Burning Books and Stuff

I have degrees in literature and writing so it goes without saying that I write and read more than the average person.  I guess you could say I'm well read, and no, I don't want to get into any bookworm pissing contest with anyone.  I'm just saying, I've read some stuff.  I'm a good reader.  I'm a close reader.  All that stuff.  And yes, I write--might not be the next Cormac McCarthy, but I do write...

You know, I can't imagine what it would be like if someone took it upon themself to hate my work so much that they amassed a heap of my *best* work and lit it ablaze.  Jeez, that would hurt my feelings, for sure.  I might even think about going into fetal hibernation under my bed.  Maybe I'd think about changing my name and moving to...somewhere that was not here.   I might think about a lot of stuff.  Yeah, I might think about it.  I wouldn't do it. Wouldn't do anything except keep writing.  That's what I would do. Well, ok, I might jump off a bridge if it were someone like my mother or my daughter doing the burning, that would shut me down, for sure.  But anything short of familial disparagement is just going to get chocked up to status-quo-class criticism.

Why is that?  Why wouldn't I freak out and throw incendiary bombs (linguistic or otherwise) at the people burning my book?  Because I live in a world of diverse opinions, with diverse perspectives and diverse attitudes.  That's why.  I'm used to criticism.  Americans are used to that.  If you're not, you're leading one helluva sheltered life, or you live with your mother.

You know what?  Check this out.  I actually did have a guy crumple up something I wrote once and toss it in the garbage can on the way out of class--a class full of students who were listening to me read my story as they were following along.  Boink.  In the trash.  Deep sixed.  I mean this guy was a blatant lefty and he didn't even think about recycling it.  Trashed.  Actually, when he first tossed it he missed the garbage can so he bent over and picked it up with his index finger and thumb as if it were a hardened dog turd and only dropped it into the wastebasket after dangling it there for a few seconds.  He smiled while he dangled it.  Right at me.  Right at my face.  Ugh.


Ok, that sucked.  But then again, so did what I wrote.  It sucked for him at least.  Pissed him off even. Whatever.

See?  This is why my writing sucks, I'm too tangential.  I've got no rigid structure, no...program, as someone once called it.  Maybe my writing style is just "diverse".  Nah...


So, I wonder about this Quran burning episode that will take place on 9/11/10.  And I wonder about Americans.  What is it about Americans that they put up with people burning the flag and the Bible even though they hate that it happens, but Muslims will supposedly kill an extra 10,000 infidels if we burn the Quran?  I don't know.  I'm just thinking...there aren't a lot of Christians in Mecca or Medina.  In fact, there aren't any at all.  No diversity.


Diversity.  God knows I hate that word so much.  It usually precede a lecture about how I suck for being a rich, white heterosexual male who enslaves entire races and eradicates other races from the face of the Earth.  Well, it does.  For the record, I'm not rich.  I'm not Caucasian.  I've never owned a slave, nor has anyone in my family. And I've never killed or condoned the killing of any human being.  Not even Saddam Hussein.  Not even Hitler.  Not even Kenny Rogers.


Oh, sorry.  Writing got diverse there again, didn't it?  It's actually working out good, let's keep it up.

More diversity:

I love chocolate cake with cherry flavored frosting.  /diversity


Have you ever read the Acts of the Apostles?  Did you know that Christians, 2,000 years ago burned books in protest?  Did you know this?  Act 19:19.  Go check it out.


So, what you're telling me is that it's NOT ok to offend the Muslim religion and their tradition by burning their book, but it is ok to offend the Christian religion and their tradition by telling them they cannot burn a book.  Hmm.  Maybe I was wrong about our "diversity".  Wait a second.  We don't get the benefit of our own diversity do we?  We're expected to be accepting--and particularly accepting of the idea that we're not expecting to be accepted.  That's not diversity, now is it?  That's writing yourself out of your own story! That's like...like...martyrdom.  That's the cultural equivalent of a self perpetuated fetal hibernation.  That's death.  Suicide.  Jumping off the bridge. 

Do yourself a favor and go burn a Quran.  At least you'll know you're alive.

Feel free to print this out, just so you can toss it in the trash.

Me?  I'm going to burn it. 

That's all.

Three Little Pigs in America

One day, three young pig brothers from humble beginnings decided it was time to leave and seek their fortunes in the world. And, thinking they had been educated in the best education system in the world, with the best standard of living and with an unsurpassed level of freedom, they set out in different directions to make their marks.

The first little pig was the nicest little fellow you could ever want to meet.  Unfortunately, this little pig had somehow fallen through the cracks of the porcine education system and had no clue how to go about starting a life for himself.  For a while he joined up with a troupe of traveling flute-playing pigs, but that didn't work out after they infuriated a crowd of Alaskan Mamma Bears.  After his narrow escape from that fiasco, he decided he needed help getting settled into a real life and went to the hogs over at the Bureau for the Welfare of Pigs.  They set him up with a house--not a great house, it was made out of straw--and a cushy little stipend in order to tide him over until he could figure things out on his own.  Every once in a while he took a part-time or temporary job, but nothing ever lasted.  His heart wasn't in it.  And besides, when he didn't work, he got paid more by the BWP and he didn't have to do anything except have his friend fill out some paperwork for him (he couldn't read very well, even though he graduated from high school).  He wasn't happy, per se, but he was glad enough that he had finally "made it" in the world.

The second little pig was a bit more motivated than the first.  But luck and time weren't as kind to this little porker as he had hoped.  Things weren't bad--far from it--but he knew they could be better.  He bought a wooden house, got a job and climbed the ladder, as it were, before hitting the eventual middle-class ceiling.  Investment! He thought.  That's how I can get ahead.  And he did--for a while, anyway.  But that's where luck came into play--the bad kind of luck, almost the worst kind.  All's not lost, he told himself reassuringly, but he was kidding himself and in his mind fear and uncertainty festered.  Eventually, he took out a second mortgage on the stick house.  "Don't worry"  the banker told him  "You'll be fine.  And besides, the law requires me to grant you this loan."  Well, he wasn't fine.  He lost the job he had for almost 10 years and money became as scarce as caviar suet.  He tried to keep his chin up.  But the bankers were calling and time...well time does what it does:  it runs out.

The third little pig was a merry good fellow.  And why wouldn't he be?  He was a success!  He started out slow, yeah, but hard work and resiliency were finally starting to pay off.  Sure, he'd had his share of failures...big ones!  That's what he learned through life in the world:  big risks lead to colossal rewards as well as titanic failures.  But nothing stopped him.  He tried and tried and tried.  After about ten years of trying, he felt as if he'd finally beaten the game.  He built himself his dream house in the Hamptons.  It was a solid, beautiful, brick structure complete with all the modern amenities...including a hot tub, a Foosball table and yeah, a fireplace.  You could say life was good for pig number three, but it wasn't done.  Not by a long shot. The third pig was a benevolent character, you know, he offered money and even a job to the second little pig, but was refused. Pride maybe?  Thought the third little pig.  Well, that can be a good thing, I guess.  He offered money and a job to the first little pig as well.  The first little pig took the money and said he'd take the job "next week".  It was always "next week".  At any rate, the third little pig had done well in the world.

Suffice it to say, one day about ten years after the pigs had left to enter the world, a stranger came into town:  The Big, Bad Wolf. 

He stopped first at the straw house and called out its inhabitant.

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in!"
"No fucking way!"  Replied the first little pig.
"Little pig, don't worry!  I'm not here to eat you!  I see your plight, and the plight of others like you and I'm here to help you foster in an era of fundamental transformation of this society!"
There was a slight pause--long enough for an eye to be batted.  And then...
"In that case...OK!"

And the first little pig came out to meet the wolf.

Then the wolf took the first little pig and arm-in-arm they marched down the street to the second little pig's house of sticks (which was kind of falling apart at this point).

"Little pig, little pig let us come in!"  They yelled.
"Brother?"  Replied the second little pig in a whimper, "What are you doing with that wolf?"
"Fear not my brother!  We're working together for the greater good!"
"Well...I don't know..."  The second little pig was a bit apprehensive--until the wolf started speaking.
"Little pig!  You are oppressed!  You are a victim of a society that harms you!  Why, look at your brother's house down the street!  It is plush and solid and he has Foosball for crying out loud! It's not your fault he got lucky and you struck out! Some of that should be yours!"

And that was all it took.  Now all three were marching in the street toward the third pig's house. 

When they got there, they had somehow acquired pitchforks and torches (I dunno...it's a fairy tale, these things happen).  And they stood in the yard of the third little pig chanting and yelling for him to come out.  Well, the third little pig was no dummy.  He knew what was happening.  Time to pay the piper--and after all he'd done to try to help these little hogs.  One thing was for sure: he wasn't going without a fight.  So when they yelled:

"Little pig, little pig, let us come in!"


He did nothing.

That's right, he ignored them.  They'll go away after they grow tired of trying to blow this house down.  Sure, he looked at the gun closet and thought about opening it and pulling out his threaded barreled, semi-automatic AR-15 carbine with flash suppressor and laser sight to make pork chops out of his brothers, but he declined.  They'll come to their senses and go away.

But they did not go away.  The grew louder and more obnoxious.  Finally, at about three o'clock in the morning, the third little pig had to respond.  He opened his bedroom window and looked down on the trespassers



"What exactly is it you want?"  He asked them

"We want justice!"  Blurted out one of his brothers--but the wolf silenced him with a wave.

"Little pig, little pig, let us come in."  Said the wolf, calmly.
 
"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin."  Came the melodic reply.

"Then we'll huff and we'll--"  The wolf stopped mid-sentence...

"Then we'll huff and we'll--hang on a second."  The wolf reached into a sack attached to a stick he'd been carrying around and pulled out two teleprompters on stands (don't ask how they fit in the sack--it's STILL a fairy tale...)

The third little pig rolled his eyes, rested his weary piggy face on his little piggy hand and waited for the wolf to set up his get up.

"Ahem."  The wolf cleared his throat before continuing.  "Then we'll huff and we'll puff and we'll-"

"Blow my house in?"  The third pig interjected sleepily.  "I've heard it all before."

Well, this interruption infuriated the wolf who had known all along that they could never get that third little pig out of the house to join their crusade.

"That's it fellas."  He said to his portly cohorts.  "On the roof!  We're goin' in!"

And up they went.  The third little pig, fearing for his life, quickly lit a fire in the fireplace and stoked it as hot as it could get, just in case they tried to come down the chimney--which they eventually did.  Down they came, all at once.  Blam, Blam, Blam!  The wolf seized the third little pig before he could reach his gun. The first little pig shook his fist and yelled angry things at his more successful brother.  The second little pig made no noise at all.  He was dead.  Burned up in the boiling hot water in the kettle.  "I smell dinner!"  Yelled the Big bad wolf.  "Yum!"

The first and third little pig sat there, dejected, as the Big Bad Wolf finished his meal.  The first little pig knew he had been "snookered".  The third little pig was just plain saddened.

"Alright, that's enough of this sulking around."  Said the wolf to the third little pig.  "Get outta here, go live in your brothers wooden house.  And be happy I don't eat you, too."  The third little pig moped slowly out of the house he had built and headed for the stick house of his brother.

"What about me?"  said the first little pig with a smile.  Certainly he expected to get something out of this. 

"You?"  asked the wolf snarkily while wiping his furry chin with the tablecloth.  "You get outta here, you get NOTHING!"  The wolf yelled the last word so loudly, the furniture in the house vibrated and slid across the floor.

"Nothing?"  The first little pig asked timidly.

"Well..."  Thought the wolf momentarily, "alright, take the Foosball table."

And so the first little pig dragged the table down the street, past the dying flames of torches, past the disheveled third brother who stared at him with sad eyes from the stick house and then finally, to the straw house, where he would live out his days, betrayed, victimized and ostracized.

But hey, Foosball's fun, right?

The Tenacity of Love

I hear you hate Christians and libertarians and balanced budgets and fiscal responsibility and white people and guns and heroes and hyperbole and prejudice and private property and Jesus and Gandhi and little furry kittens and honesty in reporting and actual peer-reviewed research and apple pie and unproven allegations and baseball and yourself.

But this Christian libertarian proponent of balanced budgets and fiscal responsibility is white and has heroes who wield firearms when necessary to protect private property from the prejudiced hyperbolic killers of little furry kittens and actively seeks proof of allegations and honesty in both reporting and scientific research even when it comes to Jesus and Gandhi who both would have loved baseball and apple pie and yes, even  you.  As I love you.

 I do.

 I love you.

That is all.

A Lesson in Individual Freedom

Lee sent me this, I thought I'd pass it along.  Enjoy!  Think!

An economics professor at a local college made a statement that he had never failed a single student before,
but had once failed an entire class.

That class had insisted that Obama's socialism worked and that no one would be poor and no one would be rich, a great equalizer.
The professor then said, "OK, we will have an experiment in this class on Obama's plan".

All grades would be averaged and everyone would receive the same grade so no one would fail and no one would receive an A...
After the first test, the grades were averaged and everyone got a B.

The students who studied hard were upset and the students who studied little were happy.

As the second test rolled around, the students who studied little had studied even less and the ones who studied hard decided they wanted a free ride too so they studied little.

The second test average was a D!

No one was happy.

When the 3rd test rolled around, the average was an F.

The scores never increased as bickering, blame and name-calling all resulted in hard feelings and no one would study for the benefit of anyone else.

All failed, to their great surprise, and the professor told them that socialism would also ultimately fail because when the reward is great, the effort to succeed is great but when government takes all the reward away, no one will try or want to succeed.
Could not be any simpler than that.

It's Official: Britain's MSM Destroys Ours

"And this I know, full many a time,

When she was on the mountain high,

By day, and in the silent night,

When all the stars shone clear and bright,

That I have heard her cry,

“Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!”’

What, Don't like Wordsworth?  Loser.  

Ok, fine.  Try this then:

Barack Obama tries to find a scapegoat for his own hubris 

Misery, says I.  Misery. Misery. Misery.

That's it.

Peanut Butter and Jelly!

You know what's great about this country? This is what's great about this little slice of God's green one.

That's right boys and squirrels.  Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches rock.  I don't care if you don't like peanut butter.  You know what?  At least half the most important people in my life absolutely loathe the PB&J.

Sadness, I am become.

Well, that's ok.  I more than make up for this strikingly flawed character trait in my significant others.  Trust me.  :D


In fact, I consider myself a THE world's premiere authority on how to make a PB&J.  And no, I'm not going to tell you what the secret is.  And yes, the link above is TOTALLY wrong.  So is this one.  And this one.  And even this one here, while it certainly gets points for going above and beyond the pale, is hopelessly wrong.

I'm so good at making the delectable goodness that is the PB&J (Or PB&Honey, or PBBanana&H or just plain ol' P) sandwich, I entrust the most hallowed exercise of producing this nation's greatest contribution to the global lunch menu to no one.  No one makes me a sandwich.

Which is a little bit odd, actually.  Since I rarely cook anything or make myself anything to eat around here that doesn't come out of a box and require the simple addition of milk.  Although, I think I broke a record this weekend by cooking not just one night but *gasp* two nights...IN A ROW!  Friday I instigated what the girls have mockingly--I think--dubbed "Daddy's Pizzeria" when I made my homemade pizza.  On Saturday I made spaghetti and meatballs...mmm...mmm!  Hey, I likes me some Italian food m'kay?

So why is it so painfully important that I make my own PB&J and not simply follow the directions on the box that is the internet or Betty Crocker's cookbook?  (And yes, there is a recipe for PB&J's in that book.  And yes, it too is a miserable failure)  I dunno.  But, I know I'm not alone since there are forty thousand freakin' websites devoted to the sandwich itself, and countless others which errantly attempt to explain to you, the PB&J layman, how to consummate the union of peanutty goodness with fluffy white bread and lumps of sticky, sugary, fruitish-type stuff.

I know there is a moral in here somewhere...but I can't concentrate long enough to pick it out for you.  Because, right now, I'm hungry.  So, I'll just do a rapid fire before I consult the pantry:

Go make your own sandwich!   And no, you may not use my peanut butter.  And no, you STILL may not have my recipe.

That's it.  That's all.

Food Cops Strike Again!

Is Sugar Salt legal?

Do you remember THIS?

You probably don't, because only 31 people on the planet read that :D

Woohoo! I'm famous!

Well, maybe you should read THIS.

The government governs, my friends.

 Told you so.  Told you so.  Told you so.

That's it, that's all.

Renaming the N.Y. Times!

Ten pages.

No, I mean...TEN PAGES!

That's how many pages it took the ever-captious NY Times magazine to mount a full frontal assault on Texas's board of education...I mean edumacation (Oh my God I've been brainwashed by the Times already!  I only read the one article, I swear it!)  Texas, it seems, is going to turn THE ENTIRE COUNTRY into stark raving Christian Coalition members.  Run!

Apparently, Texas is w-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y more influential than you or I ever dreamed.  All other states BOW at the dictatorial behest of a handful of, get this, SCHOOL BOARD MEMBERS FROM TEXAS.  Mwah.  Mwah.  Mwahahahahahaha!

Man, all we need is a chainsaw and some ketchup and we got ourselves a horror film dynasty just waiting to grace the screens of theaters everywhere.  Can't you taste how good this could be?  Diamonds, baby.  Diamonds.

You know what I like about the New York Times?  Nothing.  They are such lying shitbags it makes me sick to even look at the name in print.  I'm never typing the words: New, York and Times in the same sentence ever again on this blog.  You have my word on that.  Maybe someone could help me think up a demeaning nom de guerre for the Times.  I believe "The Fishwrap" is already spoken for--heck I think the Wrinkly Old Gray Lady (a.k.a. Decrepit Hoary Tired Ass Times of that city which shall not be named in this sentence) was the first official "fishwrap".  Meh.  I'll figure out a good name for it.

You're damned right I will.

I guess I could go through the trouble of spelling out what the hell is wrong with Mr. Russell Shorto's lopsided piece in that filthrag...but I'm not gonna.  Read it for yourself, HERE.  I'd rather sit here and make fun of Mr. Shorto's last name.  I mean who wouldn't, right?

Nah.  He's a liberal, he's got lawyers and isn't afraid to use them.

Libertarianism: What You Don't Understand About it and Why

Let's face it.  I'll help you, here, because I know it's tough.  I want you to say: "I am an idiot."

Yeah, yeah, very funny.  Now, I don't want you to say "You're an idiot" again.  I want you to say "I am an idiot" those words precisely...very important for this exercise.

Go ahead, you can do it.

"I am an idiot."

See that wasn't so har--HEY WAIT A SECOND!  Shouts your inner know-it-all self.  Why am I an idiot...precisely?

Well, I'll tell you, idiot.  You are an idiot because you continue to vote for the same liberal or conservative meatheads that never live up to expectation.  In fact, you've become so accustomed to political disappointment that you've adopted silly little catch-phrases (which you wholeheartedly believe--and some for good reason) like:

1. All politicians are liars. (i.e. Q: When can you tell that a politician is lying?  A: His mouth is moving.)
2. The government is riddled by and with incompetence.
3. Campaign promises aren't really promises.
4. It's the worst government in the world...except for all the other governments of the world.
5. The size of the national debt doesn’t matter because we owe it to ourselves.
6. Nanny State...saying this isn't necessarily bad, saying it like you say it (i.e. en passant) is VILE.

Yes.  You are an idiot because you believe one or more of these things to be true.  And whether one of these clanking cliche's ring true or none of them, the very fact that we've grown accustomed to any of them is a big, fat problem.  And what have you done about it?  Lots!  You say.  I've done lots!

1. You volunteered for a campaign you thought would be different.  Kudos!  So, how'd that work out for you?  
2. You constantly called your representative on an issue you really, really cared about and that you thought your representative would care about.  How'd that go?
3. You started a blog and spewed forth your conceptualizations and frustrations in hopes that someone of importance might take you seriously.  Ha!  Ha-ha-ha-hahahahahahaha!
4. You went to rallies or protests and turned over cars or knocked old ladies down because, damnit, you're mad as hell and you're just not going to take it anymore!  And, here you are, taking it...more so than you used to.
5. You wallowed in self regret until you finally felt hopeless about the whole politics thing and decided, in a fit of grief, to put all the episodes of LOST on your computer and play them in shuffle mode to really amplify your despair and sense of universal disenfranchisement.  Oh, buddy, you're in a world of hurt...

Don't worry, idiot, you're not alone.  As you so coyly pointed out at the beginning of this post, I, your humble Libertarian host, was once an idiot just like you.

A while back I engaged in a rather heated over-the-phone conversation about this country's strident leaps toward socialism.  During the course of that conversation, the opposing debater said:  "What about Social Security?  Certainly you like that!"  And my response was a crisp, emphatic, frothing, rancorous "No!"  Well, the person whom I was engaged in this little quodlibet with was uniquely astonished.  No one, it seems, in their right mind, would dare say they thought Social Security was "unacceptable socialism".  But I went further.  "Social Security" I said, "is a scam."  And it is.  Social Security is a scam the size of which makes Bernie Madoff's endeavor look like a lunch money shakedown.  It is a Ponzi scheme of the worst kind--it is legal.

Little does my debate partner realize that, by the most conservative estimates, Social Security will run out of money two years before I'm eligible to collect one RED cent from it.  Oh joy!  Where do I sign up?

It'll never happen, you say.  They'll figure something out.  They'll print more money.  Something will happen and it'll be fixed.

I'm laughing at you, not with you, I promise.

But you see, that's the problem.  To fix a problem created by the U.S. government, the U.S. government creates another problem.  And then they concoct a remedy for that failure and a fix-all for the problems that created and then they need a cure for that failed policy until one day all we have is some dangling empire of lies garbled together and bound by duct tape.

But it doesn't have to be that way.  It really, really doesn't.  That's where I come in.  (Yes.  I am awesome.)

I have, for the benefit of you and me and the future of us all, dedicated many minutes a day since that argument mentioned previously to write down all the vast government programs involved in this vicious cycle.  In my book, Libertarianism:  What You Don't Understand About it and Why, I address and answer the following:

1. What these programs are, how they came to be, how they are funded, what they do or are supposed to do, etc.

2.  Why you don't understand that these programs are evil and should not only be discontinued, but outlawed.

3.  Why you consistently lie to yourself and say these programs are "working".

4.  There is no four, I just think ending a list at three is bad luck.

And it's yours for only 14.95.

What the...you say?

That's right, I'm a free market libertarian, you think I'm going to tell you why you're a complete idiot for free?  Guess again, sucker.  And I care not a whit that you're thinking right now:  "This shameless know-nothing, nobody, cocky, moronic s.o.b.!  Why the hell would this guy think I would send him anything!?"

I don't.  You won't.

You'll just keep sending that money to the federal government until the day you retire.  And then, one day (the day right after you retire) when you get NOTHING from the U.S. government, no return on your investment, you'll think back about this cocky idiot and about how he tried to warn you.

See, that's the problem with you sad, pathetic idiots.  You're pandered to.  You think you have the right to not be called an idiot.  You think you're informed.  You're not informed.  If you were informed this government wouldn't be running amok with or without your input and/or faux attempts at bending it to your meekly little will.  You're so used to getting information--vital information about how the world SHOULD work--for free.  The internet is full of would-be pundits and idiot savants who can bloviate like nobody's business.  Because that's what it is.  A non-business.  Sure, some of us may be making a little cash doing this, but in order to have a business, you have to have a viable production.   And, I see no production.  Nothing we've said or done has had an effect so far.  Don't get me started on these neo-cons the teaparty movement has successfully hoisted up over democrats of late.  That, my dear idiots, is not production in any sense of the word.

I say it's information about how the world SHOULD work that we're all looking for and the actual real-time means of producing that which SHOULD be.  Am I right?  This is what my book really does.  It gives you the power to become something more than an a useful idiot, it gives you the power to produce real results in politics.  I mean, we already know how the world DOES work (Social Madoff Security), and if you don't know how the world works, don't buy my book.  I don't want you reading it.  You don't deserve to read it.  Yet.

Alright so, if you're frustrated with the idiots in your political party and how they constantly disappoint you, if your angry that the president you elected is nothing more than an extension of the last presidency, or if your just yearning to find out why libertarians always seem to be chuckling internally when some bank fails or some mortgage company comes begging for a hand out, or when the primary stockholders of a certain car company (The U.S. Gub'ment)  are holding investigative hearings pertaining to one of its major competitors, or why you have to pay twelve bucks to park your car in the forest, send me your money and I'll enlighten you.

Until I get your money.  You're an idiot.

That's it, that's all.  





P.S. Don't send me any money you idiots, I didn't write any damned book.  These books have already been written by dudes with actual credentials.  So what was the point of all this?  I dunno, idiot, you figure it out.

Is Sugar Legal?

I like sugar.  Sugar makes things taste better.  Corn Flakes are just little flaky wafers of smashed up corn without some milk and sugar liberally applied.  Sugar comes in all kinds of forms, naturally.  Sugar makes fruit taste good.  Blood sugar (a colloquialism, to be sure) assists animals in maintaining metabolic homeostasis.  Sugar is universally good.  Sugar makes beets, yes, even beets, taste good.  Ok, well maybe the beet thing is a stretch... But the point is:  Sugar has all sorts of documented and time-tested uses.  Heck, sugar can even assist you in a capital murder case!

But really, when we say "sugar", we are talking about the little white crystals of goodness we flavor our Corn Flakes with.  We don't just use sugar to make things sweet or sweeter, but that is the most common application. Sugar, the commodity (SUG) is openly traded worldwide and, apart from some really ridiculous regulations, restrictions, limitations, contractions, demarcations, and confinements over the years, is a great example of a reasonably superfluous tangible.  We don't need sugar on Corn Flakes (I think), but we really like it.  Don't we?  Ask yourself, the one time you tried Corn Flakes without sugar (you remember that time, right?), ask yourself if you weren't thinking with every bite: Man, this really needs some sugar.

Conversely, sugar really isn't worth it's weight in sand...granules...whatever.  Sure, some refined sugar is purported to have medicinal qualities, and some is used as an offsetting or stimulus agent in certain pharmacological production methods, but there are other ways of doing it.  And, to be sure, Jaggery-an unrefined sugar cane product-is replete with vital minerals for your body...but these too, you could get elsewhere, like say, in a spoonful of Corn Flakes straight out of the box.

So, why all the regulations on sugar?  Is it because we parents know the affects products laced with too much sugar have on children--despite what the talking heads in labcoats say to the contrary? Nope.  The regulation of sugar has absolutely nothing to do with its effects on children either real or perceived.  But what I do know is that if a two year old were to somehow, you know...hypothetically, get her hands on one of her brother's cans of Mountain Dew, this is the result:

  

Yeah, yuck it up, yuck it uppers.  And know this was done under the strictest (*cough*) supervision.

Anyway, we've heard all the arguments, haven't we?  About how it's the food coloring that causes hyper-activity.  Or that it's lack of general nutritional intake to offset the "sugar effect" in our foods.  Blah, blah, blah.  Let me tell you something right now, knowing full well that precautions CAN be made to prevent the effects of sugar on a child's body:  sugar causes hyper-activity, period.

But...so what?  I'm one of those wierdos that think hyper-activity isn't really hyper (that is, above the norm) at all.  In fact, I think we have a great need in this country for a little hyper-active behavior.  Maybe parents have been duped into thinking things need strict control and regulations, restrictions, limitations, contractions, demarcations, and confinements.

Which begs the question:  Is sugar really legal?  I mean, when it comes down to it, a thing that is "legal" is a thing that is not subject to regulations, restrictions, limitations, contractions, demarcations, and confinements.  So what do you call a thing, a commodity if you will, that is subject to regulations, restrictions, limitations, contractions, demarcations, and confinements?  I don't know about you, but I call that thing: the decriminalization of cannabis in America.

Along with the gradual decriminalization that liberal democrats want to see (and are seeing), comes stricter rules and regulations than just saying: no, you can't have it.  When liberals "legalize" a thing, they end up with MORE laws governing that thing then they had when it was illegal.  This is a fact, it is simply how the liberal mind works.  'Decriminalized control' is the catch-phrase liberals love so much and "control" is the only word that matters.

I don't like cannabis.  I don't like the smell of it, mainly.  I've never really smoked weed, but I've been in hundreds of rooms filled with the smoke of it--to the point that it affected me.  I would never put cannabis over my Corn Flakes.  I wouldn't use it to clear up acne or make a flower grow premature, out-of-season buds.  I would never, if I were a politician, advocate the licensing of the plant, or the regulation of it or the derivatives involved in the taxation of it.  But the fact of the matter is, they will regulate it, like they regulate the corn that is used to make your breakfast cereal and the laws they make regarding it would dominate its presence in the marketplace as they do for sugar.

It would be nice if we could legalize it and watch the market grow.  But it'll never happen.  There is always an excuse to not do so.  And while the protection of consumers is a constant saber-rattling declaration of liberal control freaks, the fact of the matter always has been, and always will be:  the markets make better corrections to invalid or dangerous commodities than the governments of the world do.  It wasn't the government that lashed out against Toyota recently, it was consumers--the government was a post facto dictator with a vested conflict of interest in this case. It wasn't the government that found lead in our children's toys shipped in from China, it was consumers--although the CDC tried to take all the credit for "protecting" us.  Government regulations couldn't stop a salmonella outbreak in peanut products recently.  Regulations have never protected us against bad luck.  But consumer reports have, and do, constantly.  The fact of the matter is that no entity can protect you at all times, except you.  If you think cannabis requires regulation, then regulate it yourself, not unlike you do with sugar.

But, you say, what happens if someone crashes their car while all doped up and kills someone?  Huh?  What about that, Mr. wierdo libertarian guy?  Well, let's see, what usually happens when you murder someone under the influence of an intoxicant?  No one ever said, especially a libertarian, that government shouldn't protect you from the irrational, irresponsible actions of others.  That's one of the major tenants of libertarianism, that governments should get involved when someones actions are injurious to another.  We're not talking about instituting laws such as DUII standards and things like this, for cannabis, these are a given and only an idiotic anarchist would oppose such legislation.  We're talking about the regulation of growth, distribution, sale, consumption and possession of a commodity here and the power the free market should have in determining the success of that commodity.

Corn and sugar both are highly subsidized, highly regulated commodities.  As are rubber, glass, coal, milk, and sand (yes, I said 'sand').  What makes anyone think cannabis will be any different.  

The main difference between a liberal and a libertarian is that liberals don't trust anyone (especially their own selves) to make good decisions so they entrust government to enlist a vast array of regulations, restrictions, limitations, contractions, demarcations, and confinements for the sake of protection.  Libertarians are generally optimistic, trusting (think of the Greek hospitality rule, here) of the marketplace and the consumers who dictate its successes and failures while generally viewing the government and its continued failures as depressing, oppressive and futile.

In the end, let us be honest.  There is no way we're going to get cannabis legalized.  Sure, the liberals will win this, it will be decriminalized, and soon.  Question is, will we give up our principles on this issue like we do every time we pour that sugar over our Corn Flakes?  Yeah.  We will.  We'll find some way to justify it.  And then we'll spend the next 100 years railing against the regulation of the commodity like we do with alcohol, tobacco and firearms...but we'll lose because the hyper-activity we so badly need in this fight will be sedated by the true 'opiation of the masses' liberals so desperately desire.  That is: sedation by capitulation.

Puter Vinum

Og had a crazy L. Ron Hubbard dream the other night. Richard had wacky dream the other night he was talking about on Facebook...but I lost that one. I think Joan is engaged in some quodlibetal discourse with her dark Orpheus even when she's awake...or else she's in some perpetual state of primordial somnambulance...That woman dreams constantly...

Anyway, maybe it's the talking about the dreaming that is the Jungian diaspora here, and not the dreaming itself. Who's to know?

The insane grape knows.

I ran into what I thought was an insane grape at Winco. Which is weird, because I never do the shopping around here...like, at all.  This grape, one of the little purpley kinds, insisted on striking up a conversation with me while I was reading the nutrition facts on a microwavable dinner box. (I told you, I don't shop) I don't know, I guess I was feeling a little depressed that day and really didn't feel I had the patience to deal with any talking fruit. And I'm telling you, I tried to ignore the little fella, but he was simply too persistent--almost to the point of being sour.

So...this little puter vinum goes on to inform me that he wasn't just some little out-of-date grape lost in the frozen food section looking for a handout or a nice tub of sweet cream to dip himself in...which was a relief, because if I know anything, I know that little purpley grapes donned in the dulcet drapery of thick..smooth...sweet...whipped cream...

Indeed.

He went on and on about the state of grapes and the tragedy of being the only grape he knew that he could relate to. I figured, like you probably would, that this grape was crazy and needed some serious medication. I went about shopping as the little guy bounced and rolled around behind me telling me his life's story and the injustice bestowed upon him by Garth--the produce manager. To be honest I don't really recall what exactly he was going on about, but I do remember stopping by the pharmacy and staring at a pamphlet for Paxil. The grape kept rambling on and--I don't know what it was, really--but I just started busting out laughing. I was pointing at the happy lady on the cover of the brochure. She was swinging on a tire swing in some happy meadow.  Drenched in sunshine.  Doped out to the max on happy.  Happy. Happy. Happy.  The grape wasn't amused. Come to think of it, I don't think this little grape had eyes...so maybe he couldn't see the irony the abject joys of anti-depressant stimulation can bring...

Whatever the case, I had to clam up and move along when the pharmacist peeked his nerdy little head around a shelf of pharmacological goodies and scowled at me.

F--- you, I thought, I'm talking to the grape, here.

Anyway, the dream gets fuzzy after this. I remember something about the Legendary Golden Peel of Chiquita and the Tomato Underground--as the grape called it.  But, almost immediately after leaving the pharmacy, the little grape disappeared and there I was, alone, swinging on a tire swing in some fecund meadow.  I was smiling.  I was really, really, smiling.

Don't think about this.  Just shrug your shoulders and hit the "Next Blog" button at the top of the page.

There's a what? Where? Huh?

What you're afraid to say, Victoria Jackson SINGS from coast to coast...in that squirreley little voice of hers. Man, if she can sing it, anyone can.



Once again, we prove our women are smarter than their women.  I mean, just take a look at their women:

Oh whoops.  I must have made a mistake when I uploaded Lindsey Graham's photo...Or...did I?

Cocaine For Kids

Ever want to browse an educational manual rife with a befuddling array of intentionally confusing semi-factoids and half-truths? Look no further: Here it is.

This manual is a handbook for teachers and parents who are participating in a Portland, OR, program aimed at "problem children." My daughter goes to one of the schools participating in this farcical nonsense...I digress.

No I don't.

This manual, if you don't care to read it (who can blame you?), is littered with what I like to call: "The Birkenstock Academician's Solutions for Resolving a Problem brought about by Birkenstock Academicians".

I can think of other names for it as well, but they don't include the Birkenstock bash, so why bother?

Here are a few talking points the manual attempts to outline:

Social Competence is Essential for School Readiness.

What the flying frog is "Social Competence" and who the funk gets to decide the competency standard? (Hint: think tan leather sandals that only 1970's throwbacks with Marxist tendencies still wear).

Or this sparkling gem of an "educational tool":

The Teaching Pyramid; Promoting Social Competence and Addressing Challenging Behavior.

So...by default any behavior that doesn't meet the standard of "competency" is automatically labelled: "Challenging". And to whit, requires an entire program and teacher training regimen to address...

And here I thought they wanted us to believe--for decades now--that only home-schooled children were automatically socially deficient...

I think I see a pattern here, correct me if I'm wrong.

1. Kids traditionally had been taught by their parents, clergy or people close to the family in skills and trades they could USE when the got out of school. Rich kids had the better deal here, for sure because a lot of them (not all) were afforded standard educations in math, science, law and so on.
2. Around 1840, someone (Mr. Mann), somewhere (Massachusetts) decided American kids should be subjected to a "German" style education that would include poor kids and emphasize math and science and all the other stuff most kids tend to exhibit all the signs of ADHD while studying.
3. Other states tagged along until about 1918 when every state had laws mandating primary education for all kids.
3. Everything went raggedly along until about midway through the last century when kids in school started developing behavior "disorders".
4. In the 1960's, this disorder was labeled as ADHD (and a plethora of other pseudo-scientific terms such as: Hyperkinetic Disorder of Childhood, Defect of Moral Control, and my personal favorite: Post-Encephalitic Behavior Disorder) and was treated with Methylphenidate (Nicknamed: Cocaine for Kids, due to it's similar molecular structure and effects to cocaine) which instantly stimulates the production of dopamine in the brain, which leads to "better" behavior patterns in problem children.
5. In the 1970's Ritalin (Methylphenidate's brand name) is mass produced, marketed and distributed.
6. In 1979 the Education Department is created. No connection between this cabinet entity and the mass dopings of children is made...
7. Starting in the 1980's, parents start questioning the affect and effectiveness and ethical implications of administering psychotropic drugs to kids.
8. In the 1990's doctors start questioning, on large scale, the validity of treating behavioral problems with psychotropic drugs, some go so far as to state that the root of the problem is in the home and stems from bad parenting--not from a chemical insufficiency. But the common consensus was that there wasn't a stable base of data collection to rule out the effectiveness of psychotropic applications...which is a weird way of saying: 35 years of using our kids as guinea pigs is insufficient...we need more lab brats.
9. Certain shrinks and head doctors come to the absurd conclusion that the time kids spend away from parents could be leading to these behavior "disorders" and that returning the kids to home space during school time actually improves their social interaction level and ability to hold attention as well as actually, uh, learn stuff. They are laughed off college campuses and ridiculed on nationally syndicated radio and television shows.

10. Regardless, in the '90's home school enrollment skyrockets.
11. In 2000, the FDA approves a sustained release version of Ritalin.
12. In 2003, we learn what the government knew all along, that Cocaine and Ritalin "compete for the same binding sites on neurons" which essentially means that the rash of Cocaine addictions (Remember Miami Vice?) in the 80's and 90's was quite probably linked to the over prescription of Ritalin in the 70's and 80's.
13. No one cares about these findings. Ritalin prescription remains rampant.
14. In 2008 a transdermal patch which intermittently spits Ritalin into the subjects body is introduced and approved. Now YOU can "Stick it to ADHD!"
15. In 2009, academics and school administrators approve Sek-Pac's behavioral training system to enhance and supplement the already over proscribed doping of our kids in school.
16. In 2010 more students are being taught at home, by clergy or by close family members than since 1918, when elementary education was mandated en masse.
17. In 2020 the U.S. government realizes that public education is ridiculous and endeavorless and privatizes all aspects of education. The government relinquishes control of the Education Department, discontinues it's support for Ritalin and behavioral modification programs, admits the mistake was theirs from the beginning and recognizes that the education template they had initiated 100 plus years ago was the real culprit and that parents, clergy and personal tutors really do have a better idea of how to educate kids than bureaucrats and lame-brained PhD's. Millions of kids are freed from their dopamine laden nightmares and allowed to...well, be kids again for Christ's sake. Oh, and, Birkenstock's are outlawed on college campuses.

Bah. What can I say? I dabble in sci-fi and speculative fiction.

Taking the "Great" out of Britain

Britain's Anti-Terrorism act of 2000 and it's section 44 in action:







I don't even know where to begin...

The land of CCTV disallows their own citizenry from filming in open spaces? What the...

And after all the moaning about the U.S. Patriot Act (which I find violates or has the potential to violate the first, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth amendments to our Constitution and possibly the tenth and fourteenth as well) the fact is, American law enforcement is smart enough to know not to try this shit on us. But...

Was it Sinclair Lewis that said "it can't happen here"?

Hmph.

I often view quizzically at our brothers across the ocean. How did they get like this? They don't even agree on what makes them Great. Well, it's not that they can't agree, heck we'll never have a common consensus on what makes America great. The problem is that none of the answers to the question "What makes Great Britain, Great" can include the following as an answer:

The Bill of Rights.

It's a Jeep Baby!

It’s a Jeep! Baby.

The Lostaglia family had all their bases covered that Saturday morning. Brendan, the oldest was away for the weekend. Two year old Sara, had just ran into the house, thrown her coat on the floor as usual and had just sat down for her daily regimen of ‘tea-time with dolly’. Karey, the mother—and expecting mother—had just gone in to deal with the normal after-breakfast mess. Chris, the father, had just sat down at his computer with a cup of coffee. An uneventful, lazy weekend morning was about to creep by without notice.
But, as is the case in stories about babies...and Jeeps, the serenity turned to chaos and bewilderment in split second.
Chris heard an expletive from the kitchen. Karey was in trouble, he knew that, but he paused for a second—he wasn’t used to hearing his wife swear. He motioned to his daughter to stay where she was--she had heard the shout too--and ran toward the kitchen.
Upon entering the kitchen he saw Karey standing in a pool of water. The sink was filling up with water, but it was nowhere near full. Karey’s look said it all. It was a look that said, all in one swift transference: get the keys, grab Sara, call parents, pull the car up, turn off the sink, help me to a chair and don’t forget the insurance papers. It was up to Chris to figure out the proper order.
This certainly wasn’t expected. Karey’s due date was close, but this was early. When Sara was born they had to walk around the hospital for ten hours before labor was finally induced. This new baby wanted out, and it wanted out quick.
Chris ran to the table, grabbed the keys, barked an order at Sara, took two swift strides to the door, remembered his wife was still standing, ran to the kitchen, apologized, helped her as slowly as he could to a chair, barked another order (this one to himself), hurried out the door, started up the Jeep Cherokee, pulled it up to the kitchen door, sprinted inside, scooped up his daughter…
It was like a fire drill. Under two minutes. Not bad. Needs improvement. But, Chris thought he had remembered just about everything. And hey, he consoled himself, this only seems weird because it’s a rare occasion, it is actually quite normal. People have babies every day. Everything's normal. Normal, it turns out, has a profane sense of humor.

A Little Irony

The Lostaglia’s lived right next door to a hospital. Providence Milwaukie was a thirty second drive from their house on Llewellyn Street. But the doctor Karey had been seeing was at OHSU, a good fifteen minute drive if the traffic was good. Chris said he didn’t expect traffic on Saturday morning, and Karey thought she could make it, so they tried.
It was probably a combination of an over anxious baby and speed bumps that did it. Whatever the reason, at the end of 32nd street, right before they got onto McGloughlin blvd. Karey insisted they turn around and immediately head back for Providence.
She was squirming on the floor of the Cherokee. She eventually got herself turned around in a praying position in front of the seat. She was breathing, heavy and hard. She put her hand out, toward the back seat, to calm little Sara down, who was quiet, but most obviously concerned.
“Are you having a baby, mommy?”
“Yes honey, mommy’s having a baby.” Chris replied for Karey who was now punching the seat in pain.
“In the car?”
“No!” Karey yelled.
The car went over a speed bump. Karey sucked in air and probably every swear word she ever heard came back out in the exhale.
Chris kept asking her if she was ok. Habit. But she hadn’t answered the last few times. She was a little busy.
Another speed bump.
“I’m gonna sue somebody!” She finally mustered enough wind to manage a sentence. Well, that was good.
They were only three or four blocks from the emergency room now. Chris looked down the road. “Two speed bumps left.”
Karey wriggled and squirmed as the car was meticulously navigated over the remaining obstacles. No matter how cautious the driver, it was like having a baby in a motor derby.
But they made it to the Hospital parking lot; only a couple hundred feet from the emergency room exit.
Unfortunately, there was one speed bump they hadn’t anticipated: the one in the parking lot.
He saw it—but not in time enough to swerve around it entirely. The driver’s side of the Jeep leaped up and over the bump. Chris stretched out his arm to act as a seat belt for Karey who was now chanting: “Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.”
The Cherokee came to a halt at the emergency room door. Chris jumped out and did a Starsky and Hutch over the hood to the passenger side of the car. He thought about running in for help, but he knew it was too late.
He pulled opened the door just in time to catch Emily before she hit the floor.

All’s well…

The automatic doors flew open briskly, as if they knew someone was coming who needed help. Chris ran down the well-lit, yet seemingly empty hall.
“I need a doctor!” he yelled at a woman, “Are you a doctor?”
She wasn’t a doctor. She was a nurse. Perfect.
He started leading her out into the parking lot.
“My wife had a baby!” He informed her.
The woman was walking at first but when she heard the word ‘baby’, she ran past him and bolted for the forest-green Jeep Cherokee.
The door was open and Karey had her new baby wrapped up in her own coat. The nurse called for more help. Other nurses came. And doctors. And soon other people, patients and visitors were gathered around side of the Jeep.

The world's youngest celebrity and most relieved mother were both going to be just fine.

Emily Rachel Lostaglia was born on Saturday, February 20, 1999. She came into the world at light speed and if you ask anyone that knows the eleven year-old today, they’ll say she has never slowed down. The place of birth on her certificate reads: “Milwaukie Providence Hospital”. But that’s not entirely true.

Olberacism

I'm not doing this because it's Black History Month, that fact only dawned on me about 1/2 through this very lengthy process. I did this because Keith Olbermann is an idiotic, hypocritical, racist, elitist, bastard. I hope you like it...I sure enjoyed making it.

You can click on the actual video to watch it on Youtube.

All I want for my birthday...it's not much, really.

Dwight Gooden.

Seriously.

I mean, what the Mets were, they were because of Dwight. What they will be, will be because of Dwight...or the standard of excellence he held high. My wife insists on Mr. Darling. Yeah, he's cute and all, was a great 'ass'et for the Mets in the 80's...but his nick aint Dr. K.

I'm thinking of starting thechurchofdoctorK.com, because I know there are closet Doc fans out there. Guys and gals who saw the man throw that hammer down, that lunging cannonesque fastball, that sweeping, parabolic 12 to hell curveball that made veterans like Wade Boggs and Dale Murphy's knees wrinkle. You never saw anything like this. Ever. I've seen them all. Doc was the greatest pitcher that ever played the game...even if that greatness was a mere flash-spark in the continuum that should have been a legacy.

Still, man, we miss those days.


When I was a kid, about 14 I guess, I used to cut the daily boxscore updates out of the newspaper and post them in a scrapbook. If the Mets won, I'd post the little blurb AP story on the page next to the standings. Every day I would update the book, add pictures whenever the local paper had them. Pictures of Dwight, Darryl, HoJo, Sid...all the guys. I submit to you it was the most totally awesome scrapbook of all time.


Not a lot of people know Doc's story, the "tragedy" that became Gooden's legacy. Certainly there have been poorly circulated stories about the events that took place starting in 1987, assumptions of the effects of instant riches on a poor black kid from south central L.A. The drugs, the altercations with police. The...disappointment. Mel Stottlemyre, in his book, Pride and Pinstripes, outlined a little bit of the problems with Dwight and the flawed friendship between the Doc and Darryl Strawberry. But it's not enough. Dwight himself has said very little about those days...very little that made anything easier to understand. But then, we were young, we just wanted our hero to be...heroic. Token assessments have since been made. Some apologies. We understand it a little better now, I suppose. So why does it still hurt?

I don't know, I'm not a psychiatrist, I only play one on the internet. But I do know that Doc, after suffering through his mistakes, miscues, and hard luck, pitched a no-hitter in 1996. And although that wouldn't prove to be the icing of success and for-once-and-for-all domination of Dwight's personal hardships, it was a beacon of light against the wall of fog which is Doctor K's persona. Turbulent waters can be overcome, right Doc? But the 'great shroud of the sea rolls on as it rolled five thousand years ago.' Right, Doc? I have to get past all these childish things, right Doc?

It's not easy, I can tell you.

I have a protective placard on my desk. It's a baseball card holder. Holds four cards. They're all Dwight. Two rookie cards, the the Fleer '01 fireballer card, the Member's choice card from Stadium Club. Under my desk there is the "Amazing Mets" Sports Illustrated--the one with the word 'Mets' crossed out and replaced by the word 'Mess'. Yeah, yuck yuck. I suppose my desk is my own little churchofdoctorK.com. But, sometimes its a chapel of pain. Today I'm thirty-eight years old and, I'm ashamed to admit, I still find myself staring at those glossy pictures of Doc in sorrow. Or maybe it's anger. Or maybe I'm just mad that it still makes me mad.

That's why I want Doc for my birthday this year. The Dwight Gooden who was the flamethrowin' hope of tomorrow. The Doctor K everyone feared and all admired. That's why you won't find any mugshots or post-incarceration interviews in this entry today. Because today, I let it all go. I'm taking the old Doc back, the Doc that inspired me to play a game I was admittedly never very good at. The Doc that taught me all the nuances of baseball and evoked my participation in the sport as a spectator, player and fan. Above all, I'm taking back the Doc that inspired me to rise above oppressions you don't get to know about and escape a fate worse than death--a life without the game.

So, this is my birthday present to myself.

Thanks Doc. You're still the man.

Last Kennedy Down

The drunken, rampagin', airport clerk accoster, Patrick Kennedy announced today that he won't seek to break his father's record for being the most embarrassing politician with that asphyxiating last name. He's quitting. Thanks be to God, eh?



Everyone wants to take credit for this monumental decision it seems. Who cares, as long as he's a goner!

Next mission: get Arnold out of power in Caleeforneea, and we'll really, truly, for really really see the toppling of the ash-heap that is/was the American Camelot.

Next, Next, mission: Get that Megan McCain (meh...I don't care how that bimbo spells her name!)to volunteer for the first manned mission to Mars...

Why are democrats so $#*!ing mean?

Today, the illustrious, outspoken, Kari Chisholm of blueoregon.com made a request of his subscribers to donate to the Make a Wish Foundation and the charity fundraiser being sponsored by a local FM radio station. What a noble, righteous effort, we say! Kudos!

Oh wait. That's not what Mr. Chisholm asked us to do...Here's a transcript, verbatim, of Kari's vitriol:

Make Bob Tiernan Pay!
Kari Chisholm

All day today, Portland's lite-rock station K103 is running a radio-thon fundraiser for the Make-A-Wish Foundation of Oregon. Make-A-Wish, of course, is the organization that grants wishes to children with life-threatening illnesses. They provide hope and happiness to children and families that need it most.

Anyway, Bob Tiernan - the chairman of the Oregon Republican Party - just called in to the radio-thon and pledged $500. Tiernan told Make-A-Wish that if Democrats called in and made donations that totaled in excess of $500, he'd match the Democrats dollar-for-dollar.

So, folks, this is our chance: Donate to a worthy cause - and empty Bob Tiernan's wallet. All of us, combined, can surely put a little hurt on Tiernan's bankroll. One man vs. the Oregon progressive grassroots? We can do this.

Make your donation by calling Make-A-Wish at 503-598-9474. More info here. All donations stay right here in Oregon and Southwest Washington.

And remember, this is key: Tell 'em you're a Democrat calling to match Bob Tiernan's donation.

I'm in for the first $100. Who's with me? Whether you've got $5, $50, or $500, let's bring Tiernan to his knees.

So, let's break this down, shall we?

1. The Headline. Make X Pay. This is standard left-wing vitriol that spans across political real estate from health care to business liscensing. Democrats (especially progressives) don't care who they're helping--at least, not as much as who they are hurting in the process.

2. "Put a little hurt on Tiernan's bankroll" In essence, it isn't Mr. Tiernan that Mr. Chisholm abhors, it's his money. You see, to democrats, money in the hands of an ideological rival is money that needs to be procured, cleansed, and redistributed.

3. It's the Make a Wish Foundation, for crying out loud. I bet dollars to donuts, if it were Catholic Charities, Chisholm wouldn't have even paid attention to it. Make a Wish, for all it's good works, is a pebble to the Global Gibraltarian Rock that is CC. But that doesn't matter to ideologues, they'll gladly sacrifice/ignore/castigate/ their high moral ground when God is involved.

4. "Bring Tiernan to his knees". My goodness. He's a politician! He's not Pol Pot or even Che Guevera for that matter...why would anyone want to "bring" a politician "to his knees". Maybe Mr. Chisholm is using his site as an electronic outlet for his rest-stop bathroom fantasies? Oh, sorry, now I'm being mean.

Portland's Finest Update 1

So here are the names of all the officers we think need to be thanked. We will be filing a commendation report with the city next week. We really cannot express enough gratitude to these men. If I have any details wrong, it's because the whole incident was pretty blurry and happened at breakneck speed--and because I kept forgetting to ask names at various points along the way.

Officer Rilling who helped us over the phone and got the ball rolling on all this.
Officer Scott who visited Brendan at the hospital.
Detective Christianson(sp?) who is responsible for getting the confession and doing all the other things he's done/is doing.
Officer Lee, the transit officer who made the arrest of the perpetrator.

And one huge thanks to the one guy whose name I never got, the bus driver who helped Brendan get home and took time out of his day to help us in other ways. This man is a truly good guy and I feel like a toad for not getting his name and number because I really want to write a letter to Tri-Met about him. I'll get it.

Also, thanks to the Assistant D.A., Christine Mascal, for making this matter come to pass in a quick and timely fashion. Swift justice is my favorite kind and to be honest I think Brendan, being involved first-hand in the process, learned a lesson not many kids get to (have to) learn. I think he understands how extremely lucky we got on this, but he also found out that the system can work, does work, even if it's far from perfect.

We met with the grand jury today and Brendan gave his testimony along with all the other witnesses. They do have a confession so it might not have to go to trial. If it does, Brendan says he's ready to roll...but let's hope it never gets that far.