​**I know it seems like I'm a greedy, greedy girl to charge membership to a blog, but the blogging/emailing sites raised prices. I only need 14 more people to join to break even. Doug Wanoy will give you a $20 Starbucks gift card for joining.**

The beginning of the good news about KB, the son of Greg Bauer, as it is written in the prophet Jack Savage.


“I will send my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way - 
A voice of one calling in Wheeling, West Virginia, 
Prepare the way for KB, 
Make straight paths for him.”


And so Greg Bauer, the Antagonist, appeared in Wheeling, West Virginia, from New Jersey, just as his father-in-law, Jack Savage, always predicted he would, preaching of the New York Mets and Jets, Rutgers, and New Jersey. The whole Bethlehem countryside and all the people of Wheeling came to know him and learn that he was from the Garden State within two minutes of meeting him. Confessing their shoplifting thefts to him, they were metaphorically baptized by the spittle that often would fly from his mouth. Greg wore clothing of cut-off tees and baggy shorts, with no shoes on his feet, and he ate everything in sight with his mouth wide open. And this was his message, “After me comes the one more powerful than I, the buckles of his headgear I am not worthy to stoop down and unbuckle. I baptize you with inappropriate Tweets and juvenile jokes, but he will baptize you with poetic Yelp reviews, lyrical 500-character diatribes on why quarterbacks don’t deserve the vicirol they receive, and passionate prose on protocols.” 

​

Children often liked to come to the Bauer household to play with little Kyle. One day, Kyle wanted his friends, Derek (whom we called Noodle) and Shelton, to come over for him to place his hands on them (wrestle) and play with them. But his mom rebuked him. “I’m not going to be able to watch over you all.” 

Greg the Antagonist, who had been listening, said, “Let the little children come to me instead, and do not hinder them, for today is a good day for them to play. I will watch over them carefully.” 

The children were playing in the driveway with a Cozy Coupe. Shelton’s parents and Kyle’s mom were inside, talking. Now, this was a time long before Greg had invented his alter ego of Doug Wanoy, and a time long before cell phones distracted parents. So what Greg was doing, no one knows to this day. However, what happened next will never be forgotten. 

The boys were riding the Cozy Coupe from the top of the driveway to the bottom. The driveway was rather steep, and one wrong turn could have the autonomous automobile hurdling down the slope to the Taylor’s driveway. 

Greg was sitting on a beach chair at the top of the driveway when he saw Shelton veer off the driveway towards the Taylor’s retaining wall. Greg knew that he had to react quickly because Shelton was speeding and was dangerously close to crashing into the Taylor’s driveway. Greg sprang up and dove headfirst (there are no eyewitness testimonies besides those of 4-year-old children) to grab the back of the Cozy Coupe a split second before it crashed. Greg momentarily congratulated and prided himself for having such quick reflexes and being an excellent supervisor to young children. 

Unfortunately, though, when Greg grabbed the back of the coupe to slow the speeding car, the momentum of the brakes propelled Shelton forward, through the window, and into the pavement. 

Fearing for Shelton’s health, Greg shook aside his bruised body and pride to scoop Shelton’s mangled body from the pavement and rushed him to safety. He was taken to the ER by his parents. He didn’t have a concussion, but he did have head bruises. 

Once Shelton was stabilized and imminent death was no longer a possibility, Greg, the Antagonist, animatedly tried to protest that he, too, had almost paralyzed himself trying to be a hero, but nobody was happy with him. “What’s forgotten in history is that I almost died or was severely paralyzed myself trying to save a kid,” he persisted.

Nevertheless, the damage had been done. No one let the children come to him anymore. 

​

Scottie, one of the twelve friends in the neighborhood, had a frightened disposition. This boy lived in perpetual fear of the unknown. No one could alleviate his fears. No was calm enough to subdue him. Night and day among the hills of Bethlehem, he would cry out.

That’s the reason why it came as a shock to the other eleven when Scottie agreed to camping out in the backyard of the Taylor’s house. 

On the night of the campout, the older boys piled into tents with their pillows, sleeping bags, and flashlights. 

Greg, the Antagonist, who had been spying on the boys with KB, got a devious look on his face. “Let’s go to the woods and drive these fearful demons out of Scottie once and for all,” he snickered. 

Crouched behind bramble and twig, Greg, KB, and maybe Lauren Marie transformed into ghouls, goblins, and banshees with their terrifying noises echoing through the dark sky. Inside the tents, you could see the boys start to stir from their slumber and, in their stupor, try to pinpoint the location of the terror. Unable to, they started shrieking and fleeing into the house, but Scottie, with tears streaming down his cheeks, ran all the way home.

Greg, the Antagonist, animatedly tried to protest that he was trying to be a hero and drive out the fear in Scottie, casting those demons out into the forest animals, but no one was happy with him. “What’s forgotten in history is that I almost hurt myself trying to save a kid from his own demons,” he persisted.

Nevertheless, the damage had been done. Scottie was traumatized, and no one let the children come to him anymore. 

​

Two houses down from the Taylor’s house lived a couple- the Lopezes. One night, there was a birthday party for him. There was a lot of drinking and dancing. There was a pretty young girl at this party who greatly pleased Joel. Even though he was married, he promised to give this girl anything she wanted. At the girl’s mother’s urging, the girl said,  “I want that head of your neighbor Greg the Antagonist on a tray.” Then, Joel regretted what he had said, but because of the vow he had made in front of his guests, he issued the necessary orders.

But Joel was so drunk and it was very late and dark out that he mistakenly took his wife for Greg the Antagonist and ended up slashing her throat very deeply and repeatedly. Somehow, the wife lived and called 911. 

The police arrived at the scene and knocked on Greg’s door. Greg had just fallen asleep after watching the Blair Witch Project and was quite baffled by the cops at his door requesting a video camera to film the scene of the crime. He managed to hand it over and was deemed a hero, according to him, for helping law enforcement with the investigation. “What’s forgotten in history is that I almost stubbed my toe in the dark trying to help with a near-death experience,” he persisted.

Nevertheless, the jokes had been settled. The Taylors and all other neighbors teased Greg for thinking he was, yet again, a hero. 


*Okay, so obviously, the first part is made up, but, yes, our neighbor, who we always thought was a nice guy, tried to kill his wife. Luckily, she survived, and he went away to prison for a long time.* 

​

All of Greg’s antics paved the way for Kyle Dean (I guess that’s what we are calling him now) to perform even more outrageous farses and frolics. Greg walked, so Kyle could run. And with Kyle’s hiring at Barstool, Greg has been reborn, proving that there is eternal life in pranking, trolling, bits, and humor. Amen. ​

**I know it seems like I'm a greedy, greedy girl to charge membership to a blog, but the blogging/emailing sites raised prices. I only need 14 more people to join to break even. Doug Wanoy will give you a $20 Starbucks gift card for joining.**

During the 2001-2002 school year, I was in the 7th grade at my Catholic grade school. For reference, Nick was in 4th grade, and Kyle was in 3rd. That year, an incident so profound and prolific occurred during a winter that had been laden with snow. It hijacked our small town community’s sense of security and forever shaped us during such formative years. Our school’s tight-knit foundation came crumbling to the ground. This event was so paramount in nature that I had to pen my grandma, who lived in New Jersey, just 30 miles outside of New York City, to inform her of this terrible occurrence and ask if she had ever heard of anything so shocking, striking a city, let alone a nation. 

​

The SVS bomb threat terrorized faculty and students for over a week. Making front page headlines in the local paper, The Wheeling Intelligencer, the threats baffled law enforcement’s intellect and made the student body question whether they were playing for the bush league rather than the actual police force. 

Now, 23 years later, thanks to a committee of hardworking individuals, we have been able to unearth a detailed timeline starting with the day the bomb threats started appearing. This declassified information has been gathered from primary and secondary sources that include eyewitness accounts, journal entries, interviews, security footage, and newspaper articles. I’ll take you on a never-before recounting of that day and the fallout that arose out of the debris left behind in the weeks to come.

​

Not too long after we adopted our son, I received an email from an interested patron, client, customer (all these words seem too formal when talking about the adoption process) inquiring about our adoption agency.

Would we recommend them? What were the pros and cons?

It took a while to compose an answer. I wanted it to be thoughtful and honest, but I was also struggling to convey my feelings.

Would I recommend my adoption agency? Well, of course, I’m staring into the eyes of my beautiful baby boy. How could I not recommend them? Without them, we would not have our son.

But that’s not the full answer, nor an honest one at that.

I wanted my response to be vulnerable and raw because many times throughout the process, I would not have recommended them or even private adoption at that.

I struggled with telling her every feeling and thought that I had throughout the process. Would I have wanted someone to do the same?

I think so.
​
Here is what I said…

As I was scrolling social media the other day, I saw a glimmer of hope amongst a sea of Bogg Bags, Owala water bottles, new merch that just dropped, “life changing” parenting courses, “game changing” products that “Guys, you just have to try,” and skincare brands because God forbid, Moms, you look an ounce of tired.
​
It was an influencer. Kind of. She was a therapist and a mom of three with a rather large following, but instead of trying to sell me something and get me to shill out hundreds of dollars for things that my kids will need or they will die, she was defluencing me.

It was a breath of fresh air and someone who spoke my love language.
​
I have always been riding the “less is more” in parenting train. I run a modest newsletter for parents, and I want to scream it from the rooftops.

“Do less, buy less, consume less noise, Mamas! You’re stressing yourself out.”

Defluencing Parenting Advice

In fact, over the years, I have distanced myself from many parenting Instagram accounts, particularly those that offer overly simplistic advice and who are grifters at heart rather than “parenting experts.

“Never make your kids apologize.”
“Never do time-outs.”
“Don’t say ‘be careful.’”

They fail to consider nuance, the individual needs of each child, and a parent’s intuition and confidence; instead, they rely on scripts and advice to push their one-size-fits-all courses.

I’m thinking of one huge parenting account that, in recent years, has turned from offering solid advice to a chaotic mess, preying on parents’ insecurities just so it can make money.

I mean, in the past 6 months, this account has launched a podcast, merch, a substack, a toy line, and a brand new course.

Their new course comes after their “viral, the only course you need,” which launched them into stardom.

This new course is for deep feelers, and they claim that their strategies work for kids 1–18 years old.

Neither of these women has had experience with teenagers and hasn’t worked with kids other than their own in the last 5 years. One was a family therapist, and the other had no experience or education related to early childhood education (except for a vague concentration in maternal studies).

If they are offering advice that they claim works for kids 1–18, it must be so vague that you can easily find that information in a free library book or blog, or talk to a teacher.

DO NOT PAY for stuff like this.

DO NOT PAY for a potty training course from people who aren’t experts.

In fact, DO NOT PAY for a potty training course at all. People have successfully learned to use the potty for thousands of years. I don’t think it should take a pricey course with recycled material for this to happen.

And DO NOT PAY for a potty training, sharing, and bedtime toy kit that costs upwards of $50 and is “backed by science.” Unless, of course, you want to.
But, trust me, your kids will learn how to use the potty, share, and go to bedtime without a gimmicky toy.

Check out a free book or buy a cheap one, or talk to other parents.

I have four THOUGHTS.​

• Bloggers, influencers, and creators do deserve fair compensation if they are putting in work for parenting content that is educational, AND these creators have the proper credentials and expertise. I trust teachers the most.​
• No parenting advice should be “the only course you need,” “life-changing hack,” “works for all ages,” “this course is truly groundbreaking,” “nothing like it out there,” “this program will give you your life back,” “total game changer.” This is emotionally charged language. Its purpose is to be relatable, build “community,” and to get YOU TO BUY THEIR STUFF BECAUSE WITHOUT THEIR TOOLS YOU’RE MISSING OUT AND DOING PARENTING WRONG/HARD.​
• Extreme language is purposeful to sell a product. They use three methods: relatability (“We are surviving just like you!” 🤸), urgency (“BUY NOW!”), and authority (“This is backed by science!”…but no sources). This creates pressure to be the perfect parent.​
• What parents need is this: free or cheap childcare, help/support, time to recharge/reset/rest/rejuvenate (this can include time to go to therapy, sleep, have time for friends), and confidence/permission to do what works for your family.

Pool toys. Beach toys. Park toys. Playground toys. Road trip toys. Travel toys. Outdoor toys. Indoor toys. Kitchen and eating essentials. Bedtime essentials.

All of it YOU'VE GOT TO HAVE NOW.

Kids are simple creatures at heart.

What are my Road Trip Toys? A pad of paper to draw on, a book, maybe some toy cars, and a healthy side dose of being bored, which shockingly also doubles as my Going Out to Eat Toys, Church Toys, and Travel Toys.

Chances are, the toys and products you have at home right this minute will work just fine.
​
Yes, I sometimes look to social media for some birthday and Christmas recommendations and inspirations from trusted sources. Do I also find some essentials that have made baby eating simpler and less messy? Yes.
But, parents, rest assured, you will be fine without them.

Some creative accounts share fun, little learning activities to set up for your kids.

I got sucked into doing a lot of these when my first child was 1–2 years old. I felt like I was depriving him of educational learning and a future career in the STEM field if I failed to set these up.

Some of the activities were fun. Most, though, took me longer to make and set up than the amount of time my child actually played with it.

I gave up, and I’m happier for it. So is my child. He would much rather play with what he already has. He has quite an imagination and creative problem-solving skills to show for it.

So, parents, here is me deinfluencing you. You don’t need to do any of those activities if you don’t want to.
​
Your child learning to play by himself and come up with things to do when she is bored (sometimes with your help) is much more beneficial in the long run.

Parents, if you are reading this and worrying if you are doing a good job as a parent, chances are, you are probably doing a good enough job as it is.

Kids don’t need fancy stuff and name-brand products, and a parent who is overwhelmed by everything they are influenced by.

They just need you and your loving presence.
​
Bogg bags and Owalas aside.

Before I even became a parent, I had always heard that it takes a village. Then, I became one, and that saying rings truer than ever.

I often see memes on social media with proclamations from tired parents, “Where is this village they were talking about?”

I see “parent influencers” drone on about not having a village, so they created their social media platform to make an online village for exhausted and lonely parents.

Yet, there is something deeply lacking in these sentiments. Sure, social media can be great for helping parents feel as if they aren’t alone in their parenting journey.

The relatable content makes me laugh and let out a sigh, “Okay, other people’s kids are doing that, too. Phew.”

And I have found some wonderful advice on the internet from other parents.

But this isn’t the so-called village everyone is talking about.

The village is there for you both, near and far.

The village sends you all the supplies you could ever need when you get a call saying that the baby you are adopting is here, and you have to leave now to go meet him. The village shows up with meals, cards, and a shoulder to lean on when your mom unexpectedly dies much too soon.

How did I get my village? I got it from my mom and dad. We had the best village growing up. These people would still be there for me in a second if I asked or didn’t, for that matter.

I vowed to have a village for my kids when the time came.
​
Here’s what they taught me about having a village.

As I watched my mom die twenty-seven minutes before my 34th birthday, I had the foresight to know that my mom would never just cease to exist on this earth if there wasn’t a greater reason at play. Yes, I believe in all that religious stuff concerning God’s greater plan and even the cringeworthy adage “everything happens for a reason” (although I would never utter that to anyone after a tragedy).
​
After all, my mom was a devout Catholic and raised me as such. But, I knew, if there were to be anyone to confront God and talk him out of his Greater Plan, it would be my mom.

My mom had a penchant for being, well, a mom long past her expiration date for needing to be one. Evident by pestering me to bring all my dirty laundry to my cross-country meets in college and sending me home with freshly folded clothes.
Or, likewise, the meat on my plate was always nicely cut up due to years of habit.
There was no way she would leave me, her daughter, in the throes of my own motherhood to raise her precious grandbaby without her.

So, as I stood there watching her take her last breaths in that hospital room, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I was somewhat curious to find out what this Grand Reason would be. And if it could hurry up and present itself soon, that would be great to make her death a tad bit more manageable. I silently prayed this on the long walk back to the car.

Then I screamed into the night.

I’ll spare you the ugly details of grief. But, as it turns out, my mom died two days before I was to return to my thirteenth year of teaching, and I couldn’t bear to go back. Not yet, anyway.

And because I decided to postpone my educational duties until I confronted the grief headfirst, my administration and colleagues switched my schedule to be less stressful to help me ease back into my return.

My first day back to work was November 2nd, All Souls’ Day in the Catholic Church. The feast is a day of prayer and remembrance of the faithful departed. The symbolism isn’t lost on me, and it should come as no surprise that this day would commence the day I found out one of the Grand Reasons for my mom’s death.

Grandma, are you in pain?” That’s what my son repeatedly asked my mom during a trip to the beach.
​
My husband, son, dad, mom, and I decided to take a trip to the beach before the school year started because both my son, a preschooler, and I, a teacher, were about to return to the classroom and wanted one last summer hurrah.

My son, Henry, was excited to ride in the car with his Pop and Grandma, but the whole time in the car, he kept asking my mom that question.

My mom, an active, vibrant, *mostly* healthy 62-year-old, kept answering him with, “No, silly, I’m not in pain. Why do you keep asking?”

Henry didn’t have an answer to that question. In his childlike wonder, he just laughed and then spent the weekend enjoying the waves, building sandcastles, eating ice cream, finding sand dollars, taking ferry rides, and having fun with his family, who loved him so much.

That was the last time Henry ever saw my mom.

Exactly a week later, she went into what we thought was routine surgery, came out of it, and then had, for some unknown reason, a stroke which put her into a coma that she never recovered from. She passed away on August 19, 30 minutes before my birthday.

The next week was a whirlwind of planning the funeral, traveling for the funeral, and having the funeral amidst the absolute devastation, shock, and grief we all felt over my mom’s loss.

As the time came to head back to our home in North Carolina, my dad and I were packing up the car. Henry was playing by himself when we heard him say, “Are you in pain?”

We were immediately taken back to the beach trip. My dad and I looked at each other in awe. We both had forgotten all about my son’s asking, “Grandma, are you in pain?”

In disbelief, we pondered what this all meant.

“Why did Henry keep asking Grandma if she was in pain?”

“Lauren,” my dad said, “what did Mom say to Henry when he asked her that?”

“I don’t know. What did she say?”

“She said, ‘No, Henry, I’m not in pain.”

I thought back to what we had told Henry about Grandma’s death. We told him that she got sick and her body stopped working. We told him that she died and is now in Heaven with Jesus.

Of course, he would wonder if she was in pain, but little did we know that my mom had already let him know that she would be okay and in no pain. A true miracle.

Later that evening, I was having a hard time and missing my mom terribly. I looked up and cried out, “Mom, God, Jesus, please give me some comfort. Just for this moment.”

Seconds later, I heard a noise, and Henry walked into my room from his. Silently, he reached out his arms to hug me, and I quietly led him back to bed.

I smiled and gave thanks to my mom. I still am so incredibly sad and miss her so much, but I’m thankful for the small miracles and signs she performs through my son to remind me that she’s always near and that I have him, my blessing.

​When I first had my son six years ago, I pictured dinners and sleepovers at Grandma and Pop’s house. I envisioned trips to the zoo, library, beach, and museums. I imagined holidays spent together, with my mom passing on all her beloved traditions to my son. I dreamt of art projects, days lounging at home, pool days, watching classic Disney movies, hikes to waterfalls, and everything I enjoyed with my grandma.

I got that and so much more.

But tragically, it was all cut short a day before my 34th birthday and a month after my son turned 4 ½.

My mom, my son’s grandma, died. Words I never thought I would have to utter until at least 20 years from now, and my son had become an adult with plenty of memories and experiences stored in his memory bank.

Now, my son is a boy with a grandma in Heaven. It’s an unsettling reality to know that one day the memories he has of her will gradually fade, until the line becomes blurry between what he remembers of her and what he knows about her from the stories we have told about her.

While a daunting task, I will keep her memory alive. However, little did I realize that this wouldn’t be too hard, as I’m getting a little help from the other side. My mom is still a grandma from Heaven. And always will be.

One of her first acts of love toward my son came immediately after the funeral. I was having a hard time and missing my mom terribly. I looked up and cried out, “Mom, God, Jesus, please give me some comfort. Just for this moment.”

Seconds later, I heard a noise, and my son walked into my room from his. Silently, he reached out his arms to hug me, and I quietly led him back to bed.

I smiled and gave thanks to my mom. She was still being a grandma.

Another time, she bestowed upon my son her grandmotherly wisdom during my son’s last year of preschool.

My mom instilled in my brother and me that we should always be aware of who could use a friend and someone to talk to. We were to include everyone and always make sure others felt like they belonged, even if they were “different.” This adage is etched into my brain, and she had already started preaching that to my son, even at his young age.

My son isn’t always the most outgoing of kids, but he has been blossoming this year. Much to my delight, I received one of the sweetest messages from his teachers. She mentioned that he had befriended and taken a rather quiet kid who had been playing alone under his wing. The two have become best buddies. Thanks to my son, this other boy is now blossoming and coming out of his shell.
I smiled and thanked my mom. She was still being a grandma.

Additionally, we are preparing for kindergarten next year. Getting a Catholic school education is something we have been praying about, and my mom was excited to see my son receive it. We applied to the school just in time for the deadline, as my journey with grief has cluttered my mind. A week later, we received an email that we had been waitlisted because they were already full. I admonished myself for not getting the application in sooner; however, I still called up to see where we were on the waitlist. The lady told me that we were number one, but I still should make plans for a backup. Sighing, I wrote down another thing to add to my to-do list. Then, not even an hour later, the lady called me back and told me that the principal somehow found a spot for my son. He was in!

I smiled and gave thanks to my mom. She was still being a grandma.

With every kind word my son utters…with every prayer he says…with every time he preserves through a challenge…with every hug he gives me to comfort me when I am sad…with every word he writes in his journal to Grandma…with every sentence he speaks to her picture on his nightstand…with every time he asks if Grandma is laughing at him because he’s being silly…with every time we sit in her house with my dad and husband and spend the day in carefree timelessness soaking in the gift of another day, she is there.
​
She will always be his grandma. A grandma in Heaven.

Joe became the father of Roger, Roger the father of Gregory, the husband of Jonette. Of her was born Kyle, who is called KBNoSwag.

Now this is how the Bethlehem Scandals came about. When KB’s mother was betrothed to Gregory, but before they lived together, she made Gregory promise that one day they would move back to Wheeling, West Virginia, after residing in New Jersey for a few years. 

Now, in the year KB was born, Jonette reminded Gregory of his promise. Jonette’s father owned and worked in the construction business. There was no room, at the time, to build new property in Wheeling, so the grandfather of KB broke ground in the small, humble village of Bethlehem, WV. 

Jonette wrapped small baby Kyle in swaddling clothes and laid him in his crib in his new room in his new house in his new town. 

The family rejoiced and gave praise to God. 

“Glory to God in the highest and peace to his people on earth.” 

The child grew (kind of) and became strong (not really), filled with wisdom (ehh); and the favor of God was upon him (to be debated).  


Scandal One: The Scandal of the Smallest Tomato 

Every year, the village of Bethlehem would host the Tomato Festival. It was like Traverse City’s Cherry Festival, except without hit recording artists TI, Hoobastank, Weird Al, and Trace Adkins; the bustling lakeside town with numerous shops, restaurants, and breweries; and a sprawling display of cherry activities like a parade, carnival rides, shows, and more. 

The Tomato Festival was held by a ballpark, a municipal building, and a semi-dilapidated mini golf course. 

In the weeks leading up to the festival, Gregory found and plucked a tomato the size of a pea in his father-in-law’s yard. He gave it to his wee son and instructed him to enter the tomato into the Smallest Tomato Contest. 

“Though it is the smallest of all tomatoes, yet when it grows, it will be the largest of garden vegetables and become a staple in a salad, so that the birds and squirrels come and  nipple on its juicy roundness.”

​

The short answer is Kyle did. His Instagram reel of his vacation to Hawaii is so funny that I watched it at least 10 times. 

But on a recent 10-year anniversary trip to the Virgin Islands, I tried my darnest to recap the whole experience as well as Kyle. I have a highlight on my Instagram page which I'll share at the end, too. It'll have all the music and videos if you rather consume my recap there. 

So who did it better?

Day 1 Notes 

• Woke up at 3:00 am to make our 5:30 am flight. 
• Almost missed connecting flight in Charlotte. Had to run. Felt like I was in Amazing Race. My dream. 
• Made flight. Sat next to 50-60 year old gentleman. Immediately started talking to me. 
• Wife is a dolphin trainer  AND a DJ. It’s like he knew I LOVE dolphins and moderately like DJs 
• Wanted to read my book, but he was so nice and his travel stories were good so I wasn’t annoyed. 
• Showed me probably 100 photos and 2 videos on his phone. 
• Eventually, there was a lull in conversation, and I reached for my book. 
• Watched the in flight simulator and snickered to myself like a 7th grade schoolboy when we flew over Cockburn Town  Obviously that town is not part of the Virgin Islands. 
• Virgin joke tally - I 
• Landed and shared a taxi with other tourists. They all said St John is the better island. We are staying on St Thomas. For 10 minutes had a crisis that we chose the wrong island. Could you say that I was doubting Thomas??
• Bad joke tally - I 
• Then reasoned that St. Thomas is probably still good but St Johns is just the cherry on top.
• Virgin joke tally - II
• Got some of the best fish tacos from the bar. Left me saying I want, “More, man.”  
• Virgin joke tally - III
• Bartender said I had a small head. 
• Not an innuendo tally - I