leader, or senator.”
Torches flickered along the river as tribal representatives stepped forward through the fog. The crowds slowly lowered their signs and banners. For the first time in days, nobody shouted.
Snow began falling softly over the Merrimack.
By morning, the barricades were gone. Teachers returned to classrooms. State officials returned to Boston. And somewhere in Andover, somebody finally fixed the broken copier on the third floor of the high school.
No one ever fully agreed on what happened that week.
But every year afterward, people claimed that if you stood on the bridge during a storm, you could still hear distant chanting mixed with the sound of helicopters and someone yelling:
“Motion to amend the amendment!”