So, I’m reading this article:
http://www.politico.com/news/stories/1209/31078.html
13 GOP AGs threaten health bill suit
Which says:
“Thirteen Republican state attorneys general are threatening to file a lawsuit challenging the constitutionality of the Senate health care bill.
In a letter sent to House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid on Wednesday, South Carolina Attorney General Henry McMaster said he had “grave concerns” about the deal Senate leaders cut with Sen. Ben Nelson (D-Neb.) to secure his crucial vote for the health care package.”
Towards the end of the article, they have this response from the Democrats:
“Democrats have derided the legal analysis as politically motivated. “
Oh, really? And what exactly was the buy-out deal form Nelson called? Charity?
“Hello, Pot?”
“Yes”
“This is kettle. You’re black”
Thursday, December 31, 2009
And now for something completly different
Let’s take a break for a moment, from our usual, rabid discussions revolving around politics, global warming denial and sexual innuendos and talk about something that's near and dear to our hearts. Yes, that’s right, let’s talk about food.
Not just any food, oh no, that would not do for such a momentous posting as this. No, this ode to culinary delight shall be to that stomach filling delight, lasagna. And not just any lasagna, but my wife’s lasagna.
Yes, yes, I’m sure your lasagna is the absolute best that anyone has ever had, but that’s only because Mr. or Mrs. Anyone hasn’t had my wife’s delectable concoction.
Last weekend, my family came to our house to celebrate Christmas. And so, after much debate and consternation as to what meal best represents the holidays, we decided on lasagna. Jack may claim that my part in this discussion may have been influenced more by my personal self interest and by doing so I may have interviened in the optimal, market based solution to the problem.
And he’d be right. I mean, come on, we’re talking about lasagna here, people.
So, my wife made two heaping pans of the stuff, ensuring that a satisfactory quantity was left over to satisfy her husband’s (that's me) pasta desires. You think I jest? Out of the last 11 meals since Saturday, I’ve eaten lasagna 5 times, and finally the last of the artery hardening stuff was devoured at lunch today.
The block I consumed today was 3” tall, 4” wide and 5” long, comprised of seven layers of noodles, meat, garlic, sauce and cheese. This thing was so solid, that if you dropped a brick on it, the brick would shatter.
Now, after gobbling down the aforementioned lasagna, I’m sure a good nap this afternoon will be what the good doctored ordered. I’m not sure that’s what work wants out of me this afternoon, but why else are doors put on offices and “line busy” lights put on our receptionist’s phone tree?
So, before I go, I’ll return you to our regularly scheduled broadcast. Did you hear the one about when Senator Inhofe was caught at the CRU with whips and a dildo…?
Not just any food, oh no, that would not do for such a momentous posting as this. No, this ode to culinary delight shall be to that stomach filling delight, lasagna. And not just any lasagna, but my wife’s lasagna.
Yes, yes, I’m sure your lasagna is the absolute best that anyone has ever had, but that’s only because Mr. or Mrs. Anyone hasn’t had my wife’s delectable concoction.
Last weekend, my family came to our house to celebrate Christmas. And so, after much debate and consternation as to what meal best represents the holidays, we decided on lasagna. Jack may claim that my part in this discussion may have been influenced more by my personal self interest and by doing so I may have interviened in the optimal, market based solution to the problem.
And he’d be right. I mean, come on, we’re talking about lasagna here, people.
So, my wife made two heaping pans of the stuff, ensuring that a satisfactory quantity was left over to satisfy her husband’s (that's me) pasta desires. You think I jest? Out of the last 11 meals since Saturday, I’ve eaten lasagna 5 times, and finally the last of the artery hardening stuff was devoured at lunch today.
The block I consumed today was 3” tall, 4” wide and 5” long, comprised of seven layers of noodles, meat, garlic, sauce and cheese. This thing was so solid, that if you dropped a brick on it, the brick would shatter.
Now, after gobbling down the aforementioned lasagna, I’m sure a good nap this afternoon will be what the good doctored ordered. I’m not sure that’s what work wants out of me this afternoon, but why else are doors put on offices and “line busy” lights put on our receptionist’s phone tree?
So, before I go, I’ll return you to our regularly scheduled broadcast. Did you hear the one about when Senator Inhofe was caught at the CRU with whips and a dildo…?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
For every gorgeous woman out there, there’s someone tired of her shit
A friend of mine always used to say that to me. Actually, the phrase ended with “someone’s tired of fucking them”, but I thought that might be a little harsh in a title.
With that in mind, when I read in someone’s blog that “tiger should be ashamed of cheating on his gorgeous wife”, I realized that it really doesn’t matter what she looks like, or that she bore him two “beautiful” children.
It really doesn’t matter that she is beautiful, gorgeous, thin, white, black, fat, green or can suck a baseball through a garden hose. Well, that last part may actually have something to do with it, but, that’s off topic right now.
This has a lot less to do with Elin’s looks, prowess as a wife and a mother, than with Tiger. News flash, rich, powerful men, who have the world by the balls, cheat on their wives.
Next up on CNN, dog bites man.
With that in mind, when I read in someone’s blog that “tiger should be ashamed of cheating on his gorgeous wife”, I realized that it really doesn’t matter what she looks like, or that she bore him two “beautiful” children.
It really doesn’t matter that she is beautiful, gorgeous, thin, white, black, fat, green or can suck a baseball through a garden hose. Well, that last part may actually have something to do with it, but, that’s off topic right now.
This has a lot less to do with Elin’s looks, prowess as a wife and a mother, than with Tiger. News flash, rich, powerful men, who have the world by the balls, cheat on their wives.
Next up on CNN, dog bites man.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Have some pie
I’ve been thinking for a while about writing about change and the change(s) that I’m going through, or seem to have been going through, over the past few years.
I know, I know, you’re shocked (Shocked!) that the guy that called everyone else an idiot, while misspelling a few words along the way, might have something more to say than just that. Sometimes I even surprise myself.
But, instead of talking about change(s), I decided to talk about pie. Some yummy in my tummy apple pie from Thanksgiving, that I’m still thinking about now.
See, at the end of last year, I wanted to get off my ass and try to become, on a more consistent basis, active. I was looking at turning 45 and the seemingly never ending expansion of my gut, and I decided that enough was enough. Just one helping of enough was going to be enough for me, from now on. Generally. Unless, of course, there’s icing or pie involved, then two helpings of enough will be enough.
I had come to grips with the fact that the mental picture that I have rolling around of my body and what was actually looking back at me from the mirror, have deviated. Significantly. I had also come to grips with the fact that while I’ll never ever look the way I want to (I’ll never put that much effort into anything), but if I feel better about how I feel, that’s going to be a big step in the right direction.
At the beginning of the year, I picked up a heart rate monitor, we purchased a few work out videos, and went at it. I’ll spare you all the details, but suffice it to say, I’ve lost some weight. Not a ton, but enough that I feel better. Clothes fit better, I know I’m more physically fit, and I haven’t really changed my eating habits. Yea! Small victories.
So, along comes Thanksgiving and the attack of the pies. In our extended family, my wife is the pie gal. She makes a bunch of them and everyone gobbles them up. I love her apple pie, and have gone so far as to demand that she make two of them, one for the family, and one just for me.
Let’s just say, that my long term weight gain isn’t a mystery, ok? You don’t put on 50 lbs in 20 years by eating vegetables, drinking diet water and holding your breath, ok?
Anyway. So last night, I’m watching the Pats get their asses handed to them by the Saints (thanks for the help, Jack!), my tummy is starting to rumble, and there is one last piece of pie calling out to me from the kitchen. I mean, it’s pleading with me, whining about how “it’s the last piece of pie and it’s sooooo lonely here in the dark, cold, kitchen” and so forth.
You know what I’m talking about, right? Like we haven’t all been there? It’s a friend called temptation and it’s a face I stare into on a daily basis.
But, what the hell (I rationalized), why am I going through all this hard work, if I can’t enjoy a freaking piece of pie once in a while, right? We’ll just ignore the fact that it’s the same argument that I’ve used every day since Thanksgiving, because who cares about yesterday.
So I gave in and enjoyed the pie. It was delicious. Tomorrow will be another day, change can wait, but it’s always a good time for pie.
I know, I know, you’re shocked (Shocked!) that the guy that called everyone else an idiot, while misspelling a few words along the way, might have something more to say than just that. Sometimes I even surprise myself.
But, instead of talking about change(s), I decided to talk about pie. Some yummy in my tummy apple pie from Thanksgiving, that I’m still thinking about now.
See, at the end of last year, I wanted to get off my ass and try to become, on a more consistent basis, active. I was looking at turning 45 and the seemingly never ending expansion of my gut, and I decided that enough was enough. Just one helping of enough was going to be enough for me, from now on. Generally. Unless, of course, there’s icing or pie involved, then two helpings of enough will be enough.
I had come to grips with the fact that the mental picture that I have rolling around of my body and what was actually looking back at me from the mirror, have deviated. Significantly. I had also come to grips with the fact that while I’ll never ever look the way I want to (I’ll never put that much effort into anything), but if I feel better about how I feel, that’s going to be a big step in the right direction.
At the beginning of the year, I picked up a heart rate monitor, we purchased a few work out videos, and went at it. I’ll spare you all the details, but suffice it to say, I’ve lost some weight. Not a ton, but enough that I feel better. Clothes fit better, I know I’m more physically fit, and I haven’t really changed my eating habits. Yea! Small victories.
So, along comes Thanksgiving and the attack of the pies. In our extended family, my wife is the pie gal. She makes a bunch of them and everyone gobbles them up. I love her apple pie, and have gone so far as to demand that she make two of them, one for the family, and one just for me.
Let’s just say, that my long term weight gain isn’t a mystery, ok? You don’t put on 50 lbs in 20 years by eating vegetables, drinking diet water and holding your breath, ok?
Anyway. So last night, I’m watching the Pats get their asses handed to them by the Saints (thanks for the help, Jack!), my tummy is starting to rumble, and there is one last piece of pie calling out to me from the kitchen. I mean, it’s pleading with me, whining about how “it’s the last piece of pie and it’s sooooo lonely here in the dark, cold, kitchen” and so forth.
You know what I’m talking about, right? Like we haven’t all been there? It’s a friend called temptation and it’s a face I stare into on a daily basis.
But, what the hell (I rationalized), why am I going through all this hard work, if I can’t enjoy a freaking piece of pie once in a while, right? We’ll just ignore the fact that it’s the same argument that I’ve used every day since Thanksgiving, because who cares about yesterday.
So I gave in and enjoyed the pie. It was delicious. Tomorrow will be another day, change can wait, but it’s always a good time for pie.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Lies and Bullshit
That’s my opinion of the “health care reform” legislation in Washington.
If you disagree with me, that’s fine. It’s your right to be a miss-informed idiot and to believe the out & out lies that our elected leaders are trying to foist on us.
This legislation has as much to do with real health care reform as a blowjob from a twenty dollar hooker does with real love. It doesn’t. And if you think that it does, well, again, it’s your right to be a miss-informed idiot.
When our legislators have to resort to bribing classes of people in our society (seniors with the $500 pay-off and doctors with the “doctor’s fix”), so they shut up long enough for this stinking crap to pass a vote, then you should know that this legislation is a stinking pile of horse shit. Sorry, horse shit, I didn’t mean to offend you.
And don’t even get me going on all of the taxes that they are going to implement to “pay” for this crap. OMG, you have got to be fucking kidding me. Anybody that doesn’t understand basic economics and what effect that these taxes are going to have on behavior, well, it’s your right to be a miss-informed idiot…
I could go on, but hopefully you get my point. If you don’t, then please see the above statement about you being a miss-informed idiot.
I’m out.
If you disagree with me, that’s fine. It’s your right to be a miss-informed idiot and to believe the out & out lies that our elected leaders are trying to foist on us.
This legislation has as much to do with real health care reform as a blowjob from a twenty dollar hooker does with real love. It doesn’t. And if you think that it does, well, again, it’s your right to be a miss-informed idiot.
When our legislators have to resort to bribing classes of people in our society (seniors with the $500 pay-off and doctors with the “doctor’s fix”), so they shut up long enough for this stinking crap to pass a vote, then you should know that this legislation is a stinking pile of horse shit. Sorry, horse shit, I didn’t mean to offend you.
And don’t even get me going on all of the taxes that they are going to implement to “pay” for this crap. OMG, you have got to be fucking kidding me. Anybody that doesn’t understand basic economics and what effect that these taxes are going to have on behavior, well, it’s your right to be a miss-informed idiot…
I could go on, but hopefully you get my point. If you don’t, then please see the above statement about you being a miss-informed idiot.
I’m out.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Right-wing women rock
A little something for my friends, 'cause girls, you do rock.
http://www.calgarysun.com/comment/columnists/ian_robinson/2009/10/25/11518221-sun.html
The recent election of Danielle Smith as leader of the Wildrose Alliance reminded me that among the many things I love about the libertarian/right wing are the women.
Could be our slogan: Come for the culture war ... stay for the chicks.
Right-wing women rock.
Not for us the sturdy, honest calves of the New Democrat/Green Party female, honed on eco-tourist rainforest hikes.
Those legs are often on unfortunate display, extending from a knee-length tweed skirt as hairy as the legs themselves, and end in a pair of Birkenstocks.
I have yet to see a pair of Birkenstock women's shoes that didn't look like part of the required uniform for police SWAT teams. Sensible shoes are one thing ... quite another to don a pair that look like they're meant for rappelling down the sides of buildings with a Heckler & Koch sniper rifle slung over your shoulder.
The primary reason our womenfolk are at war with the looming spectre of the nanny state is because you can't buy Jimmy Choos in a socialist paradise.
The only sensible footwear you'll find in a right-wing woman's closet are the Nike cross-trainers that go with her gym membership.
Everything else has a three-inch heel. Minimum.
Left-wing drabs recycle. Right-wing women shop -- and the government measures how much they shop every month to find out whether we're still in a recession. Basically, the world economy depends on right-wing women buying shoes.
You never hear a right-wing woman break out statistics pointing out that only 25% of elected offices in Canada are held by women, and then whining about it.
No. A right-wing woman wants to get elected, she runs for office.
If she wins, great. If she loses ... well, there's always more shoe shopping.
Left-wing women burn enormous quantities of fossil fuels to drive across the city to a farmer's market to purchase virtually the same carrot you can get at the neighbourhood Sobey's a couple of blocks from your house for half the price, all in the name of making the environment happy.
A right-wing woman hits the gym, swings past Sobey's and has dinner on the table by the time you get home ... while her left-wing counterpart is still stuck in traffic listening to Sarah McLachlan on her iPod and feeling morally superior about her carrot choices.
And when that plate of food is put in front of you by the right-wing hottie you had the good sense to marry, it will be 100% tofu-free. If you're lucky, she just remembered to buy steak and forgot about the carrot entirely.
Right-wing women have traditional families, so they want to raise them themselves ... or at the very least by a nanny they've vetted, rather than abdicating that responsibility to the state.
They know that the good life costs money ... so they're not sure why the average Canadian is handing -- on average! -- half their income to smarmy government apparatchiks who spend it mostly on stupid crap.
Our women are a genuine asset when they enter politics because they've spent their lives figuring out how to live within their family's means ... while still affording a couple of pairs of those Jimmy Choos.
Because most of them have careers and work hard, they understand the value of a dollar, allowing you a steak lifestyle on a hamburger income ... and they know they can spend their family's money more intelligently than some faceless bureaucrat with a passion for public art or totalitarian city planning.
Right-wing women are essentially libertarians ... they don't take well to being bossed around and they don't like bossing other people around unless it's to tell them they can't spend money.
If they can tell their kid he can't have the newest Xbox upgrade and make it stick ... if they can make a husband understand it makes more sense to put money in an RRSP than going to the Super Bowl with the guys every year ... if they can pull all that off, then fixing health care shouldn't be too big a stretch.
And in case you're not convinced, to indicate the utter superiority of the right-wing woman over the left-wing variant ... just turn on The View.
The left has Joy Behar and Whoopi Goldberg.
We've got Elisabeth Hasselbeck.
Checkmate.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Let’s ask Frank Herbert what he thinks, ay?
I saw this today on the web:
“President Barack Obama is considering a scaled-down version of the war plan advanced by his top Afghanistan commander, Gen. Stanley McChrystal, U.S. officials say.
Such a narrowed military mission would increase American forces to accomplish the commander's broadest goals of protecting Afghan cities and key infrastructure. But with fewer troops, the strategy likely would cut back on McChrystal's ambitious objectives, amounting to what one official described as "McChrystal Light."
So I thought, “Hey, let’s see what Frank Herbert’s novel Dune has to say about this”
“What’s the talk of Rabban in the sinks and villages?” Paul Asked
“They say they’ve fortified the graben villages to the point where you cannot harm them. They say they need only sit inside their defenses while you wear yourselves out in futile attack”
“In a word,” Paul Said, “they’re immobilized.”
“While you can go where you will,” Gurney said
“It’s a tactic I learned from you,” Paul Said. “They’ve lost the initiative, which means they’ve lost the war.”
Gurney smiled, a slow, knowing expression.
“Our enemy is exactly where I want him to be,” Paul Said
Dune was written in 1965 by Frank Hebert. The part of the book that this quote is from is called “Prophet”. Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?
Actually, what my post is about has less to do than how we got here, or shoulda/coulda/woulda, or the reality that someone who voted "present" more often than voting a straight up yes/no can't seem to make a decision, than the fact that tactically, and strategically, it's a mistake to think that we can protect certain "hard points", give up the rest of the countryside to the enemy, and think that we can secure a victory by dropping bombs from 30K feet.
Can anyone say Vietnam?
My point here is that we need to be out in the countryside, engaging the enemy in his house, taking away his sanctuaries, and eliminating his safe areas. Gee, does this sound like any other recent military actions that have been wildly successful for us? Hmmmm, let me see....How short our memory is.
Obama is running so hard from Bush, and blaming him for everything under the sun, that he and all of his Rhodes scholars can't see the lesson plan to victory right in front of them.
I thought that the key to being s successful politician was stealing other people's good ideas, calling them your own, and taking all of the credit for them. Maybe that's not how they do it in Chicago. Too bad. I may not be a smart man, but I know a smart idea when I see it.
In any event, back in 1965, as the Vietnam war was ramping up, Herbert wrote a story, and part of the story included a successful guerrilla campaign. We ignored the lesson then, and we're about to ignore it again. BTW, what's that old line about history repeating itself?
“President Barack Obama is considering a scaled-down version of the war plan advanced by his top Afghanistan commander, Gen. Stanley McChrystal, U.S. officials say.
Such a narrowed military mission would increase American forces to accomplish the commander's broadest goals of protecting Afghan cities and key infrastructure. But with fewer troops, the strategy likely would cut back on McChrystal's ambitious objectives, amounting to what one official described as "McChrystal Light."
So I thought, “Hey, let’s see what Frank Herbert’s novel Dune has to say about this”
“What’s the talk of Rabban in the sinks and villages?” Paul Asked
“They say they’ve fortified the graben villages to the point where you cannot harm them. They say they need only sit inside their defenses while you wear yourselves out in futile attack”
“In a word,” Paul Said, “they’re immobilized.”
“While you can go where you will,” Gurney said
“It’s a tactic I learned from you,” Paul Said. “They’ve lost the initiative, which means they’ve lost the war.”
Gurney smiled, a slow, knowing expression.
“Our enemy is exactly where I want him to be,” Paul Said
Dune was written in 1965 by Frank Hebert. The part of the book that this quote is from is called “Prophet”. Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?
Actually, what my post is about has less to do than how we got here, or shoulda/coulda/woulda, or the reality that someone who voted "present" more often than voting a straight up yes/no can't seem to make a decision, than the fact that tactically, and strategically, it's a mistake to think that we can protect certain "hard points", give up the rest of the countryside to the enemy, and think that we can secure a victory by dropping bombs from 30K feet.
Can anyone say Vietnam?
My point here is that we need to be out in the countryside, engaging the enemy in his house, taking away his sanctuaries, and eliminating his safe areas. Gee, does this sound like any other recent military actions that have been wildly successful for us? Hmmmm, let me see....How short our memory is.
Obama is running so hard from Bush, and blaming him for everything under the sun, that he and all of his Rhodes scholars can't see the lesson plan to victory right in front of them.
I thought that the key to being s successful politician was stealing other people's good ideas, calling them your own, and taking all of the credit for them. Maybe that's not how they do it in Chicago. Too bad. I may not be a smart man, but I know a smart idea when I see it.
In any event, back in 1965, as the Vietnam war was ramping up, Herbert wrote a story, and part of the story included a successful guerrilla campaign. We ignored the lesson then, and we're about to ignore it again. BTW, what's that old line about history repeating itself?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The medical experts say
That to make sure your hands are clean after going to the bathroom, you should wash with soap and water for the length of time it takes to sing Happy Birthday to yourself.
Well, after getting stared at for the last three days in our corporate bathroom, I’ve decided to screw that bullshit and go back to living with bacteria.
And I won’t even tell you what the gay guy said to me…
Well, after getting stared at for the last three days in our corporate bathroom, I’ve decided to screw that bullshit and go back to living with bacteria.
And I won’t even tell you what the gay guy said to me…
Monday, October 5, 2009
Afghanistan
Here’s my two cents on this issue, in case any of you were sitting around with baited breath, wondering where I stand.
If the POTUS actually takes advice from VP Biden, then, in my humble opinion, a) Obama truly is a stupendous, craven idiot, and b) we’re fucked. Joe Biden is an idiot and most of what spews forth from his pie hole should make reasonable men and women blanch.
National Security Advisor James Jones is covering his ass and his boss’s ass by criticizing McChrystal over the weekend. The quote attributed to him “Ideally, it’s better for military advice to come up through the chain of command” completely ignores the fact that McChrystal’s report was delivered weeks ago, but the White House has pushed it back and kept it tied up at the Pentagon. At least Bush had the decency to meet face to face with Petraeus when he “delivered” his report. Obama would do well to stop listening to his advisers, who are more concerned with politics and Obama’s popularity in the polls, then actually winning in AF.
Michael Yon, who I respect, speaks highly of SecDef Gates, so I’ve come to listen to what Gates has to say. When he says that advisers need to speak “candidly but privately” on strategy, hopefully that’s what happened on Air Force One when Obama and McChrystal spoke last weekend.
Why can the Obama’s jet over to Europe to try to get the Olympics for us, but he can’t get his ass over to AF to see what’s going on over there? Why, during the last week, was there more emphasis place on getting an over-priced sporting event for the US, when our men and women are dying in foreign lands and 300,000 +/- people lost their jobs in September? At least Clinton understood “it’s the economy, stupid”. I guess Obama’s too nuanced to boil anything down to such simplistic terms.
I really like this statistic that people are so fond of tossing around now “..violence levels up to 60 percent from a year ago”. Did anyone happen to adjust for the fact that we have about twice as many people in country now as we did last year? Or the fact that we’ve been taking a more aggressive approach to the enemy, moving into enemy controlled areas and engaging them on their turf? Oh no, nobody would want to actually put that much though into what’s driving the numbers. It’s like turning up the heat in your house, and then complaining that it’s hotter inside. Duh. And you guys are supposed to be the scholars running the place now? Right.
On that same line of reasoning, did anyone take into account that, quite possibly, the enemy, knowing our plans, and our weak, yellow belly underside, has taken a more aggressive approach themselves this past summer? Trying to turn our own public opinion against us? Hmmm, did anyone think that though?
What I read about coming from the administration makes me want to puke. Here’s the difference between the two administrations. Obama is having “a series of meeting to consider options for the eight-year-old war, in the face of rising casualties and souring public opinion”. Two years ago, the public pressure on the White House was so much more intense than it is now, and you couldn’t find anyone that thought we should send more troops into Iraq. Except Bush and Petraeus. Bush had two options, cut & run, or double down and send in more troops.
As the saying goes “the rest is history”. What history is Obama going to write? And how will history view the differences between these two men, and who will eventually be viewed as the better leader and President?
If the POTUS actually takes advice from VP Biden, then, in my humble opinion, a) Obama truly is a stupendous, craven idiot, and b) we’re fucked. Joe Biden is an idiot and most of what spews forth from his pie hole should make reasonable men and women blanch.
National Security Advisor James Jones is covering his ass and his boss’s ass by criticizing McChrystal over the weekend. The quote attributed to him “Ideally, it’s better for military advice to come up through the chain of command” completely ignores the fact that McChrystal’s report was delivered weeks ago, but the White House has pushed it back and kept it tied up at the Pentagon. At least Bush had the decency to meet face to face with Petraeus when he “delivered” his report. Obama would do well to stop listening to his advisers, who are more concerned with politics and Obama’s popularity in the polls, then actually winning in AF.
Michael Yon, who I respect, speaks highly of SecDef Gates, so I’ve come to listen to what Gates has to say. When he says that advisers need to speak “candidly but privately” on strategy, hopefully that’s what happened on Air Force One when Obama and McChrystal spoke last weekend.
Why can the Obama’s jet over to Europe to try to get the Olympics for us, but he can’t get his ass over to AF to see what’s going on over there? Why, during the last week, was there more emphasis place on getting an over-priced sporting event for the US, when our men and women are dying in foreign lands and 300,000 +/- people lost their jobs in September? At least Clinton understood “it’s the economy, stupid”. I guess Obama’s too nuanced to boil anything down to such simplistic terms.
I really like this statistic that people are so fond of tossing around now “..violence levels up to 60 percent from a year ago”. Did anyone happen to adjust for the fact that we have about twice as many people in country now as we did last year? Or the fact that we’ve been taking a more aggressive approach to the enemy, moving into enemy controlled areas and engaging them on their turf? Oh no, nobody would want to actually put that much though into what’s driving the numbers. It’s like turning up the heat in your house, and then complaining that it’s hotter inside. Duh. And you guys are supposed to be the scholars running the place now? Right.
On that same line of reasoning, did anyone take into account that, quite possibly, the enemy, knowing our plans, and our weak, yellow belly underside, has taken a more aggressive approach themselves this past summer? Trying to turn our own public opinion against us? Hmmm, did anyone think that though?
What I read about coming from the administration makes me want to puke. Here’s the difference between the two administrations. Obama is having “a series of meeting to consider options for the eight-year-old war, in the face of rising casualties and souring public opinion”. Two years ago, the public pressure on the White House was so much more intense than it is now, and you couldn’t find anyone that thought we should send more troops into Iraq. Except Bush and Petraeus. Bush had two options, cut & run, or double down and send in more troops.
As the saying goes “the rest is history”. What history is Obama going to write? And how will history view the differences between these two men, and who will eventually be viewed as the better leader and President?
How to bribe auditors in 2009
We had our internal auditors in this week.
During their visit, they told me that during a spasm of cost cutting, Corporate IT took away all of the desktop printers that were scattered around in the office, and forced everyone to print to three central machines.
There’s 60 people in our corporate office. In order to save money on toner, some idiot thought it was more efficient to make everyone get up and walk to some central printing station, than to have 20 printers scattered around the office that you have to purchase toner for.
They also pulled the printers for our COO, CFO, US President and corporate counsel. I’d like to see the cost benefit analysis for that one, personally.
In any event, back to the story. I get along well with the auditors. We have everything organized for them when they arrive, we take them to lunch & dinner and we actually treat them like humans.
So after they left, I sent them this e-mail:
Hey Guys:
It was great having you up here.
Not to influence the outcome of the audit, but let’s just say that if the audit report is “favorable”, a certain something (see attached), could “show up” at your desk, with some back-door IT support to get it hooked up.
Just saying, you know? Just, ah, discussing “hypothetical scenarios” and all that.
Mike
During their visit, they told me that during a spasm of cost cutting, Corporate IT took away all of the desktop printers that were scattered around in the office, and forced everyone to print to three central machines.
There’s 60 people in our corporate office. In order to save money on toner, some idiot thought it was more efficient to make everyone get up and walk to some central printing station, than to have 20 printers scattered around the office that you have to purchase toner for.
They also pulled the printers for our COO, CFO, US President and corporate counsel. I’d like to see the cost benefit analysis for that one, personally.
In any event, back to the story. I get along well with the auditors. We have everything organized for them when they arrive, we take them to lunch & dinner and we actually treat them like humans.
So after they left, I sent them this e-mail:
Hey Guys:
It was great having you up here.
Not to influence the outcome of the audit, but let’s just say that if the audit report is “favorable”, a certain something (see attached), could “show up” at your desk, with some back-door IT support to get it hooked up.
Just saying, you know? Just, ah, discussing “hypothetical scenarios” and all that.
Mike
It’s a sad, sad day when the target of your audit isn’t trying to bribe you with sex, booze, money or drugs, but instead with desktop printers. What has this mad world come to?
Monday, September 28, 2009
Watch your first step...
This is from Michael Yon - http://www.michaelyon-online.com/pedros.htm
I think, personally, if you really want to know what's going on "over there", you should read Michael Yon every time he posts something. And in between his posts, read Michael Totten - http://www.michaeltotten.com/
Of course, I don't think these guys are brilliant because we share the same first name, but that doesn't hurt.
I hope ya'll are doing well. I'd love to spend more time with you, but we're busy, busy busy at work.
See ya.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I'll be your DD
http://textsfromlastnight.com/view/53078
(812): She kept calling me her DD, which I assumed meant designated driver, so I was confused because I don't even have a car. Found out later it means designated dick. It's what her and her friends use as code for the guy they want to hook up with at the end of the night. I feel so used.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Cheerleading & body odor. What more could go wrong with my weekend?
Our daughter is a cheerleader in the local youth football program. We’ve been involved with this program for a while, so, you know, I’m pretty jaded with the whole thing. Been there, done that, got the pomp pomps, as it were.
When the football team scores (in this instance, when they carry the football across the line.) the cheerleaders have this cheer that they do, encouraging the virile young men onto more heroic efforts so they can “score” more. I said to my wife later that it’s really kind of amazing how we, as adults, sub-consciously reinforce stereotypical, metaphor laden behavior on our kids at such an early age.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about today.
So, anyway, after this cheer, the cheerleaders typically do jumping jacks for each point the team has scored. If they score is 14, they do 14 jumping jack and if the football team scores again (and makes the extra point), then the girls do 21 more jumping jacks. And so on and so on.
Late in the third quarter, our team scores again, raising its’ point total to 28. So, with the girls having done 42 jumping jacks already, the over-energetic mothers leading the group decided to give the girls a break, and have them do some other form of celebratory calisthenics. What did they choose? Sit ups.
That’s right, the moms decided to have approximately 18 middle school girls, in skirts, lay down on the track, point their feet at the young hormonal boys on the field, and crank out 28 sit ups.
WTF.
Sometimes, we all have brilliant ideas that really shouldn’t see the light of day, you know? Even for jaded old me, this really took on way too much sexual over-tones. I was expecting the girls to chant out with each sit-up “Hey boys, how about scoring some more!” Why blame the internet and TV for corrupting our youth, when we do it to them ourselves?
Let’s move on, shall we?
On Monday, I took the kids to an amusement park that’s about an hour away. The park has a bunch of roller coasters that they kids wanted to scare themselves silly on before school started today.
At each of the rides they have a bar that kids have to be taller than to ride the ride. I’m sure you’ve all seen something similar to this.
I was wondering if we could have amusement parks start to install scratch & sniff signs that say “If you body odor stinks more than this, you cannot ride the ride”. Or better yet, can we have this at the park entrances, so our fellow BO enabled citizens can just be denied entry to the park? Is this really asking that much?
Look, after riding five roller coasters, chocking down some corn dogs and fried dough, the last thing my highly agitated stomach wants to experience is the noxious fumes emanating from your body. Why can't people add “take a shower” on that pre-trip list that they have before leaving their houses? Is it so much to ask? Hello? I work at a landfill and some of you people stink more than that place. OMG.
So, how was your weekend?
When the football team scores (in this instance, when they carry the football across the line.) the cheerleaders have this cheer that they do, encouraging the virile young men onto more heroic efforts so they can “score” more. I said to my wife later that it’s really kind of amazing how we, as adults, sub-consciously reinforce stereotypical, metaphor laden behavior on our kids at such an early age.
But that’s not what I wanted to talk about today.
So, anyway, after this cheer, the cheerleaders typically do jumping jacks for each point the team has scored. If they score is 14, they do 14 jumping jack and if the football team scores again (and makes the extra point), then the girls do 21 more jumping jacks. And so on and so on.
Late in the third quarter, our team scores again, raising its’ point total to 28. So, with the girls having done 42 jumping jacks already, the over-energetic mothers leading the group decided to give the girls a break, and have them do some other form of celebratory calisthenics. What did they choose? Sit ups.
That’s right, the moms decided to have approximately 18 middle school girls, in skirts, lay down on the track, point their feet at the young hormonal boys on the field, and crank out 28 sit ups.
WTF.
Sometimes, we all have brilliant ideas that really shouldn’t see the light of day, you know? Even for jaded old me, this really took on way too much sexual over-tones. I was expecting the girls to chant out with each sit-up “Hey boys, how about scoring some more!” Why blame the internet and TV for corrupting our youth, when we do it to them ourselves?
Let’s move on, shall we?
On Monday, I took the kids to an amusement park that’s about an hour away. The park has a bunch of roller coasters that they kids wanted to scare themselves silly on before school started today.
At each of the rides they have a bar that kids have to be taller than to ride the ride. I’m sure you’ve all seen something similar to this.
I was wondering if we could have amusement parks start to install scratch & sniff signs that say “If you body odor stinks more than this, you cannot ride the ride”. Or better yet, can we have this at the park entrances, so our fellow BO enabled citizens can just be denied entry to the park? Is this really asking that much?
Look, after riding five roller coasters, chocking down some corn dogs and fried dough, the last thing my highly agitated stomach wants to experience is the noxious fumes emanating from your body. Why can't people add “take a shower” on that pre-trip list that they have before leaving their houses? Is it so much to ask? Hello? I work at a landfill and some of you people stink more than that place. OMG.
So, how was your weekend?
I’ve started to wonder
That, when I die, and (hopefully) go to heaven, as I stand before the pearly gates, Saint Peter is going to look me in the eye and say:
“You know all of those chain e-mails you deleted that promised good luck? Bad idea, buddy, bad, bad idea deleting those.”
“You know all of those chain e-mails you deleted that promised good luck? Bad idea, buddy, bad, bad idea deleting those.”
Friday, August 21, 2009
Questions for the Oracle
I know that a lot of people think that they are weird. That we all believe that we have strange thoughts that nobody else has, and that if we express these thoughts and desires, we’ll be labeled as freaks and outcasts.
Thank God for the internet so all of us freaks can band together now, eh?
Please let that first paragraph be a warning, a cautionary tale that the following, which has been rolling around in my head these last few days, certainly goes under the weird category. Now would be a good time to leave and go wash the cat, or something like that.
So, now that everyone has left, here I go:
I was wondering the other day about the fact that I eat a lot of food that has color to it. Lots and lots of color. I’ll spare you a breakdown of my diet, but sufficient it to say, it’s got color to it.
But, when it all that stuff comes out, it’s brown.
Like, where did all that color go to? Is it backing up, somewhere in my colon, waiting to burst out? Am I going to shit a huge rainbow some day, like a cascade of skittles shooting out of my ass?
Inquiring minds want to know….
Thank God for the internet so all of us freaks can band together now, eh?
Please let that first paragraph be a warning, a cautionary tale that the following, which has been rolling around in my head these last few days, certainly goes under the weird category. Now would be a good time to leave and go wash the cat, or something like that.
So, now that everyone has left, here I go:
I was wondering the other day about the fact that I eat a lot of food that has color to it. Lots and lots of color. I’ll spare you a breakdown of my diet, but sufficient it to say, it’s got color to it.
But, when it all that stuff comes out, it’s brown.
Like, where did all that color go to? Is it backing up, somewhere in my colon, waiting to burst out? Am I going to shit a huge rainbow some day, like a cascade of skittles shooting out of my ass?
Inquiring minds want to know….
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Under the tree and dreaming
If you knew what the future held, would you can your actions now? If you knew for certain that 10 – 12 years now, your actions today would lead to heart break and loss, would you still do what you’re about to do?
Unfortunately, when it comes to pets, I never seem to change my ways. Some things never change.
About 12 years ago, our first dog was getting sick. We really didn’t know it at the time, our lives were kind of busy, you know? We had three small kids, my father had died a few months earlier, and right about at this time of the year, I was diagnosed with skin cancer on my nose. Life was happening and we were caught up in the swirls and eddy’s of its’ current.
Shelby was “our” first dog, the first “life” that joined our little family way back when. She was our first baby, the one that helped up begin to understand how to work together as a couple, the first stressor that was going to determine if we were going to make it together as a couple, or split apart at some time in the future. With our 20th anniversary this October, I’d guess it’s safe to say that we learned our lessons well from Shelby. She was such a great dog.
Back to the narrative. So there we were, completely unaware of what our future held, unaware that our beautiful, 9 year old dog was already dying, and would be gone as the new year started.
We had listed out house earlier in the year, to move across town and be closer to my wife’s family. And, as life would have it, when the changes in Shelby became so noticeable and the visits to the vets started, somebody became interested in our house. In the same week where they vets said that they had no idea what was wrong with Sierra, and they could only comfort her, we received the long coveted offer on our house.
With 20 days to Christmas, we accepted the offer and had to be out by the end of January. At this point, the kids were asking why we were letting Shelby eat out of our hands, and why Daddy had to carry her outside to go potty. My kids, who, at that time were 6, 5 & 1,hadn’t really known my Dad, so his passing really wasn’t a traumatic event. But they knew Shelby, the one they laid on when watching TV, the one who ate the food from their plates when Mommy & Daddy weren’t watching, the one who ran around the yard with them and swam in the pool with them. And they knew something was wrong.
Christmas came and passed, the new year approached, and the time came. My wife and I looked at each other and knew, without words, that the deed, which I had never had to do before (that’s what parents are for, don’t you know?), needed to be done.
On the third day of the new year, I packed Shelby into the car for her last ride. I couldn’t see very well, as I was crying and sobbing. It’s hard to comfort your wife, who’s crying like you’ve never seen, when you cannot even see her through your own tears. I remember sitting on the floor in the vet’s office, as Shelby’s life faded away, racked by guilt for having done what I just did, being powerless to stop life and nature, and for the first time as a Dad, by not being able to make things right.
We still have her picture on our fridge.
During the orgy of activity during the next 30 days, as we packed up one house, closed and moved into a new one, we decided that we wanted to get another dog. See, we had already had two, when we got Dakota to be Shelby’s companion. And now, with Dakota moping around the house, we knew we needed to get him a companion as well. I guess once your house reaches some sort of critical mass of children, adults, cats, dogs, hermit crabs, fish, guinea pigs, etc. etc., there’s always room for one more, right?
So, even while we were unpacking boxes, getting the kids settled in their new school, dealing with changing commutes, her family stopping over ALL the time (is this why we moved? So your Dad could stop over EVERY night?), my industrious wife got busy on the internet and started finding another dog.
In hindsight, I can’t remember which arrived at the house first, Shelby’s ashes, or our new bundle of joy, Sierra. Sierra was what puppies are, concentrated joy and fun, a perfect mental cleansing for the loss that we were still feeling. Dakota took right to her, the kids loved her and the cats, well, at least they didn’t kill her. Cats my rule dogs, but cats are definitely shit scared of puppies, I’ll tell you that.
In any event, let’s fast forward a few years, shall we? During those years the kids grew up, my middle grew thicker, and we acquired more and more pets (at least it seems that way to me).
A few years ago Dakota passed away as well. He was a fucking great dog. I’ve loved all of my dogs, but there will always be a special place for Dakota. But, I’ve written about him before, and now is the time for Sierra.
The end Sierra is close. We’ve been to the vets twice in the last 20 days, and over $800 later, they really don’t have any idea what’s wrong. It’s so frustrating. You want to do something for this poor animal, this constant companion of yours, but nothing seems to work.
My father was a doctor, and he always told me that medicine was “60% science, 20% experience and 10% guess work / luck”. It’s that 10% that isn’t working for Sierra right now.
We’re all upset about it, and it’s so different than in the past. The kids, if I can even call our oldest two that any more, are upset. Our son came home from work last night, sat down next to Sierra and balled his eyes out for 10 minutes. The girls have been crying and even their friends have been crying. My wife’s best friend, who doesn’t like our dogs at all, called and said that her husband was upset as well, saying “that’s the only one of the pack that I liked”.
At the vets yesterday, the Doctor was going through some possible scenarios of what could be wrong with Sierra. While we were talking, all I could think about was that this was the same room where 12 years before, I had cradled Shelby in my arms as her life fled from her, and how the next room over was where I stared into Dakota’s eyes as all of his pain finally left him. I’m still racked by the guilt of telling the vets to go ahead with those injections, knowing that I was the one that started the process that ended my dog’s life.
The vet’s belief is that Sierra has a tumor somewhere that will rupture, causing her to bleed to death internally. He says to us “you never know, she could be resting in your house, or outside under a tree, sleeping, and just pass away, without any pain”.
Selfishly, that sounds like a good plan to me.
Unfortunately, when it comes to pets, I never seem to change my ways. Some things never change.
About 12 years ago, our first dog was getting sick. We really didn’t know it at the time, our lives were kind of busy, you know? We had three small kids, my father had died a few months earlier, and right about at this time of the year, I was diagnosed with skin cancer on my nose. Life was happening and we were caught up in the swirls and eddy’s of its’ current.
Shelby was “our” first dog, the first “life” that joined our little family way back when. She was our first baby, the one that helped up begin to understand how to work together as a couple, the first stressor that was going to determine if we were going to make it together as a couple, or split apart at some time in the future. With our 20th anniversary this October, I’d guess it’s safe to say that we learned our lessons well from Shelby. She was such a great dog.
Back to the narrative. So there we were, completely unaware of what our future held, unaware that our beautiful, 9 year old dog was already dying, and would be gone as the new year started.
We had listed out house earlier in the year, to move across town and be closer to my wife’s family. And, as life would have it, when the changes in Shelby became so noticeable and the visits to the vets started, somebody became interested in our house. In the same week where they vets said that they had no idea what was wrong with Sierra, and they could only comfort her, we received the long coveted offer on our house.
With 20 days to Christmas, we accepted the offer and had to be out by the end of January. At this point, the kids were asking why we were letting Shelby eat out of our hands, and why Daddy had to carry her outside to go potty. My kids, who, at that time were 6, 5 & 1,hadn’t really known my Dad, so his passing really wasn’t a traumatic event. But they knew Shelby, the one they laid on when watching TV, the one who ate the food from their plates when Mommy & Daddy weren’t watching, the one who ran around the yard with them and swam in the pool with them. And they knew something was wrong.
Christmas came and passed, the new year approached, and the time came. My wife and I looked at each other and knew, without words, that the deed, which I had never had to do before (that’s what parents are for, don’t you know?), needed to be done.
On the third day of the new year, I packed Shelby into the car for her last ride. I couldn’t see very well, as I was crying and sobbing. It’s hard to comfort your wife, who’s crying like you’ve never seen, when you cannot even see her through your own tears. I remember sitting on the floor in the vet’s office, as Shelby’s life faded away, racked by guilt for having done what I just did, being powerless to stop life and nature, and for the first time as a Dad, by not being able to make things right.
We still have her picture on our fridge.
During the orgy of activity during the next 30 days, as we packed up one house, closed and moved into a new one, we decided that we wanted to get another dog. See, we had already had two, when we got Dakota to be Shelby’s companion. And now, with Dakota moping around the house, we knew we needed to get him a companion as well. I guess once your house reaches some sort of critical mass of children, adults, cats, dogs, hermit crabs, fish, guinea pigs, etc. etc., there’s always room for one more, right?
So, even while we were unpacking boxes, getting the kids settled in their new school, dealing with changing commutes, her family stopping over ALL the time (is this why we moved? So your Dad could stop over EVERY night?), my industrious wife got busy on the internet and started finding another dog.
In hindsight, I can’t remember which arrived at the house first, Shelby’s ashes, or our new bundle of joy, Sierra. Sierra was what puppies are, concentrated joy and fun, a perfect mental cleansing for the loss that we were still feeling. Dakota took right to her, the kids loved her and the cats, well, at least they didn’t kill her. Cats my rule dogs, but cats are definitely shit scared of puppies, I’ll tell you that.
In any event, let’s fast forward a few years, shall we? During those years the kids grew up, my middle grew thicker, and we acquired more and more pets (at least it seems that way to me).
A few years ago Dakota passed away as well. He was a fucking great dog. I’ve loved all of my dogs, but there will always be a special place for Dakota. But, I’ve written about him before, and now is the time for Sierra.
The end Sierra is close. We’ve been to the vets twice in the last 20 days, and over $800 later, they really don’t have any idea what’s wrong. It’s so frustrating. You want to do something for this poor animal, this constant companion of yours, but nothing seems to work.
My father was a doctor, and he always told me that medicine was “60% science, 20% experience and 10% guess work / luck”. It’s that 10% that isn’t working for Sierra right now.
We’re all upset about it, and it’s so different than in the past. The kids, if I can even call our oldest two that any more, are upset. Our son came home from work last night, sat down next to Sierra and balled his eyes out for 10 minutes. The girls have been crying and even their friends have been crying. My wife’s best friend, who doesn’t like our dogs at all, called and said that her husband was upset as well, saying “that’s the only one of the pack that I liked”.
At the vets yesterday, the Doctor was going through some possible scenarios of what could be wrong with Sierra. While we were talking, all I could think about was that this was the same room where 12 years before, I had cradled Shelby in my arms as her life fled from her, and how the next room over was where I stared into Dakota’s eyes as all of his pain finally left him. I’m still racked by the guilt of telling the vets to go ahead with those injections, knowing that I was the one that started the process that ended my dog’s life.
The vet’s belief is that Sierra has a tumor somewhere that will rupture, causing her to bleed to death internally. He says to us “you never know, she could be resting in your house, or outside under a tree, sleeping, and just pass away, without any pain”.
Selfishly, that sounds like a good plan to me.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The lameness of being me
So, the other night, I’m having this dream.
And it was a good dream, because it combined two of my favorite dream topics, sex with strange women, and adventures. See, usually, the two don’t cross paths in my dreams. It’s either sex, or the world is coming to the end. And, usually, since I’m running for my life as the world comes to an end, it’s one of the few times that I’m actually not thinking about sex.
I’m not really sure what it is about blood chilling terror that makes Mr. Winky shrivel up, but hey, it’s the dream world, so we’ve got to go with what we’ve got.
So, anyway, back to the good stuff. We’re on a dark, subterranean river somewhere, on kind of this pleasure barge, when Ms. Cleopatra-look-alike is about to allow me to sample some of her forbidden fruit, as the saying goes. In the background some music starts up, and as I raise her silken robes, I notice what song is playing.
It’s “time” by Pink Floyd, the current mental music plaque of my brain. You know, one of those songs you can’t get enough of, but they keep running around and around and around and around…
I remember very clearly (in the dream) lifting my head up and saying “I love that song…”
And thus ended yet another perfect dream, as I crashed back into reality thinking to myself “who listens to “time” when they’re having sex…?” Well, nobody does, you ninny.
Noticing that I twitched or something as I woke, the dogs jumped up on the bed and loomed over me, insisting to go out. And thus ended the dream, and the tantalizing promises that it held, for the cold reality of the early day. I really need to get my subconscious under control, one of these days…
And it was a good dream, because it combined two of my favorite dream topics, sex with strange women, and adventures. See, usually, the two don’t cross paths in my dreams. It’s either sex, or the world is coming to the end. And, usually, since I’m running for my life as the world comes to an end, it’s one of the few times that I’m actually not thinking about sex.
I’m not really sure what it is about blood chilling terror that makes Mr. Winky shrivel up, but hey, it’s the dream world, so we’ve got to go with what we’ve got.
So, anyway, back to the good stuff. We’re on a dark, subterranean river somewhere, on kind of this pleasure barge, when Ms. Cleopatra-look-alike is about to allow me to sample some of her forbidden fruit, as the saying goes. In the background some music starts up, and as I raise her silken robes, I notice what song is playing.
It’s “time” by Pink Floyd, the current mental music plaque of my brain. You know, one of those songs you can’t get enough of, but they keep running around and around and around and around…
I remember very clearly (in the dream) lifting my head up and saying “I love that song…”
And thus ended yet another perfect dream, as I crashed back into reality thinking to myself “who listens to “time” when they’re having sex…?” Well, nobody does, you ninny.
Noticing that I twitched or something as I woke, the dogs jumped up on the bed and loomed over me, insisting to go out. And thus ended the dream, and the tantalizing promises that it held, for the cold reality of the early day. I really need to get my subconscious under control, one of these days…
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
‘Tards and their blackberrys
This was an e-mail send to me by our local IT support person:
Read the BOLD response below. This response is to a Blackberry user down South who could NOT get emails to work on the Blackberry...
And this was the forwarded note from our internal help desk:
Aaron,
When sending an email from your handheld device you must first add the address of the addressee for the device to work properly.
Let me know if there is something else I can assist you with.
Appearently, Mr. Southern Woodchuck didn't realize that the blackberry didn't come with ESP and couldn't figure out on it's own who the 'tard was trying to e-mail. Technology these days...
Read the BOLD response below. This response is to a Blackberry user down South who could NOT get emails to work on the Blackberry...
And this was the forwarded note from our internal help desk:
Aaron,
When sending an email from your handheld device you must first add the address of the addressee for the device to work properly.
Let me know if there is something else I can assist you with.
Appearently, Mr. Southern Woodchuck didn't realize that the blackberry didn't come with ESP and couldn't figure out on it's own who the 'tard was trying to e-mail. Technology these days...
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Hey, let’s stop building subs too!
And now, a brief discussion on something that most of you aren’t even paying any attention to.
Recently, the Senate voted to stop funding for the purchase of any more F-22 fighter jets. Apparently, President Obama, SecDef Gates, the Pentagon and a bunch of other “really smart” people decided that we’re not going to need any more of these jets. Suddenly, in a temporary moment of “fiscal responsibility” they all want to save $1.75 billion and not purchase any more planes. One of the excuses that they are using is that since the F-22 “has not been used in Iraq or Afghanistan” it’s a weapon system that has outlived its usefulness.
So, uh, based upon this reasoning, should we stop building submarines? I mean, I’m pretty sure that we haven’t used any subs in Afghanistan, since it’s a completely land locked country. What about antimissile weapon systems? Or what about nuclear bombs, ICBMs, destroyers, cruisers and all of the other major weapons that we haven’t been able to “use” over the last 8 years? Should we scrap all of these weapon systems as well?
I mean, really, what a bunch of idiots.
It is said that the F-22 is the most advanced air to air superiority fighter ever built in the world. Period. The F-22 is so good, that it kicks our own planes asses every time. They’ve actually run war games where they completely stack the deck against the F-22, 10 to 1 odds, come up with crazy rules of engagement that would never happen in reality, and the F-22 has crushed the best that we can throw at it. It is so good, that in the war games, only one F-22 was ever “lost”, and that’s because the other plane ran away outside of the war game, snuck back in and “killed” the F-22.
The F-22 is so advanced, that we won’t even sell it to Japan or Israeli. Hello? We sell Israeli everything, but we’re not going to sell them this, because it would tip the balance of power in the Middle East. If Israeli had these planes, they could bomb Iran, and we might not be able to stop them. The planes are that good.
And what about that whole fiscal responsibility thing? Here’s what the Wall Street Journal has to say about that :
“Credit $1.75 billion in savings, or a third of a percentage point of the overall 2010 defense request. Only a couple of trillion more, and Mr. Obama will have a balanced budget.”
It is said that air superiority is what helped us win WWII. It’s also allowed us to operate at will in Iraq and Afghanistan. But, it’s said that you’re always fighting the last war. Hopefully, when the next war comes around, our enemies will be helpful enough and not try to challenge us for control of the sky.
Recently, the Senate voted to stop funding for the purchase of any more F-22 fighter jets. Apparently, President Obama, SecDef Gates, the Pentagon and a bunch of other “really smart” people decided that we’re not going to need any more of these jets. Suddenly, in a temporary moment of “fiscal responsibility” they all want to save $1.75 billion and not purchase any more planes. One of the excuses that they are using is that since the F-22 “has not been used in Iraq or Afghanistan” it’s a weapon system that has outlived its usefulness.
So, uh, based upon this reasoning, should we stop building submarines? I mean, I’m pretty sure that we haven’t used any subs in Afghanistan, since it’s a completely land locked country. What about antimissile weapon systems? Or what about nuclear bombs, ICBMs, destroyers, cruisers and all of the other major weapons that we haven’t been able to “use” over the last 8 years? Should we scrap all of these weapon systems as well?
I mean, really, what a bunch of idiots.
It is said that the F-22 is the most advanced air to air superiority fighter ever built in the world. Period. The F-22 is so good, that it kicks our own planes asses every time. They’ve actually run war games where they completely stack the deck against the F-22, 10 to 1 odds, come up with crazy rules of engagement that would never happen in reality, and the F-22 has crushed the best that we can throw at it. It is so good, that in the war games, only one F-22 was ever “lost”, and that’s because the other plane ran away outside of the war game, snuck back in and “killed” the F-22.
The F-22 is so advanced, that we won’t even sell it to Japan or Israeli. Hello? We sell Israeli everything, but we’re not going to sell them this, because it would tip the balance of power in the Middle East. If Israeli had these planes, they could bomb Iran, and we might not be able to stop them. The planes are that good.
And what about that whole fiscal responsibility thing? Here’s what the Wall Street Journal has to say about that :
“Credit $1.75 billion in savings, or a third of a percentage point of the overall 2010 defense request. Only a couple of trillion more, and Mr. Obama will have a balanced budget.”
It is said that air superiority is what helped us win WWII. It’s also allowed us to operate at will in Iraq and Afghanistan. But, it’s said that you’re always fighting the last war. Hopefully, when the next war comes around, our enemies will be helpful enough and not try to challenge us for control of the sky.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
What's for dinner?
At our daughter’s graduation party, one of our friends was doing the cooking for us. We’d asked him to, since he’s the only one that we know that has a $7,000 smoker that he trails around behind his truck. This smoker is crazy. He had it built in Texas, which, I guess, makes sense, because where else would you get a smoker that’s so large it needs it own trailer.
And the smoker is some weird sort of dude magnet as well. As people showed up for the party, inevitably, as guys walked in to the back yard, they’d look at the smoker and ask “Oh my god, what is that?”. Like clockwork, I’d have to walk them over, introduce them to our friend, Mr. Tucci, and they’d proceed to pester him like little kids for the next half hour. It was kind of the “ooooh-bright-shiny-object” thing that happens to guys, but in this case is was big, rusting, belching smoke and the smells coming out of it made your mouth water.
Mr. Tucci, who’s been a friend of ours for a few years, can cook. I mean, for Upstate NY, as far a barbeque goes, this shit was to die for. Now, Mr. Tucci lived in Texas for a few years, which is where I think he got his barbequing chops from. So, before any of you Southerners “git yer fur all up in a dander” and start mutter things like “y’all damn Yankees don’t know shit ‘bout barbeque”, settle down there Hoss. Tucci had come over to our house the day before, to start marinating all the meat. You know someone is serious about protecting his “recipe” when he takes all of the garbage back home with him, so no one can rummage through it and steal his secrets.
So anyway…
We’re in the back yard with Tucci, before we leave for the graduation ceremony. The dogs are running wild all over the place, the smell of the smoking ribs and chicken driving them crazy. We were telling Tucci that he could put the dogs in while we were gone, if they were too much of a problem. Tucci replied “No, I love animals. They won’t be a problem. Did I ever tell you that I’ve traveled to Korea?”
We looked at him, and the strange turn in the conversation. “No, you never did”
He says to us “Yea, and one day we were traveling from Soule to another city were the customer had a factory. And all along the road, at every little town, there were cages of cats and dogs along the road”
He continued "I said to my guide “Hey, that’s great, you guys have pets everywhere” And my guide turned to me and said (Tucci said this in his best oriental voice) “Oh, no, Mr. Tucci, that’s what’s for dinner”.
Everybody groaned and felt sick. I looked at Tucci and said “you know, I’m counting the pets when I get back, right?”
And the smoker is some weird sort of dude magnet as well. As people showed up for the party, inevitably, as guys walked in to the back yard, they’d look at the smoker and ask “Oh my god, what is that?”. Like clockwork, I’d have to walk them over, introduce them to our friend, Mr. Tucci, and they’d proceed to pester him like little kids for the next half hour. It was kind of the “ooooh-bright-shiny-object” thing that happens to guys, but in this case is was big, rusting, belching smoke and the smells coming out of it made your mouth water.
Mr. Tucci, who’s been a friend of ours for a few years, can cook. I mean, for Upstate NY, as far a barbeque goes, this shit was to die for. Now, Mr. Tucci lived in Texas for a few years, which is where I think he got his barbequing chops from. So, before any of you Southerners “git yer fur all up in a dander” and start mutter things like “y’all damn Yankees don’t know shit ‘bout barbeque”, settle down there Hoss. Tucci had come over to our house the day before, to start marinating all the meat. You know someone is serious about protecting his “recipe” when he takes all of the garbage back home with him, so no one can rummage through it and steal his secrets.
So anyway…
We’re in the back yard with Tucci, before we leave for the graduation ceremony. The dogs are running wild all over the place, the smell of the smoking ribs and chicken driving them crazy. We were telling Tucci that he could put the dogs in while we were gone, if they were too much of a problem. Tucci replied “No, I love animals. They won’t be a problem. Did I ever tell you that I’ve traveled to Korea?”
We looked at him, and the strange turn in the conversation. “No, you never did”
He says to us “Yea, and one day we were traveling from Soule to another city were the customer had a factory. And all along the road, at every little town, there were cages of cats and dogs along the road”
He continued "I said to my guide “Hey, that’s great, you guys have pets everywhere” And my guide turned to me and said (Tucci said this in his best oriental voice) “Oh, no, Mr. Tucci, that’s what’s for dinner”.
Everybody groaned and felt sick. I looked at Tucci and said “you know, I’m counting the pets when I get back, right?”
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I'm a sinner, she's a sinner, wouldn't you like to be a sinner too?
For disclosure purposes, let me start off my saying that I like Sarah Palin. A lot. For a lot of reasons. The least of which is how she looks.
That being said, over the last 10 months or so, I’ve grown tired of defending her. Defending her to my wife (who, over time, has become a tentative supporter of her, to my surprise), defending her at work, and defending her to my Scottish brother in law.
And Colin, if you ever read this, I still think you’re full of shit about supporting the media’s right to attach Palin’s daughter. I wouldn’t want anyone attacking my daughter, regardless of what mistakes she may or may not have made, and I certainly would support anyone attacking your daughter. That whole treat other how you’d like to be treated crap, that your atheist ass doesn’t seem to understand.
Anyway, back on topic.
So, when I say the article below on the web, I thought, “great, another fucking attack”, but the title just drew me in. I mean, I just had to see how some wacko leftist from Politico was going to say that Sarah Palin sinned. So I read it.
And I was pleasantly surprised. And I like Roger Simon’s take on Palin’s resignation and the “repercussions” that it’s going to have.
So I decided to share it with you, since I don’t seem to have much to say these days. But more on that later. So, without further adieu, here you go…
http://news.yahoo.com/s/politico/20090707/pl_politico/24606
The sins of Sarah Palin
Sarah Palin is a sinner. She has violated several commandments and thoroughly deserves the savage beating that she is now getting from political mandarins and media elites.
If it were not for one simple fact, I would say she was through in politics. And that fact is that if the Republicans were picking a nominee today, they would pick Sarah Palin.
No? Don’t believe me? Who would beat her? Tim Pawlenty? Bobby Jindal? Haley Barbour? Mike Huckabee? Mitt Romney?
All of these men might build credible, attractive, even powerful political operations by 2012. But right now? Today? Today, Sarah Palin would be the winner, because more than anyone else, she has won over the hearts and minds of the Republican rank and file. (And tell me that a Sarah Palin-Newt Gingrich ticket would not set conservative hearts aflutter.)
She has done this by sinning, however. Let us list just some of the political commandments she has recently violated:
Thou shalt not surprise the media.
Palin announces she is quitting her job as governor of Alaska, and she catches everybody by surprise. What is up with that?
Where were the leaks and the trial balloons? Why weren’t the media alerted so they could have predicted it?
When you do what the media have predicted, you are “savvy.” You are a “skilled” and “adept” politician.
If you surprise the media, however, you are “out of control” and “bizarre” and even “egotistical.” (Though I have always believed that accusing politicians of being egotistical is like accusing ballerinas of dancing on their toes.)
How badly do some in the media take to surprise? Here is CNN’s Rick Sanchez on Palin’s announcement that she was leaving office prematurely. “Is there anything going on with her that perhaps may lead her to want to make this decision, and the one thing that’s still left out there is, hey, could she be pregnant again?” Sanchez asked.
Could be, Rick. Or maybe it was just her time of month, because, hey, that’s why woman politicians make the decisions they do, right?
But you can see why some in the media were shocked and dismayed. Imagine abandoning your office! Imagine quitting and deserting the voters who elected you!
Though this is what Bob Dole did in 1996, didn’t he? Dole resigned his Senate seat to run for president. I remember it. I was standing right there when he did it. And I don’t recall anybody accusing him of being a quitter. Or of being pregnant.
Thou shalt not upset the pooh-bahs.
The Republican Party likes to nominate the next guy in line. John McCain in 2008, George W. Bush in 2000 and Bob Dole in 1996 were all the next guys in line. They had “earned” their place in the party hierarchy. (Or, in the case of George W. Bush, his father had earned it for him.)
Today, it is hard to see who the next guy in line is, but the party mandarins, the pooh-bahs, are agreed on one thing: Sarah Palin ain’t it.
She is a dumb hick, a nobody from nowhere. She hunts moose with a chainsaw from the back of a snowmobile or something. Just listen to her resignation speech. It was not slick or polished or written by somebody else. She appeared to deliver it off the top of her head as if she were a real person. What a doofus!
Doesn’t she know that the highest form of political communication today is to exactly regurgitate a speech written for you by a speechwriter who has crafted, vetted and polled every phrase, line and word?
But listen to Palin. Listen to how “rambling” and “disjointed” she is. Once upon a time in American politics, this was known as being “plain-spoken,” but that time has gone. An entire industry of political consultants has grown up to make sure politicians are never plain-spoken.
Sarah Palin does not get this. Which is to say she is not very bright. (Or else she is pregnant, in which case, I apologize.)
Thou shalt pander to the few, not speak to the many.
John Weaver, a former McCain aide, told Adam Nagourney of The New York Times that Sarah Palin now has little chance of ever becoming the party’s presidential nominee.
“Somebody has to explain to Republicans how this woman is going to expand her support base,” Weaver said. “Yes, she is the darling of a certain element of our party. But it remains to be seen — in fact, it remains rather doubtful she can grow beyond that.”
She is the “darling of a certain element” of Republicans? It seems to me that with the party collapsing to its most conservative core, that “certain element” could also be called the majority of the Republican Party.
But maybe that is not enough. It is only a “certain element” of the party that finds her energizing, fresh, tough and willing to stand up to the mandarins and the media. Clearly, Palin must “grow” beyond that base to win over ... whom? The McCain wing of the Republican Party? Find it, and maybe she can win it over.
Having said all this, I do not think Palin is being crazy like a fox. I don’t think she has planned out what she will do in 2012. I think she has quit her job, is doing what she wants to do and is reserving judgment about her future.
In doing so, she has made herself an outcast to the mandarins, the pooh-bahs and the elites.
So how can she go wrong?
Roger Simon is POLITICO's chief political columnist.
That being said, over the last 10 months or so, I’ve grown tired of defending her. Defending her to my wife (who, over time, has become a tentative supporter of her, to my surprise), defending her at work, and defending her to my Scottish brother in law.
And Colin, if you ever read this, I still think you’re full of shit about supporting the media’s right to attach Palin’s daughter. I wouldn’t want anyone attacking my daughter, regardless of what mistakes she may or may not have made, and I certainly would support anyone attacking your daughter. That whole treat other how you’d like to be treated crap, that your atheist ass doesn’t seem to understand.
Anyway, back on topic.
So, when I say the article below on the web, I thought, “great, another fucking attack”, but the title just drew me in. I mean, I just had to see how some wacko leftist from Politico was going to say that Sarah Palin sinned. So I read it.
And I was pleasantly surprised. And I like Roger Simon’s take on Palin’s resignation and the “repercussions” that it’s going to have.
So I decided to share it with you, since I don’t seem to have much to say these days. But more on that later. So, without further adieu, here you go…
http://news.yahoo.com/s/politico/20090707/pl_politico/24606
The sins of Sarah Palin
Sarah Palin is a sinner. She has violated several commandments and thoroughly deserves the savage beating that she is now getting from political mandarins and media elites.
If it were not for one simple fact, I would say she was through in politics. And that fact is that if the Republicans were picking a nominee today, they would pick Sarah Palin.
No? Don’t believe me? Who would beat her? Tim Pawlenty? Bobby Jindal? Haley Barbour? Mike Huckabee? Mitt Romney?
All of these men might build credible, attractive, even powerful political operations by 2012. But right now? Today? Today, Sarah Palin would be the winner, because more than anyone else, she has won over the hearts and minds of the Republican rank and file. (And tell me that a Sarah Palin-Newt Gingrich ticket would not set conservative hearts aflutter.)
She has done this by sinning, however. Let us list just some of the political commandments she has recently violated:
Thou shalt not surprise the media.
Palin announces she is quitting her job as governor of Alaska, and she catches everybody by surprise. What is up with that?
Where were the leaks and the trial balloons? Why weren’t the media alerted so they could have predicted it?
When you do what the media have predicted, you are “savvy.” You are a “skilled” and “adept” politician.
If you surprise the media, however, you are “out of control” and “bizarre” and even “egotistical.” (Though I have always believed that accusing politicians of being egotistical is like accusing ballerinas of dancing on their toes.)
How badly do some in the media take to surprise? Here is CNN’s Rick Sanchez on Palin’s announcement that she was leaving office prematurely. “Is there anything going on with her that perhaps may lead her to want to make this decision, and the one thing that’s still left out there is, hey, could she be pregnant again?” Sanchez asked.
Could be, Rick. Or maybe it was just her time of month, because, hey, that’s why woman politicians make the decisions they do, right?
But you can see why some in the media were shocked and dismayed. Imagine abandoning your office! Imagine quitting and deserting the voters who elected you!
Though this is what Bob Dole did in 1996, didn’t he? Dole resigned his Senate seat to run for president. I remember it. I was standing right there when he did it. And I don’t recall anybody accusing him of being a quitter. Or of being pregnant.
Thou shalt not upset the pooh-bahs.
The Republican Party likes to nominate the next guy in line. John McCain in 2008, George W. Bush in 2000 and Bob Dole in 1996 were all the next guys in line. They had “earned” their place in the party hierarchy. (Or, in the case of George W. Bush, his father had earned it for him.)
Today, it is hard to see who the next guy in line is, but the party mandarins, the pooh-bahs, are agreed on one thing: Sarah Palin ain’t it.
She is a dumb hick, a nobody from nowhere. She hunts moose with a chainsaw from the back of a snowmobile or something. Just listen to her resignation speech. It was not slick or polished or written by somebody else. She appeared to deliver it off the top of her head as if she were a real person. What a doofus!
Doesn’t she know that the highest form of political communication today is to exactly regurgitate a speech written for you by a speechwriter who has crafted, vetted and polled every phrase, line and word?
But listen to Palin. Listen to how “rambling” and “disjointed” she is. Once upon a time in American politics, this was known as being “plain-spoken,” but that time has gone. An entire industry of political consultants has grown up to make sure politicians are never plain-spoken.
Sarah Palin does not get this. Which is to say she is not very bright. (Or else she is pregnant, in which case, I apologize.)
Thou shalt pander to the few, not speak to the many.
John Weaver, a former McCain aide, told Adam Nagourney of The New York Times that Sarah Palin now has little chance of ever becoming the party’s presidential nominee.
“Somebody has to explain to Republicans how this woman is going to expand her support base,” Weaver said. “Yes, she is the darling of a certain element of our party. But it remains to be seen — in fact, it remains rather doubtful she can grow beyond that.”
She is the “darling of a certain element” of Republicans? It seems to me that with the party collapsing to its most conservative core, that “certain element” could also be called the majority of the Republican Party.
But maybe that is not enough. It is only a “certain element” of the party that finds her energizing, fresh, tough and willing to stand up to the mandarins and the media. Clearly, Palin must “grow” beyond that base to win over ... whom? The McCain wing of the Republican Party? Find it, and maybe she can win it over.
Having said all this, I do not think Palin is being crazy like a fox. I don’t think she has planned out what she will do in 2012. I think she has quit her job, is doing what she wants to do and is reserving judgment about her future.
In doing so, she has made herself an outcast to the mandarins, the pooh-bahs and the elites.
So how can she go wrong?
Roger Simon is POLITICO's chief political columnist.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
For my daughter
A daughter is like a flower
She brings beauty into the world
Once upon a time, in a hospital not very far from here, our first child was born. She was a shining jewel, and the world recognized it. The heavens parted, the sun shone down, and there was peace on earth.
And then you started to cry, demanding even more attention. In hindsight, we’re not sure if you were crying because of the trauma of birth, or the fact that you didn’t have a purse yet.
Words fail when trying to capture the essence of our love for you, or to truly express how incredibly proud of you that we are. During the daily travails of life, we don’t make enough time to express all of our feelings for you, to communicate how deeply we care about you.
I am very proud of you and all that you have accomplished. I know that you have worked very hard in school and your grades reflect all of your efforts. But, in 20 years, what you are going to remember is all of the friends that you have made and the good times that you have had with them. The people around us are a reflection of ourselves, and your reflection is impressive indeed.
So, go forth and take the world by storm, knowing that we will always be here for you, supporting you and loving you.
Love,
Daddy
PS – I’ll make sure the young one moves back into her room before you come back for Thanksgiving.
PSS – I’ll also promise not to sell any of your purses on e-bay while you’re gone.
She brings beauty into the world
Once upon a time, in a hospital not very far from here, our first child was born. She was a shining jewel, and the world recognized it. The heavens parted, the sun shone down, and there was peace on earth.
And then you started to cry, demanding even more attention. In hindsight, we’re not sure if you were crying because of the trauma of birth, or the fact that you didn’t have a purse yet.
Words fail when trying to capture the essence of our love for you, or to truly express how incredibly proud of you that we are. During the daily travails of life, we don’t make enough time to express all of our feelings for you, to communicate how deeply we care about you.
I am very proud of you and all that you have accomplished. I know that you have worked very hard in school and your grades reflect all of your efforts. But, in 20 years, what you are going to remember is all of the friends that you have made and the good times that you have had with them. The people around us are a reflection of ourselves, and your reflection is impressive indeed.
So, go forth and take the world by storm, knowing that we will always be here for you, supporting you and loving you.
Love,
Daddy
PS – I’ll make sure the young one moves back into her room before you come back for Thanksgiving.
PSS – I’ll also promise not to sell any of your purses on e-bay while you’re gone.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Everything Everywhere
http://everything-everywhere.com/
I love this picture that Gary took. I thought that I'd plug his site and share the picture with you. This is Wadi Rum in Jordan. If you have some time to spare, I highly recommend Gary's site. It will show you parts of the world that you'll have never seen.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Please buy my widget.
It’s a good widget. How do you know? Because I told you so. And you should believe that it’s a good widget, just because I’m telling you that it is.
Some people may say that my widget is exactly the same as my competitors, but it isn’t. My competitor is a bad, bad person, and while superficially, to some, it may look as those our widgets are exactly the same, they are not. He’s a bad dude and thus his widgets are bad, whereas mine are excellent, because they are from me.
There are a few true believers out there, those that understand that while my widgets may look and feel and operate exactly the same as that bad dude’s, that since they are from me, they are excellent. I appreciate these true sheep believers, and wish that there were more of you. Those of you that are not true sheep believers don’t worry, because we’ll just pass some new laws that will make your beliefs obsolete. Or, in case that isn’t possible, I’ll go on TV and tell everyone how you’re bad, bad people, that you’re standing in the way of progress and I’ll generally try to intimidate you as much as I can.
My widgets come in slightly different packaging than that bad guy. My packaging, which is eco friendly and morally superior (again, because I told you so), blows away that lame ass packaging that the other guy has. Once again, I would sincerely appreciate you not utilizing your critical thinking skills to realize that our packaging is almost exactly the same, as well as our widgets, and just accept the fact that my product is way better than that other guy, who probably hurts little bunnies in his spare time.
Some people may say that my widget is exactly the same as my competitors, but it isn’t. My competitor is a bad, bad person, and while superficially, to some, it may look as those our widgets are exactly the same, they are not. He’s a bad dude and thus his widgets are bad, whereas mine are excellent, because they are from me.
There are a few true believers out there, those that understand that while my widgets may look and feel and operate exactly the same as that bad dude’s, that since they are from me, they are excellent. I appreciate these true sheep believers, and wish that there were more of you. Those of you that are not true sheep believers don’t worry, because we’ll just pass some new laws that will make your beliefs obsolete. Or, in case that isn’t possible, I’ll go on TV and tell everyone how you’re bad, bad people, that you’re standing in the way of progress and I’ll generally try to intimidate you as much as I can.
My widgets come in slightly different packaging than that bad guy. My packaging, which is eco friendly and morally superior (again, because I told you so), blows away that lame ass packaging that the other guy has. Once again, I would sincerely appreciate you not utilizing your critical thinking skills to realize that our packaging is almost exactly the same, as well as our widgets, and just accept the fact that my product is way better than that other guy, who probably hurts little bunnies in his spare time.
Biking
When I was younger, I used to do a lot of mountain biking. I loved it. Since I’m also a bit of a klutz, there was some crashing and falling involved. In those days, if there wasn’t some sweating and a little blood loss involved, I really didn’t think I was trying hard enough. It’s not like I was some crazed fanatic, out there on the edge of sanity. Nope, I just had a habit of decelerating through the use of trees, rocks and the ever present ground.
But, with the arrival of the kids, my mountain biking slowed dramatically, until it got to the point where I only pulled the old girl out when we went on vacations. I really didn’t mind this so much until my brother-in-law, who has everything, started taking it up. Then the old pride kicked in and I convinced myself it was time to get back on the bike, as it were, and relive the glory of my past.
That is, until, I refreshed myself with some of the finer points of gravity and wiped out in the bike store’s parking lot. Embarrassing? Sure was. Having my teen son there with me, bending over laughing, made that point loud and clear. I also realized that the monstrous road rash(s) and blood loss really didn’t have the same cache as they did 20 years before.
After eventually purchasing a bike, my-oh-so wonderful brother in law convinced me that I needed to have these clip peddles, instead of just the regular, normal peddles. Clips give you the advantage of not having to worry about your legs flailing around during a crash. Now, instead of your feeble attempt to stick your leg out to save your life, you’re guaranteed that the first items to hit the ground are your elbows, shoulders or your head. This has the advantage of saving your bike from any serious harm during the crash, so when the ambulance pulls away, some lucky bystander now has an almost perfectly new bike to scamper off with.
So, last night, I’m out for a little road ride when I have to cross this bridge a few miles from our house. It’s kind of a back road, so there really aren’t any shoulders on the road or the bridge. Just the road, guardrails, and the four lane expressway about 35 feet below. As I’m approaching the bridge, I’m starting to realize that it’s not wide enough for me and two cars passing at the same time. Something’s going to have to give, right? Right there, out on this beautiful night, I start freaking myself out. All I can imagine is someone racing up behind me, swerving to avoid oncoming traffic, knocking me over the guard, and as I fly off to my death, they are looking at my bike going “you know, that looks like it’s in pretty good condition…”
But, with the arrival of the kids, my mountain biking slowed dramatically, until it got to the point where I only pulled the old girl out when we went on vacations. I really didn’t mind this so much until my brother-in-law, who has everything, started taking it up. Then the old pride kicked in and I convinced myself it was time to get back on the bike, as it were, and relive the glory of my past.
That is, until, I refreshed myself with some of the finer points of gravity and wiped out in the bike store’s parking lot. Embarrassing? Sure was. Having my teen son there with me, bending over laughing, made that point loud and clear. I also realized that the monstrous road rash(s) and blood loss really didn’t have the same cache as they did 20 years before.
After eventually purchasing a bike, my-oh-so wonderful brother in law convinced me that I needed to have these clip peddles, instead of just the regular, normal peddles. Clips give you the advantage of not having to worry about your legs flailing around during a crash. Now, instead of your feeble attempt to stick your leg out to save your life, you’re guaranteed that the first items to hit the ground are your elbows, shoulders or your head. This has the advantage of saving your bike from any serious harm during the crash, so when the ambulance pulls away, some lucky bystander now has an almost perfectly new bike to scamper off with.
So, last night, I’m out for a little road ride when I have to cross this bridge a few miles from our house. It’s kind of a back road, so there really aren’t any shoulders on the road or the bridge. Just the road, guardrails, and the four lane expressway about 35 feet below. As I’m approaching the bridge, I’m starting to realize that it’s not wide enough for me and two cars passing at the same time. Something’s going to have to give, right? Right there, out on this beautiful night, I start freaking myself out. All I can imagine is someone racing up behind me, swerving to avoid oncoming traffic, knocking me over the guard, and as I fly off to my death, they are looking at my bike going “you know, that looks like it’s in pretty good condition…”
Update from the bad parent
We have a friend of ours, who happens to be the District Attorney in our county. Not just any DA, but The Man, the Big Kahuna, the dude responsible for putting people behind bars for a long, long, time. He’s really good at it, at least that’s what the statistics say, and a various bunch of nefarious defense attorneys in town.
That being said, I’ve come to believe that he may not actually know the law all that well. See, he continues to tell me that New York State still prohibits me from visiting harm upon my children, regardless of the provocation. He says that under the law there is not exemption for fathers living with “crazy teen-aged bitches”, that’s it’s just a phase, and they’ll grow out of it.
Of course, his daughters are just perfect little angels, so what does he know. He is like so many people around me, all of their kids are perfect, get excellent grades, gifted athletically, knee deep in charity work, loved by millions, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. At times it seems that I’m the only person around that has normal kids that are driving me nuts, or I’m the only one that’s talking about it.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. At least, I think that is the emotion that I’m feeling in between the times where I want to choke them. I think it is love, but, you know, it could also just be the absence of hunger, so I’m not really sure.
Originally, I typed a lot more to this post, but, in the end, who really cares. Let’s just say that I wish that they would hurry up and legalize pot, because I really, really need a joint right about now…
That being said, I’ve come to believe that he may not actually know the law all that well. See, he continues to tell me that New York State still prohibits me from visiting harm upon my children, regardless of the provocation. He says that under the law there is not exemption for fathers living with “crazy teen-aged bitches”, that’s it’s just a phase, and they’ll grow out of it.
Of course, his daughters are just perfect little angels, so what does he know. He is like so many people around me, all of their kids are perfect, get excellent grades, gifted athletically, knee deep in charity work, loved by millions, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. At times it seems that I’m the only person around that has normal kids that are driving me nuts, or I’m the only one that’s talking about it.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. At least, I think that is the emotion that I’m feeling in between the times where I want to choke them. I think it is love, but, you know, it could also just be the absence of hunger, so I’m not really sure.
Originally, I typed a lot more to this post, but, in the end, who really cares. Let’s just say that I wish that they would hurry up and legalize pot, because I really, really need a joint right about now…
The only person I trust in Washington, DC
Is Jack Bauer.
And apparently, when he's done kicking ass there, he's high-tailing it out of town to NYC, because he's come to the understanding that, as much as he'd want to, he can't kill everyone in Washington.
I'd trust Chuck Norris there as well, but Chuck has enough sense to never, ever set foot in Washington.
And apparently, when he's done kicking ass there, he's high-tailing it out of town to NYC, because he's come to the understanding that, as much as he'd want to, he can't kill everyone in Washington.
I'd trust Chuck Norris there as well, but Chuck has enough sense to never, ever set foot in Washington.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Hello????
A few weeks ago, our son started working at the local driving range. He mans the cash register, gives people their buckets of balls and does a bunch of other stuff. To get to the driving range, you have to go through the club house, past the cash register and out to the range. The reverse is true when you’re done.
Last night, so he says to us, two old ladies were leaving the course, and walk right past him. Trying to be friendly, he waves to them and says “Have a good night!”
They keep on walking, not even acknowledging him.
As he recounts the story to my wife and I, he says “Well, I thought to myself, they must be a couple of assholes” (I loved how he just slipped that right in there, without even a pause,) “so I waved my hand again, and said slightly louder “Thanks for coming guys, have a good evening”
No response.
The guy next to our son, Alex, says “Don’t worry about it, they’re old so they’re probably senile”. This is why I don’t hire young guys. They’re insensitive morons.
So, even louder, our son says “Really appreciate you stopping by. Come back real soon.”
Nothing.
The ladies put their bags down, turn around, and come up to speak with Alex. With their hands and unintelligible words. They’re deaf.
Our son said one of the older guys at the counter started to laugh at him, and he just had to walk away. It had been one of those kinds of days.
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Last night, so he says to us, two old ladies were leaving the course, and walk right past him. Trying to be friendly, he waves to them and says “Have a good night!”
They keep on walking, not even acknowledging him.
As he recounts the story to my wife and I, he says “Well, I thought to myself, they must be a couple of assholes” (I loved how he just slipped that right in there, without even a pause,) “so I waved my hand again, and said slightly louder “Thanks for coming guys, have a good evening”
No response.
The guy next to our son, Alex, says “Don’t worry about it, they’re old so they’re probably senile”. This is why I don’t hire young guys. They’re insensitive morons.
So, even louder, our son says “Really appreciate you stopping by. Come back real soon.”
Nothing.
The ladies put their bags down, turn around, and come up to speak with Alex. With their hands and unintelligible words. They’re deaf.
Our son said one of the older guys at the counter started to laugh at him, and he just had to walk away. It had been one of those kinds of days.
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Monday, April 6, 2009
You know that spot right there…?
The grumpy mood that I brought back from Tampa continued throughout the weekend. There were minor battles all weekend long, until the real kinetic action broke out between my wife, our son, and I in the middle on Sunday afternoon. It was one of those fights where you all end us saying “fine” at the same time and walk out of the room to the four corners of the compass.
Maybe, just maybe, the father of the year nomination should be put on hold for a little while.
But, Sunday was a beautiful day here. It was sunny, in the mid -50’s, with just a gentle breeze. I had accomplished all of my trivial household chores (or, at least the ones I had some temperance for), and I wanted to fly the coop. So, in an effort to bring a little harmony to the house, I offered to take my son for a bike ride, get some fresh air, and remove two of the trouble makers from our happy abode.
I strap on my fancy assed biking shorts with all of the padding in the right places, gather the bikes, throw them in the back of the car, and head down to the trail head. About 3 miles south of us is an old, abandoned single gage railroad track that has been converted to a 20 mile trail. It’s flat, it’s easy, and it’s the perfect way to start our riding season off.
Just for the record, let me state here that I am in no way considered a threat to Lance Armstrong. As a matter of fact, I generally feel as though it’s a good ride if; a) I don’t go into cardiac arrest, and b) I don’t run into anyone else, or fall down. Low goals? Sure, but then I can say I’ve achieved 100% of my goals. So all of you road bikers out there that can snap off 50 miles a day before breakfast, just hold your contempt to yourself, ok?
When we arrive at the trail, instead of heading to the west, where the trail is more tree lined, we headed to the east, to stay in the sun. It’s going great. My funk starts to lift, my son starts to talk about all the things that are bugging him, and the miles roll by. We get to the end of the trail in the next town over (about 5 miles), have a drink of water, turn around and head back.
I suddenly remembered why I always head to the west when I’m starting off. Generally, where we live, the wind in our area blows from the west to the east. When you start off heading west, you fight the wind on your outbound leg, and then it helps you along on the return trip. Now, I begin to realize, that on our first little ride of the season, we’re going to get to fight a head wind for the next five miles. Super.
Then, I remembered, how I had come to hate the riding shorts that I’m wearing. How they developed a certain knack for rubbing right there, you know, in your tender regions, when you’re a long, long way from home. And how, regardless your futile attempts to try to adjust them, they were just going to ride right up there, and rub something that really isn’t supposed to be rubbed that way, until you get off the bike. Five miles from here. In the wind.
Trust me, buy the time I got home, the grumpy, funky mood was all gone, replaced by shooting pain every time I took a step. It’s amazing how a little agony in that patch of skin that runs between here and there can clarify all of the problems in your life. I know that in exercise, the old maxim of “no pain, no gain” is used to motivate people, but how it actually applies in this situation, is evading my grasp. And now I’m starting to worry about how we’re going to remove the band aid that I put down there…
Friday, April 3, 2009
“Sidetracked by Iraq”?
I’m wondering how all of the families of the US service people that have died in Iraq, are going to feel when they hear that Iraq “sidetracked” us from some big love in with Europe?
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/eu_obama
“Welcomed with thunderous cheers, President Barack Obama pledged on Friday to repair damaged relations with Europe, saying the world came together following the 2001 terrorist attacks but then "we got sidetracked by Iraq."
There’s more that I’d like to address in this speech, but time is at a premium today. But I can't let this one go. I love this line of his:
"In America, there's a failure to appreciate Europe's leading role in the world," Obama said.
We’ve let Europe take the lead with Iran these past few years, and look at where it’s gotten us. Nowhere. Europe doesn’t lead. Europe wants our money, and then wants us to get the fuck out of the way. The reason why Europe (and that’s France and Germany, mainly), weren’t happy with us, is that they were circumventing the UN oil for food program in Iraq, racking up billions and billions in ill-gotten gains, and they were pissed when we cut that off.
In a month, Obama’s administration has told the Brits that they are no better than anyone else, he’s bow (bowed low, mind you) to the Saudi’s, and now he’s telling Europe he wants us to work with them to solve the world’s problems.
This must be nuance in action.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
"You know how I know..."
In the movie “40 year old virgin”, there’s a part where they play this game called “you know how I know you’re gay?”. A while ago, my son and I started to play this every once and while, usually driving to one sporting activity or another. Just something to pass the time and bust each other’s chops, you know? Guys being guys and all that shit.
One time, we’re really going at it, and I started to feel like he was getting the upper hand on me. Now, when he was younger, I was the kind and considerate father, always ready to let him win to boost his confidence. Not anymore. When your son, at 16 years old, is 6’ 3”, 210 lbs, and is a destructive nightmare on the hockey rink, the kid gloves are off. It’s more like survival time for the old guy against the young buck.
So, the tide was turning, and I had to come up with a game stopper to put him in his place. The chips were down, and the old man had to come through to save his pride.
As we pulled up to a stop sign, I looked both ways, and said to him “you know how I know you’re gay?”
“How” he asked.
“Because”, I replied, “In Hebrew, your first name translates as “I’m Gay”.
I started laughing my ass off as I pulled through the intersection, while he’s over there, sputtering and wheezing, finally blurting out “But you don’t even know Hebrew!”
Old Man – 1, Young Buck – 0, and balance returned to the Universe.
Friday, March 20, 2009
"Man-Caused"?
Look, I understand the desire of the new administration to distance itself from the prior administration, but this is utter bullshit:
SPIEGEL: Madame Secretary, in your first testimony to the US Congress as Homeland Security Secretary you never mentioned the word "terrorism." Does Islamist terrorism suddenly no longer pose a threat to your country?
NAPOLITANO: Of course it does. I presume there is always a threat from terrorism. In my speech, although I did not use the word "terrorism," I referred to "man-caused" disasters. That is perhaps only a nuance, but it demonstrates that we want to move away from the politics of fear toward a policy of being prepared for all risks that can occur.
I mean, really, WTF, are you some kind a namby pamby idiot? Chernobyl was man caused disaster. Flying a plane full of innocent people into a skyscraper is terrorism. Call a spade a spade.
Didn’t these people learn anything from the 9-11 report and all of the mistakes identified in that report by the Clinton Administration? Hello? Napolitano, here’s a dime, time to phone home for a clue about how the real world works.
Politics of fear? And just what kind of politics was it that the current White House used to get the last two, pork laden spending packages passed? Was it the politics of a doom and gloom and a glowering President Obama?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
After you, Senator
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090317/ap_on_go_co/grassley_aig
“IOWA CITY, Iowa – Iowa Sen. Charles Grassley suggested that AIG executives should take a Japanese approach toward accepting responsibility for the collapse of the insurance giant by resigning or killing themselves.”
“"I suggest, you know, obviously, maybe they ought to be removed," Grassley said. "But I would suggest the first thing that would make me feel a little bit better toward them if they'd follow the Japanese example and come before the American people and take that deep bow and say, I'm sorry, and then either do one of two things: resign or go commit suicide.”
Excellent idea, Senator. How about this. For starters, let’s have all of the lawmakers involved with changing the laws back in the 90’s, that lead to this mess in the first place, fall on their swords. After that, if there are any loud mouth blowhards left in Washington (any blowhards left? Please, they’d all still be there, but just with more holes in them for all of that hot air to escape out of), then they can call on everyone else to follow their sterling example.
Personally, for me, this issue has jumped the shark. Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s fucking ass about the $165 million in bonuses. I’m a little more concerned with getting repaid on the $170 BILLION that the government has loaned to AIG. See, for you non-financial types, Billion(s) is/are much larger than million(s). And it’s not just because B comes before M in the alphabet. To put it in perspective, everyone is getting all pissed about $1.65, when we’ve misplaced $170. I’m not the smartest guy, but I’d be a little more concerned with getting my $170 back than my $1.65. Maybe that’s why I’m not on Wall Street.
And that’s my 2 cents for the day. Which, with $4.97, can get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Adventures at the airport
Saturday morning my wife says to me that “We need to pick my Dad up from the airport tonight.”
“What?” I replied, lost in my daydreams of how I was going to scam some time during the day, to play video games.
“You remember, my Dad was down in Florida this week, and they (her Dad and step mom) are flying back tonight”. I had been wondering why it was so quiet around the house this week, and now, like ripping open Mighty Karnak’s envelope, I had the answer.
Now, in this situation, when my wife uses the word “we”, which, to most of us, would indicate something along the lines of “You and I” or “You and I and a group of people”, she mean the singular we, that is, “You”, being “Me” and definitely not her. See, in this situation, “We” means that there is something that she doesn’t want to do, doesn’t want to be involved with, and that a team of Clydesdales couldn’t drag her ass to do, and that I, being oh-so-lucky to be married to her these past 20 years, am going to have the pleasure of doing in her absence.
I get this “we” thing a lot. Like “We need to go clean up the dog poop in the yard” or “We need to call your mom and ask her what POS gift she wants for whatever holiday is upon us” or “We need to go right up stairs right now and talk with “Your” son about his attitude”. Sometimes, just for fun, I’ll reply “Fine, let me know when “we” are ready to go upstairs to correct this miscreant’s attitude, because until such time, “I’ll” be sitting my ass here on this couch watching TV until “we” are ready.” I don’t pull this out too much, as I do like having my front teeth to eat with.
In any event, I didn’t have to worry about what to do with myself this Saturday evening, since I’d be spending it within the lovely confines of the Greater Rochester International Airport. Since the only international flights that actually fly out of Rochester are to Toronto, I’ve always wondered why it gets to call itself “international”. I mean isn’t that like flying to your backyard? Like, WTF, isn’t Orlando farther away than Toronto? Shouldn’t it be renamed the Greater Rochester Intra-State Airport? Or is that Inter-state? Whatever, you get my point.
So, let’s spin forward to the middle of the afternoon, when my wife and daughters are out shopping, uh, make that “stimulating the economy”, and I’m in the basement, making the universe safe for human exploitation, killing hordes of alien scum with my trusty Xbox 360 controller. During these times of bliss, I have a firm belief, that everyone in the world receives a text message to call my house. And, since, after 20 years of marriage, I’ve managed to piss off everyone in the whole family, most of these calls are for my wife. Various friends, family members, institutions for higher learning, scam artists, social organizations, etc. etc. all seem to want to get a hold of my wife, generally, when: a) she’s out of the house, and b) I’m busy. (I’m using “I’m busy” as a euphemism for a range of activities that I’d rather not talk about here in public, and you probably don’t want to hear anything more about. If you do, drop me a line, as you may be my kind of girl).
Long story short, when the phone rings, I hate answering it. Look, do you really think Alexander would have gotten so far if he’d had to stop every 20 minutes to answer the phone? No, I didn’t think so. And Napoleon wasn’t reaching in his jacket to see the latest text message that he got either. All I’m saying is all of the great leaders never had to answer phone, so when I’m up to my neck in steaming alien entrails, why should I have to?
Anyway…so there I am, “occupied”, and the phone rings. Without thinking, I answer it, with trying to maintain my all-out onslaught on those bastard, terra-hogging aliens, when, much to my surprise, I find myself talking with my aforementioned father in law. He babbles on for a while (I’m in the zone, body parts are flying all over, and I’m thinking that I’m going to have to pump up my chest for all of the medals they are going to give me) and then asks about the weather. I blithely reply that it’s raining lightly and they shouldn’t have any problems at all with their flight. Feeling slightly reassured, he thanks me for the update, and rings off.
In the long, long list of “things” that I’m woefully inadequate at, we should, at this point, add weather forecasting. We should also add a significant lack of proper regard of, and care for, people who have sever travel anxiety, especially with regards to flying in airplanes. You know, like old people that hate flying anyways, let along during storms. But, hey, we can’t all be perfect, right? C’est la vi, right?
The anointed hour arrives, and I hop into the car to take off to the airport. The first thing I noticed, with my keen powers of observation, is that it’s really, really raining hard. Like, the kind of rain you get during the summer tropical heat. And then, lo and behold, to my great surprise, lighting starts ripping across the sky. And not just one or two bolts, but flashing like the paparazzi around some young starlet. The closer I’m getting to the airport, the heavier and heavier it’s raining, I’m driving through partially submerged streets, and the lightning is like a crashing all over the place. And, just to make the whole situation a lot more fun, the wind starts howling. I’m following behind a truck that is spraying water up from the flooded road like a ship at sea, and I started laughing to myself over how utterly and completely WRONG I was with my little pep talk to my father in law. Someday, we’ll all be able to laugh at ourselves over this, right?
Eventually, I make it to the airport, park in the short term parking lot, and in the pouring rain, make my way into the terminal. Just before I reach there, my phone starts ringing. Hopping puddles, dodging taxi’s and irate travelers, I see that it’s my father-in-law, and answer the phone. The following is, as far as I can remember, and exact copy of the conversation:
“Hello?” I answered
“Michael, it’s Dick” my father in law stated. See, his name is Richard, which is what I call him. Everybody else calls him Dick. I do, at times, but usually not around him, or my wife. Of course, somebody like me, with as twisted a sense of humor that I have, would end up with a Father-In-Law named Dick. He’ll even laugh about it, telling people “He only calls me Dick when he’s pissed at me”. It’s such a thin veneer that I have.
“Hey Richard, I’m just about to enter the terminal, where are you”
“Don’t bother coming in, just circle around and we’ll find you”
“Yea, but I’m already in the terminal. Where are you?”
“Don’t come in. We’re down here at the baggage carousel, waiting for our bags. We just got in, you know.”
“yea, I know, that’s why I’m here. Which baggage carousel are you near?”
“How am I supposed to know that? Listen, don’t bother coming in, we’ll just get out bags and meet you out at the curb.”
“Look, Richard, I’m already in the building. Why don’t you tell me where you are, and I’ll come to you”.
“Don’t bother coming to me, just meet us outside.”
“But if I don’t know where you are, how am I supposed to know which curb to pull up to? Look, I’m standing in front of carousel #2, which one are your bags arriving at?”
“How am I supposed to know that? Look, let me walk outside..”
“Dick, look up at the ceiling, there are signs that tell you which carousel your bags are at.”
“Signs? I don’t see any signs. I see some sheriffs, some taxi’s, a lot of people waiting…”
“Dick, did you walk outside?”
“Yea, why?”
“I told you I was inside. Which door did you walk out?” By this time, I’m in the middle of the building, spinning around like a top, trying to see him. My father in law used to be tall, and is still over 6’ 1”, with white hair. He’s usually easy to see.
“How am I supposed to know which door I walked out? Where are you, I don’t see you”
“DICK! I told you, I’m inside the building. Do you see the yellow caution tape in the middle of the building?”
“No, how am I supposed to see that, I’m outside.”
I walked out the middle entrance doors, to see him standing there, cell phone glued to his head, staring out in the parking lot for me. If I wasn’t so pissed, I would have fallen over laughing. Because of the storm, I had to yell his name three times before he heard me. He turned around and said “Oh, there you are. Hey, let’s go get the bags.”
Classic.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Mission Failure
“Muzzammil Hassan, founder and CEO of Buffalo, N.Y.-based Bridges TV, which launched in 2004 with a mission to show Muslims in a more positive light”
After Hassan, 44, told police his wife was at the Bridges TV offices, in the village of Orchard Park, they found her body there, beheaded, The Buffalo News reported.
It’s been reported that Bridges TV is now considering switching to a reality TV format in order to “teach all of you infidels a lesson!”
Monday, February 2, 2009
So you’re saying what’s good for the goose, isn’t necessarily what’s good for the gander?
I really do not care that Michael Phelps smoked pot.
I mentioned this to my wife this morning, as the Today show was crucifying this kid for taking a bong hit a few months ago. Actually, it wasn't so much that they were criticising him for smoking pot, it was for begin caught in a picture smoking pot.
My first mistake was interrupting the Today show. The second mistake was taking a position that was contrary to what the Today show thought. If Matt Lauer and Oprah stood hand in hand, and told everyone to jump into a flaming volcano, I’m pretty sure my family would. And why is it that Oprah can balloon up to 250 pounds, and everyone still loves her, but Jessica Simpson steps out in some size 8 jeans, and she’s called a fat cow?
But anyway, I digress.
My wife replied “Well, it doesn’t set a very good example, does it?”
I said “The last three Presidents have all done drugs. The current president has written, in a book no less, about his cocaine use. So I’m supposed to think that Michael Phelps is going to set a bad example?”
She asked “What about all those kids that look up to him as a role model?”
I said “I’d tell them that as soon as they won 8 gold medals in the Olympics, they can smoke as much pot as they want.”
And besides, this is America. We don’t really, really love you until you fall from grace and then you climb your way back up again.
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