Katie Stalin in New Hamphire


Rascard, NH– Set in the darkest and deepest hollows of New Hampshire’s forested hinterland bordering Sinonipponesia, Rascard, a sleepy little New England town right out of a picture postcard, nestles within a large meadow. But, I wasn’t coming here to look at the local scenery, nope. Trees I’ve seen. Wildflowers are old hat. I came here to see the local color, specifically Hermie Luger, who the townsfolk affectionately call “The Measuring Man.”

Mrs. Gina Wilkins, The Measuring Man’s long-ago high school sweetheart spoke to me for a bit on her rooster-decorated verandah. The closed-in porch was filled to the brim with rooster paraphernalia and the diminutive, middle-aged Mrs. Wilkins made no bones about her continued visits with Hermie. Visits some townsfolk consider scandalous.

“Why, Hermie comes on by any old time he likes to measure the cocks. He’s brought his own over sometimes,” Mrs. Wilkins told me. I wondered how a man could measure so many things throughout the course of his life, but then I met The Measuring Man himself at the local diner comparing stacks of flapjacks.

Armed with his trusty and ever-present tape measures, rulers, yardstick, calipers and a smile, the former landscape architect spends his every waking hour measuring. From dawn till dusk he wanders throughout the town measuring everything he can get his hands on. The guy can’t even walk by a picket fence without stopping to measure every single picket in all three dimensions.

His cargo pants and measurer-laden halter are both made by hand by his mother Mamie Luger, whose measuring cup and measuring spoon-filled kitchen may have something to do with The Measuring Man’s proclivities. Mamie has the state’s largest collection of such objects, with over 3000 1/4 teaspoons alone. She also gave Hermie his first laser calipers, which he now uses almost constantly.

“Four point one eight inches,” Hermie triumphantly declares, holding out a pine cone for me to examine. It seems he knows the width, breadth, height and circumference of every single object in this little rustic town. From the campus bell tower to the shoe size of every man on Lenton Street, The Measuring Man has a notation in his workbook. Neighbors say he’s friendly, helpful, and always ready to measure anything be it a lead pipe or a robin egg.

Of course, I say The Measuring Man is a creepy weirdo. For one thing, he offered to measure my vaginal depth and then even tried to measure the circumference of my left areola. So, I kicked him in the balls and then smacked him in the face with his own meter stick. Pretty ironic, huh? And then I told him to measure how far I’d shove my boot up in his ass. Stupid Measuring Man.

Hopefully these laser calipers will come in handy at some point. See ya next month!

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