Okay, deep breath...
So Ted Cruz made a very mild jab at Joe Biden this last week. "Joe Biden... no punch line necessary"
And now has apologized since Joe recently lost his son to brain cancer.
WHY?
The jab in no way denigrated the son, brain cancer, or Joe's loss. It took aim at a legitimate public figure. (MY first thought when I heard the son died of brain cancer was, "the kid must have inherited that organ from his mother...")
Moreover, Joe himself has NEVER wasted a chance to capitalize on a political opponent's misfortune in his entire political career. This guy is the definition of "creepy old guy," and regularly makes tone deaf remarks along the lines of Marie Antoinette's "let them eat cake."
Remember during the post 9/11 scares, when then VP Cheney was at a 'undisclosed location' to protect from terrorists? After the first scare when Joe was Veep, he told a dinner party where the location was. HE ENDANGERED HIS OWN LIFE, along with those assigned to protect him, and forever removed that site from such use. This cost taxpayers millions because Joe had to be the big man at the party. He is just clueless.
This list goes on and on, ranging from the inane to the plain stupid ("[when attacked by an intruder,] get a double barrel shotgun, and shoot both barrels into the air from a balcony" Which disarms the home owner, is illegal in most municipalities, and assumes the EVERYONE HAS A BALCONY to retreat to)
BUT because Biden is a Demo-rat, and we no longer have real journalists in the Main Stream (liberal) Media, Ted must apologize.
Had the remark gone the other way, no apology would have been necessary. No one would have cared that a conservative was smeared, unfair or otherwise.
Slick Willy's World
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Monday, June 1, 2015
The Crime of Banking While a White Republican, and how Race is involved
Everyone know the story of former Speaker Hastert, who was being blackmailed for something in his past that may or may not be a true crime in the state of Illinois.
He is under indictment for... uhm, taking his own money out of his account in amounts our federal overlords do not approve of, and not telling the FBI why when asked. Note that this occurs while the Clinton openly are taking huge bribes while nothing is said.
In fact, this obscure law seems to be invoked as a gotcha today, for when the government want to a) take a citizen's money when no crime has been committed other than making deposits or withdrawals from your own bank account, or b) pursue a political opponent. For examples, google 'civil forfeiture abuse' and read a few stories for option a), and google 'Tom DeLay campaign finance trial' for option b).
What I cannot believe is that no one has played the go-to card of the day. The media is discussing this story based in the context of the Patriot Act expiring, and because he is Republican. No discussions about the blackmailer, or his possible crimes that led to the blackmail. No talk about motives or anything.
So how did we just have a discussion without throwing in any reference to race? I thought ALL topics were related to the race and bigotry of the parties (white ones, anyway) involved.
Well, we can’t have this. Someone has to point out the elephant in the room.
IF any minority was involved, the answer is self evident.
However, Hastert may or may not have perpetrated whatever acts he committed only on white people. It is to be assumed that these victims benefited in some way, since they did not rat him out (except for the one enterprising citizen to whom he paid millions, that is)
But IF minorities were EXCLUDED from the benefits being a victim of Hastert’s ‘indiscretions,’ that makes him a (wait for it……)
RACIST!!!
Gee, visiting the mindset of the race baiting crowd makes me feel scummy… now I need a shower!
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Tinfoil Hat or Common Sense?
So my daughter got flu this spring. The doctor said that the flu shot is only 23%
effective this year in North America.
The 'NORTH' part intrigued me.
I research things routinely on the Internet. Last night I read up on what the CDC has on
flu strains and how vaccines are created.
It turns out that vaccines are regional, based on flu strains expected
in that region. So if type A strain H1N1
("swine flu") is expected in in North America, that will be included
in three or four strains included in that vaccine.
The problem is that the predominant strain showed up in
late August and September, after production started. This is a H3N7 variant, which can cause more
deaths statistically than the ones in the vaccine, 'extra' deaths. Not only that, it suddenly appeared in
geographically diverse locations at the same time.
This variant is well know to scientists, and has been
tracked for years. In fact, it WAS
included in the cocktail for another region... Central and South America. In other words, this deadlier strain was
expected this year in that region, but not here.
So how did it get here?
In the late August and September time frame?
Who came to this country at that time from that
region? The illegal immigrant
children! They were then dispersed
across the fruited plain by the Administration.
Does this mean that the extra deaths from this flu season
can be traced to the politics of the regime?
Or did I just qualify for my tinfoil hat?
Thursday, May 14, 2015
The Chevy Chevette Clutch
Growing up we did not have lots of ‘extra’ money: we were
not starving (dad was a public school teacher in Texas, which is still today not a get rich
scheme) and did not consider ourselves poor, but we did not eat out every
night, or have expensive electronics like today. I wore Sears Rustler jeans, when Wrangler and Jordache were the style.
My first vehicle was an old 1968 Chevy pick up. This truck was two tone: algae green and
rust. Zero to sixty in 50 seconds, if
you pushed her. But made of steel and relatively
safe for an inexperienced rural driver. I was
allowed to sell this truck to get cash for a new(er) used car. I also borrowed most of the money from my
grandmother (thanks Mimi!) who did not want interest on her investment.
I bought a 1979 Chevy Chevette 5 speed manual transmission much
like the one shown above. This car had
literally been used by the proverbial little old lady to go to church on
Sunday, and had the scratches on the passenger side door where her lap dog
rode. The scratches were there because the
dog put its head out the window. Why was
the window down? This car did not have an
air conditioner. My truck did not have AC
either, so I was used to riding with the windows down anyway. This car had the smallest domestic engine to
date: a 1.6 liter 4 cylinder. This all meant
I would get 35 miles per gallon, though.
I installed a heavy duty stereo system (I could not outrun
anyone to the party, but the party started when the music and beer showed up
anyway, and I was the music.) and had a very efficient form of transportation
that fit my minuscule budget. I also
worked every day from before dawn to after sunset to pay that car off between
my junior and senior years.
Being a teenager, though, I still lacked the brain cells to
avoid many stupid stunts in my new car.
While I might be outclassed on the highway by the average soccer mom (I
could offer to race the Amish in their horse drawn buggy, but that would be rude), on
dirt county roads too much engine was a liability. Like European rode rallies, control is more
important than horsepower. In fact, my
friends with the horsepower did not need to learn control (they thought) and
thus visited the ditches of rural roads regularly, allowing my little modest granny
mobile to carry the day.
I learned the roads in our county, planning out the possible
race courses in advance. I learned where
I could ‘drift’ around a turn to keep my momentum high, and where it was better
to slow down instead. I even learned how
to manipulate the hand brake, the clutch and gas to spin a 180 degree turn
around (a ‘drug runner’s turn’) so that I could meet my opponent on the way
back (that always got to them). I am not
saying that I won every time, but I should not have won at all given the
disparity in vehicles.
This turn involved hard breaking, working the clutch,
steering wheel, and hand brake together to make the car spin, then counter
spinning the steering wheel and shifting into first while feathering the clutch
to move the other direction. Gravel goes
everywhere, and you are moving the other way faster than if you used the brakes
to stop your suddenly reversed momentum.
That point is important later in this story.
Now, the things we did on the roads give the parent in me chills today,
and today is a different world where such antics would land you in jail, but in
that time and place the local law practiced a ‘no harm done, no foul’ policy as
long as they did not see us with other (adult) witnesses. If we took out a fence, we fixed it. Most of my friends were kin to almost every
land owner so no one even thought of not owning up to property damage of that
sort. (We used to say that our parents
would know where we were if we traveled through town on the highway at midnight
going 60 miles per hour with the windows rolled up: that was how efficient the gossip
network was)
My friends without cars would (of course) ride to parties
with those who did. Since I had the
least cool ride, I often traveled alone.
However, several friends got curious as to how they could see me take
the turn ahead, then be coming the other way so quickly. I explained that I did not stop to turn
around. So one of them rode with me to
see what I did. He was impressed enough
to talk it up at the next party.
That was how I got talked into loading five big teenage boys
into a car made for three (two front seats and a tiny back seat) to show how
this stunt worked. (Did you feel those chills?
Parents reading this all just cringed, and childless dead physicists rolled
in their graves)
You see, I had not taken several variables into account
(those undeveloped brain cells, no doubt).
I had never done this stunt with more than one other person and they
were always in the front seat. High
school physics did not cover the concept of center of gravity, leaving me
ignorant of my folly. I had also never
done this on a paved road. You see, the skid I was to induce depended on
the dirt and gravel under my wheels; oh, it could be done on pavement, but I
had never tried before, a little fact which escaped me in the heady high
created by peer pressure (never underestimate the stupidity of teen boys in
small groups.) I did not have a ‘feel’
for the surface, which is important to timing the required maneuvers.
Let me digress a moment to describe the road we were about
to attempt this upon. This was a paved
county road, going down a gentle grade into a cross roads. The crossroads widened enough to make such a
turn, and was my target area. The cattle
fences on each corner of the crossroads were braced at 90 degrees, to support
the fence in both directions, and to survive careless drivers who might miss
the turn and destroy the fence. These corners were stout: railroad ties with
angle iron bracing, sunk deep into the earth by ranchers who wanted to be sure the malefactor did not drive away from a wrecked fence.
So I picked up speed down the hill, being goaded by my
friends in the timeless manner of all teens raising a hoorah, and therefore hit
the intersection with a bit too much momentum.
When I started the skid, I immediately knew I was in trouble. The tires did skid, leaving rubber behind,
but the three 180 pound boys in the back seat threw off my control. NOW the fight began. We passed the first 180 and continued into a
360, followed by another 180 degree spin.
I managed to regain control enough to stop the spin facing the right,
reverse direction, but doing so used up all my cushion, and that fence corner
loomed large in my rear-view mirror. I jammed
the car into first gear and popped the clutch, causing the transmission and
tires to howl in protest as we left the road and crossed the right of way
(thankfully there was no ditch) and drifted to a stop with the rear bumper
kissing the fence. Rubber smoke was
laced with another peculiar smell I had encountered during road racing but
never so strong. The car was very quiet
(the extra spin scared my passengers) as I attempted to head back up the
road. The car kind of leaned forward and
refused to move. This identified the new
smell: burned clutch plate. No clutch,
no motion. I explained to my friends
that they were pushing and I was steering back to their cars, and that I needed
a tow to Alvin’s shop, our local mechanic.
Not sure what my dad thought about a burned out
transmission, but he did not say much: I paid for the repair, and these things
had to be replaced every so often anyway, so maybe he figured it was just time. I was out a car for two weeks, since Alvin
worked tractors first (he knew who paid his bills with steady work, and it was
not a 17 year old with a granny mobile!)
I lost that car on my 18th birthday when I was
broadsided by a semi-tractor trailer, but that is another story.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
ISIS and Texas
ISIS came calling to Texas last weekend... it did not go well for them
Second, the reason this conference was in Obscuresville, Texas (and not the group’s home state, NY) is THAT TEXAS DOES NOT PUT UP WITH THE BS that, say, New York or California would. We had armed police protection with the right attitude in place. We have armed citizens who remember an incident in a Luby’s several decades ago, and have vowed never again. (no offense to Garland… I used to live near there and think it is a great town)
Third, this was stopped by a 60 year old traffic cop with a pistol. The terrorists (and make no mistake about what they were) had rifles, body armor, the element of surprise, and a car to hide behind which would have stopped most pistol rounds… and were dead within 15 seconds. Garland Police are serious about gun range training… they tend to hit what they shoot at. Notice the low crime statistics in Garland (and most of Texas) to see if criminals are aware of this as well.
Fourth, rifles against pistols, and you lost that bad? I HOPE jihadis from ISIS are all this brain dead stupid. ROTFLOLWMP
Fifth, if this does become a thing, I will be dipping my bullets in lard, just to make sure they are disqualified from an afterlife on their own terms.
The moral of the story, is send more ISIS troops to Texas. We can take care of their need to see the afterlife.
What I find interesting is that ISIS is claiming this utter failure, making the point that ‘they thought we could not reach them in Texas.’
First, ISIS did not reach into Texas; two SJS wanna-be AMERICANs did this.
Second, the reason this conference was in Obscuresville, Texas (and not the group’s home state, NY) is THAT TEXAS DOES NOT PUT UP WITH THE BS that, say, New York or California would. We had armed police protection with the right attitude in place. We have armed citizens who remember an incident in a Luby’s several decades ago, and have vowed never again. (no offense to Garland… I used to live near there and think it is a great town)
Third, this was stopped by a 60 year old traffic cop with a pistol. The terrorists (and make no mistake about what they were) had rifles, body armor, the element of surprise, and a car to hide behind which would have stopped most pistol rounds… and were dead within 15 seconds. Garland Police are serious about gun range training… they tend to hit what they shoot at. Notice the low crime statistics in Garland (and most of Texas) to see if criminals are aware of this as well.
Fourth, rifles against pistols, and you lost that bad? I HOPE jihadis from ISIS are all this brain dead stupid. ROTFLOLWMP
Fifth, if this does become a thing, I will be dipping my bullets in lard, just to make sure they are disqualified from an afterlife on their own terms.
The moral of the story, is send more ISIS troops to Texas. We can take care of their need to see the afterlife.
Monday, April 20, 2015
BB Gun Wars (or "Why my wife is overprotective of our kids")
As I have written about before, my cousins, brother and I
were somewhat unsupervised in rural Texas in the early 1980s. Our parents worked several miles away, and we
were watched, in the early years, by teen babysitters who were, shall we say,
less than motivated to execute their assigned observational duties in the
strictest sense of the term. We
frequently wandered the country side to entertain ourselves, with whatever came
to hand.
One thing that was ‘at hand’ was our little brothers. These kids were only guilty of wishing to tag
along, to join us in our tree house, and bask in the ultimate levels of cool
pre-teen older brothers exude in the eyes of younger siblings. And as we became good at giving them the
slip, they annoyed the babysitter enough to bring down parental edicts to ‘play
with the little kids.’ This is how it
came to be that one of our babysitters was labeled with the nick name
‘sandwich.’
Sandra was a typical teen girl, likely 17 or 18 at that time
(‘old’ from the viewpoint of 10 and 11 year olds) who stayed with us during the
day on summer vacation. My aunt’s house
sported a window unit AC in the living room, which usually could drown out a
reasonably sized thunderstorm, and thus let us make all the noise we
wished. One favorite activity was the
awesome tree swing at Jerry’s house, with a rope that went up 20 or 30
feet. Of course, another parental edict
was to share a tree swing with the siblings, so we took turns pushing each
other on the 20 foot high rope swing.
The goal, of course, was to see how high you could go.
One sweltering Texas day in July, Jerry’s
little brother Bo refused to give up the swing.
After tiring of attempting to reason with someone of obviously diminished
mental capacity, Jerry and I thought up a cool twist on the game: we took a one
by eight and ‘paddled’ him on each pass of the swing. See, he was standing up in the swing to keep
it going (against yet another parental edict; but to be fair, he was not the
first to do so) and so presented a great ‘target of opportunity’ on each
pass. If he leaned his nether regions
out to gain momentum, we got in a swat, never mind that our contact was limited
by the fact that our swing had to catch up to him as he went by: he presented
no target on the return arc. This was
brilliant on our part (so we thought): we got to paddle him unless Bo stopped
swinging.
Meanwhile, Bo was caterwauling
at the top of his lungs for quasi adult intervention. Did I mention that it was a hot day? That the window unit was blowing like a jet
engine, drowning everything from the yard into the house in white noise? That we took that into account in our
nefarious plan? So Bo was yelling
“Sandraaaaa!” and “OW!” every pass, we were laughing so hard we really could
not land a solid blow, and Sandra continued watching ‘The Young and the
Restless.’ At one point Jerry got a
particularly good hit and Bo yelled for “SANDWICH!!!” which pretty much broke
up the party, as none of us could stand up, being helpless on the ground
gasping for air.
Anyway, a few years later we were no longer supervised at
all (!) and had heard of the concept of Paint Ball. As you can imagine, this captured the
imagination of 13 and 14 year old boys: running around the woods, setting
ambushes for the enemy, and shooting each other. The problems were a) paintball guns and ammo
were very expensive, b) it required safety equipment we did not have, and c) we
were broke.
Not to worry: we had
baseball catcher’s equipment and BB guns.
However, we soon discovered how hot running through the woods in
catchers equipment was, so settled on just the BB guns. What could go wrong?
Another problem was lack of arms. Jerry had his pump up BB/Pellet rifle, and I
had a Daisy Red Ryder BB gun. Note that
I quickly learned to keep my distance from Jerry, as his gun hurt on the rare times he hit. This advantage was negated by the fact that
my Red Ryder could shoot much faster (if less powerfully and accurately: it
still stung), which precluded a rush attack from Jerry. For all of the ammo we expended, we never did
hit each other much.
One exception was
at the old cattle tank. A cattle tank,
for you urban readers, is what you might call a pond, if a muddy hole in the
ground infested with turtles, frogs, snakes, various bugs and random thirsty
bovines meets that definition. This
particular tank was ‘seeded’ with fish which were hand fed by Jerry’s father,
in the futile hope of catching fish one day. Why futile, you ask? You see, one of the wonders of BB guns and glass bottles (everything was in glass bottles those days: mayo to shampoo to ketchup) is that bottles
float, and you can sink them with
said BB guns. Aluminum cans were harder
targets requiring Jerry’s rifle, but they too offered sport. Sometimes almost empty cans or jugs of household chemicals fished out of the
trash substituted when glass or soda cans were scarce, having already been sent
to a watery grave. My uncle never could
figure out why that fishing bit never seemed to take off…
Jerry got peeved at me one day when I did not go along with
whatever plan he had just dreamed up (by age 13 I was learning about Jerry’s
plans, and the consequences I paid that he somehow escaped) so he took a shot
at me with his rifle. He missed and I
quickly was on the other side of the tank, which he would not cross (we knew
what was on the bottom of that tank, and it was chest deep). So he shot at me across the tank. And the BB went plop into the water by my
side of the tank.
Time to digress.
Texas boys in those days learned many useful things from their fathers:
how to skin a deer, squirrel or dove; not to urinate into the wind; not to talk
back to their mother; the finer points of college football; and how to skip a
flat stone across a body of somewhat still water. You take a relatively flat rock (think deck
of cards or thinner) between the size of a fifty cent piece and the palm of
your hand, grip it like you would a hand gun (trigger finger around the curve
of the rock) and sidearm throw it at a low trajectory angle to the water. If the angle and power of the throw combined
with the spin imparted to the stone just so, the stone would bounce off of the
surface of the water, more than once if you were particularly skilled. We had contests to see how many skips a single
throw would produce (no smart phones in those days).
So when Jerry’s shot fell short, I realized my lower powered
gun would never reach him. Unless I could skip the BB! Surprisingly,
this worked better than I could have dreamed.
Physics dictated that all my shots were between his ankle and the middle
of his calf, but they were bona fide hits.
Jerry also had to reload (22 shots to my 600 plus) giving me time to
pour it to him. He left the field of
battle that day a bit the worse for wear, having worn deck shoes, shorts and no
socks on our outing.
My aunt never did
figure out where he got all of the tiny bruises, and nowhere but on his lower
legs. Much to my delight, she made him
go to his room to strip for a health inspection while I almost vibrated off of
the couch with suppressed laughter.
Nor did she understand why he wore a long sleeve shirt in
the late summer after another such encounter.
On an unsupervised weekend (!) Bo insisted on joining the action, and
prevailed in his petition with the threat of parental disclosure of the
(supposedly unsanctioned, who was gonna ask?)
BB gun combat. His terms specified
staying in the yard (Bo had learned not to get alone in the woods with Jerry
without some means of defense) and equal time to shoot. I observed that Bo did not have a BB gun,
which seemed to nullify his argument until Jerry threw me under the bus. Since my
Red Ryder shot faster, Bo and I could be on the same team.
NOW I had motivation to shoot Jerry, and a highly motivated
ally with which to do so. So we began
the stalk. Bo and I had to stay
together, which at first limited cover possibilities until we started baiting
traps for Jerry. This involved
presenting Jerry a target to induce him to revealing his position to the armed
comrade. Bo got popped a few times
before we abandoned that strategy (you did not think I was gonna be bait, did
you?).
Then Bo got a great idea: we
could climb up the TV antenna to the roof of the house, and shoot down on Jerry
anywhere on the yard, as long as we used the peak of the rook for cover. This violated yet another parental edict, but
if you are already doing what you suspect any sane adult would frown on, you might
as well chuck all the rules. This
worked until Jerry holed up on top of a long unused dog house against the trunk
of a large oak tree, where he could punch through the leaves while our lower
powered gun could not. We countered with
hiding behind the chimney, which gave us an unimpeded shot. We were now well within the ‘ouch’ range of
Jerry’s gun (his shots nicked brick dust and shrapnel onto us) until I realized
that he had a delay between shots, to pump up his rifle.
At his next shot, I jumped out and nailed him
there on the dog house, causing him to take refuge behind the tree trunk. At short range I was a crack shot with my
Daisy, and could fire several times in succession. So we traded shots for a while, Bo and I
waiting for his shot and him ducking back behind the tree to power up.
Then I made a discovery: the tree was too
small to cover his arm while pumping the rifle.
Between his shots his arm was briefly visible from the other end of the
chimney! So I timed my next shot to his
pumping and got him on the elbow from my new vantage point. In the heat of battle Jerry did not think,
just adjusted his position so he was covered… and exposed his arm to Bo who had
remained in our original position. Bo quickly got the Daisy from me and plinked
Jerry from that angle, again around the elbow.
This went on for quite some time, as Jerry was convinced he had us
pinned while we gleefully nailed his arm once or twice between his shots.
Thus it was that the next day, Jerry insisted on wearing a
long sleeve shirt to church (to cover the bruises), telling my aunt he was cold
(in 80 degree weather.)
And Jerry got back at me years later by telling my future
wife of our exploits as kids, during those unsupervised summers. My kids rarely get to do anything good outdoors.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
How times have changed
I had a thought
on how our society has changed. Or perhaps the change is in me?
My grandfather
grew up on a farm, using a homemade slingshot during the depression era (in
Texas, that era lasted from 1920 to 1945, it seems). They had guns, but could
not afford bullets as much. He wandered pretty much where he wanted and no one
minded.
My dad grew up
around farms and in rural areas, and ran around unsupervised with a .22 rifle.
He shot bullfrogs, turtles, and probably anything else he wanted to aim at. We
are talking about a pre-10 year old, if I understand the stories right. And it
was okay at that time: low population density, lots of space and lingering
pioneer attitude, I guess.
I grew up with
BB guns. We did not buy pellets very often, and the first BB guns did not fire
them anyway. (But my dad did not let me have one myself pre-10 years old: Jerry’s
dad did <wink>) We shot anything that moved, and quite a few things that
did not. Including each other, when the best gun we had was the Daisy Red Rider
spring gun. I’ll get into those stories another time. We also wandered wherever
we could walk to.
When my son
turned ten, he had never, to my knowledge, fired a sling shot, a BB gun, or a
Pellet gun, much less run the countryside with one. (He HAD fired a .22 and
various pistols, rifles, and shotguns, but never unsupervised) The only gun we
left to his discretion is a water pistol, and not in the house!
Is it me, or
have we gotten so protective that some great experiences are now lost? Sure,
society is more crowded, and in this era when anyone sues for anything we have
to be more careful, but why do I have a vague sense of loss about this, for his
sake?
Yes, I was
considering giving him a pellet gun for Christmas, but it would be locked away
unless he is supervised. It is to teach him proper gun range technique and safe
gun handling, not for him to range the woods like I did at his age. Of course,
we do not have access to land like I did growing up (not that small matters
like property ownership, vicious dogs, barbed wire fences, or armed residents
ever slowed my cousins or me down…)
Maybe I simply
know what CAN happen now, and that stops me from telling him to run free. I
dunno. I just have a vague sense of loss over the whole situation.
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