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GeneralThis section is threads for discussion that is not related to the Crossfire or other cars. It can be about sports, movies etc. - But NO POLITICS please
Great Queso type of dip to serve your friends over the holidays !!!
I make this several times throughout the year
Very simple and you only need these 3 things..........
1) 1 Pound of Jimmy Deans HOT pork sausage
1) Can Ro*tel Original diced tomatoes
1) 8oz. block of Philadelphia Cream Cheese
Brown the pork sausage on the stove in a non stick fry pan and then drain off excess grease.
Transfer the pork sausage to a medium size crock pot or pot on the stove top.
Open can of Ro*tel and drain out the liquid from the can.
Add the contents of the can to the pork sausage.
Cut the block of cream cheese into cubes and add to the sausage and Ro*tel and add heat and stir occasionally until thoroughly heated and mixed.
Grab some tortilla chips and enjoy !!!
My car 41 years ago today after hitting a telephone pole dead on at 45mph on December 22, 1984
I walked away and suffered NO INJURY !!!
It was a 1974 Pontiac Sunbird
I make $55,000 a year and I’m broker than my 75-year-old grandpa. To save myself from my $1,800-a-month studio apartment, I had to move into his basement.
This wasn't the plan.
The plan was a downtown loft, happy hours, and a vibrant social life funded by my new marketing degree. Instead, I’m in suburban Ohio, sleeping on a 1980s sofa bed in a room that smells like cedar wood and mothballs.
"It's just temporary," I told myself, clutching my artisan iced coffee as I hauled in the last box.
"That stuff costs five bucks?" Grandpa Frank asked from the doorway. He was holding a steaming mug of black instant coffee that looked thick enough to pave a driveway.
"It's $7.50, Gramps," I corrected him. "And it's a small luxury. I worked hard for this job. I deserve a treat."
Frank just grunted. "You 'deserve' to pay off that $40,000 school debt you keep complaining about. I just drink coffee. You drink a car payment."
Living with Frank was like living with a ghost from a history book. A very judgmental history book.
His house was a museum of thrift. There was one television—a small, buzzing box he’d owned since my dad was in high school. He got three channels with an antenna. I had subscriptions to four different streaming services on my laptop, which I paid for by "browsing" more than actually watching.
"Why you paying for all those shows?" he asked one night, squinting at my screen.
"It's choice, Gramps. Options."
"Looks like a waste of time," he said, turning his attention back to the local news.
The real flashpoint was food. On Friday, after a brutal week of spreadsheets, I was exhausted. I didn’t want to cook. I wanted convenience. I opened my favorite food delivery app and ordered a $28 artisan burger.
When the delivery driver pulled up, Frank was on the porch. He watched me take the bag like I had just committed a felony.
That night, he was eating what he called "Whatever's-Left-Casserole," which appeared to be leftover hotdogs, some beans, and half an onion, baked. It looked awful. It probably cost $2.
"Must be nice," he muttered, spooning the brown sludge onto his plate. "Eating like royalty."
"It's just one burger, Frank!" I snapped, the stress of my loan payments boiling over. "The economy is terrible! Inflation is insane. I can't even afford rent. You guys had it easy! You bought this whole house on one salary!"
Frank put his fork down. It was the first time I'd seen him look genuinely angry.
"Easy?" he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I started at the steel mill at 18. I worked 12-hour shifts, six days a week. When inflation was 10% in the 80s, my mortgage rate was 14%. I didn't eat 'artisan' anything. I ate a bologna sandwich. Every. Single. Day."
He pointed at my laptop. "You got a $1,200 phone. My phone," he gestured to an ancient flip phone in a cradle by the wall, "makes calls. You got a tattoo sleeve that cost more than my first car. My tattoos?" He rolled up his sleeve to show a faded blue anchor. "Got this in the Navy. It came with nightmares, not a payment plan."
I felt my face flush. "So what, I'm just supposed to be miserable?"
"You're not miserable!" he barked. "You're just soft. You kids want the reward without the work. You want the house, but you won't give up the $7 coffee. You want financial freedom, but you pay $28 for a burger because you're too 'tired' to open a can of soup."
He walked over to his old roll-top desk and pulled out a small, vinyl-bound bank book. He tossed it on the table. It was a passbook for his savings account.
I opened it.
The balance made my stomach drop. From his factory pension and social security, this man who lived on canned soup and instant coffee had saved over $280,000.
I looked at the balance. I looked at my phone, still open to the delivery app. I looked at the $9 remaining on my $28 burger.
Frank picked up his plate of leftovers.
"You're right, Alex," he said, heading to the kitchen. "I bought this house on one salary. But I also didn't have 47 subscriptions, leased cars, or 'emotional support' smoothies."
He stopped at the doorway and looked back, his eyes drilling into me.
"You don't have an income problem. You have an expense problem. You’re not poor. You’re just paying a subscription to act rich."
I asked Microsoft Copilot to create a presentation Crossfire 2004-2008 - about 5 minutes later, this was created. Impressive - what do you think? How are you using AI? Cheers and happy new year. Andres.
I make $55,000 a year and I’m broker than my 75-year-old grandpa. To save myself from my $1,800-a-month studio apartment, I had to move into his basement.
This wasn't the plan.
The plan was a downtown loft, happy hours, and a vibrant social life funded by my new marketing degree. Instead, I’m in suburban Ohio, sleeping on a 1980s sofa bed in a room that smells like cedar wood and mothballs.
"It's just temporary," I told myself, clutching my artisan iced coffee as I hauled in the last box.
"That stuff costs five bucks?" Grandpa Frank asked from the doorway. He was holding a steaming mug of black instant coffee that looked thick enough to pave a driveway.
"It's $7.50, Gramps," I corrected him. "And it's a small luxury. I worked hard for this job. I deserve a treat."
Frank just grunted. "You 'deserve' to pay off that $40,000 school debt you keep complaining about. I just drink coffee. You drink a car payment."
Living with Frank was like living with a ghost from a history book. A very judgmental history book.
His house was a museum of thrift. There was one television—a small, buzzing box he’d owned since my dad was in high school. He got three channels with an antenna. I had subscriptions to four different streaming services on my laptop, which I paid for by "browsing" more than actually watching.
"Why you paying for all those shows?" he asked one night, squinting at my screen.
"It's choice, Gramps. Options."
"Looks like a waste of time," he said, turning his attention back to the local news.
The real flashpoint was food. On Friday, after a brutal week of spreadsheets, I was exhausted. I didn’t want to cook. I wanted convenience. I opened my favorite food delivery app and ordered a $28 artisan burger.
When the delivery driver pulled up, Frank was on the porch. He watched me take the bag like I had just committed a felony.
That night, he was eating what he called "Whatever's-Left-Casserole," which appeared to be leftover hotdogs, some beans, and half an onion, baked. It looked awful. It probably cost $2.
"Must be nice," he muttered, spooning the brown sludge onto his plate. "Eating like royalty."
"It's just one burger, Frank!" I snapped, the stress of my loan payments boiling over. "The economy is terrible! Inflation is insane. I can't even afford rent. You guys had it easy! You bought this whole house on one salary!"
Frank put his fork down. It was the first time I'd seen him look genuinely angry.
"Easy?" he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I started at the steel mill at 18. I worked 12-hour shifts, six days a week. When inflation was 10% in the 80s, my mortgage rate was 14%. I didn't eat 'artisan' anything. I ate a bologna sandwich. Every. Single. Day."
He pointed at my laptop. "You got a $1,200 phone. My phone," he gestured to an ancient flip phone in a cradle by the wall, "makes calls. You got a tattoo sleeve that cost more than my first car. My tattoos?" He rolled up his sleeve to show a faded blue anchor. "Got this in the Navy. It came with nightmares, not a payment plan."
I felt my face flush. "So what, I'm just supposed to be miserable?"
"You're not miserable!" he barked. "You're just soft. You kids want the reward without the work. You want the house, but you won't give up the $7 coffee. You want financial freedom, but you pay $28 for a burger because you're too 'tired' to open a can of soup."
He walked over to his old roll-top desk and pulled out a small, vinyl-bound bank book. He tossed it on the table. It was a passbook for his savings account.
I opened it.
The balance made my stomach drop. From his factory pension and social security, this man who lived on canned soup and instant coffee had saved over $280,000.
I looked at the balance. I looked at my phone, still open to the delivery app. I looked at the $9 remaining on my $28 burger.
Frank picked up his plate of leftovers.
"You're right, Alex," he said, heading to the kitchen. "I bought this house on one salary. But I also didn't have 47 subscriptions, leased cars, or 'emotional support' smoothies."
He stopped at the doorway and looked back, his eyes drilling into me.
"You don't have an income problem. You have an expense problem. You’re not poor. You’re just paying a subscription to act rich."
So true, someone should TEACH this in high school. These kids today want almost everything handed to them. One hundred percent correct, it seems. Thanks Franc...
I drove with a bad starter for over a month, in the 60s, because I couldn't afford a replacement. When possible I always parked on a hill so I could just let it roll forward and pop the clutch. Many times, I had to do what you were talking about. We do what we must.
I drove with a bad starter for over a month, in the 60s, because I couldn't afford a replacement. When possible I always parked on a hill so I could just let it roll forward and pop the clutch. Many times, I had to do what you were talking about. We do what we must.
lI found a Lovely young woman who would push my '60 Chevy. After a few months I married her.
Then, she made me buy a Plymouth.
True story.
Last edited by Franc Rauscher; Dec 29, 2025 at 01:40 PM.
Between 18 and 22, a woman is like Africa. Half discovered, half wild, fertile and naturally Beautiful!
Between 23 and 30, a woman is like Europe. Well developed and open to trade, especially for someone of real value.
Between 31 and 35, a woman is like Spain. Very hot, relaxed and convinced of her own beauty.
Between 36 and 40, a woman is like Greece. Gently aging but still a warm and desirable place to visit.
Between 41 and 50, a woman is like Great Britain. With a glorious and all conquering past.
Between 51 and 60, a woman is like Israel. Has been through war, doesn't make the same mistakes twice, and takes care of business.
Between 61 and 70, a woman is like Canada. Self-preserving, but open to meeting new people.
After 70, she becomes Tibet. Wildly beautiful, with a mysterious past and the wisdom of the ages. An adventurous spirit and a thirst for spiritual knowledge.
THE GEOGRAPHY OF A MAN
Between 1 and 100, a man is like North Korea and Russia:
Re: Post Something Random (No politics)
Something good for the environment?
So true, someone should TEACH this in high school. These kids today want almost everything handed to them. One hundred percent correct, it seems. Thanks Franc... 
