I hope everyone enjoyed their summer solstice last Saturday. If the day seemed a little hinky but you couldn’t quite put your finger on why, it was probably because June 21 is the longest day of the year. And buddy, it was a long ‘un. Interminable. I didn’t think it was ever gonna end. It just rocked on and on and on. I actually aged noticeably before midnight finally struck and moved us on into Sunday. Seriously. I developed osteoporosis, went bald, watched an acorn grow into an oak tree and came within an inch of dying of old age. Looooong freakin’ day. Long day.

Speaking of long and drawn out … I think we should rename our country. Change it from “United States of America” to “Tim Russertland.” No offense, but enough already with this guy. Please.

And some goober pundit from MSNBC out there is going, “Hey ~ Tim Russertland! That’s a great idea! I got a chill running up my leg, gush, gush, drool!” It was hyperbole, people. I didn’t really mean it. I was just making a point. Move on.

Starbucks reported a 28 percent drop in second-quarter earnings last month. Gee, I wonder why. With gas-per-gallon costing as much as a café latte, I guess folks just decided to go back to Juan Valdez for their fix. But Starbucks had a pretty good scam going while it lasted. Hey, you know what? Maybe the oil companies got the idea from Starbucks in the first place. I mean, if people would fork over four bucks for a fripfrappuccino, surely they’d do the same for a gallon of gas. And there’s more people drive than drink coffee. The more I think about it, I bet it was Starbucks that started the whole thing with the inflated gas prices. Yeah, I bet they did. Thanks a lot, Starbucks.

Capitalism without conscience is nothing but greed.

Speaking of conscience, you got to wonder why Iraq doesn’t help us out with a little oil after all the money and lives we’ve left over there in their stinking desert. I guess they’re not helping us out for the same reason Kuwait didn’t help us out after we pulled their butt out of the fire, back when the late, great Saddam Hussein was trying to take over the world: Because Islamos, it grieves me to say, are vain, self-important, America-hating, theocratic crybabies. You know what? I don’t really care anymore if we do pull our troops out of that sweat box. Islam deserves Islam. We back our buds in Israel and the rest of em can go chase their tails. How’s that for a plan?

Actually, right after I wrote the preceding, I read where the Kuwait Investment Authority has “agreed to invest $3 billion in Citigroup’s $12.5 billion offering and $2 billion in Merrill Lynch’s $6.6 billion offering.” That’s a total of $5 billion. Okay. But why are they bailing out the freakin’ banks? The banks are not our friends (else they wouldn’t slap a $50 charge on you when you bounce a two-dollar check). In fact, it’s the banks ~ and the lawyers and politicians (or is that redundant?) ~ who have screwed this country up so bad. How about we stop subsidizing these money hogs and help out the little guy for a change. Take that five billion Kuwait is waving around and divide it by 300 million (that’s how many people there are in this country). Give everybody a couple bucks. Share the dream.

Speaking of the dream, eight years after being dragged from a closet in Miami at gunpoint by Reno’s Raiders and returned to Cuba, Elian Gonzalez has risen through the ranks of the brainwashed and entitled to become a fledgling member of Cuba’s Young Communist Union. “I’ll never let Uncle Fidel down,” gushes young Elian. For this, his mother gave her life. See? The good guys don’t always win.

Actually, the good guys almost never win.

In that vein, there’s a heathen group out of Washington called Americans United for Separation of Church and State that filed a federal lawsuit in North Carolina because the good folks there want license plates with “I Believe”on them. I believe? That’s got them tore up? What believe? In Santa Claus? The tooth fairy? I believe I can fly? I believe I can touch the sky? I believe the Americans United for Separation of Church and State to be chowder heads with too much time on their hands? People, we got real problems out there ~ let’s pick our battles a bit more wisely, yes?

What’s that you say? Who was it that asked the Americans United for Separation of Church and State to stick their noses into it in the first place? I’m glad you asked. The suit was filed on behalf of, quote-unquote, two Christian pastors, a rabbi and the Hindu American Foundation. That’s good, huh? Sounds like the set-up for a joke, dudn’t it? Two Christian pastors, a rabbi and the Hindu American Foundation walk into a bar. Bartender says, “What’ll it be?” The two Christian pastors say, “Christ is the Messiah.” The rabbi says, “The Messiah is yet to appear.” And the Hindu American Foundation says, “I used to be an insect.”

Okay, so maybe not a funny joke, but a joke.

And I Quote: “Even if we did have only Christians in our midst, if we expelled every non-Christian from the United States of America, whose Christianity would we teach in the schools? Would we go with James Dobson’s or Al Sharpton’s?” ~ Barack Obama

… or Rev. Wright’s?

I love the way Barack and Michelle are out there reinventing themselves as the chocolate Kennedys? They want to lead us down the chocolate brick road to chocolate Camelot. And for God’s sake, pay no attention to the chocolate man behind the chocolate curtain.

Seriously, the Obamas are spinning so hard they should change their name to Dradle. I say, they’re spinning so hard they should change their name to Dradle. Hello? (tap! tap!) Is this on? Can you hear me in the back.

Oy. What do goys know from dradle? You gotta give ‘em something they can use. My mouth to God’s ear ~ the Demos are wasting their time with the Shiksa and the Schwartza … what we really need in the White House is a Jew.

Obviously, the more I see and hear Obama, the less I like him. And this week he pulled out that race card he had hidden up his sleeve. The Obama media pundits claim he only did it to answer criticism he’s received from Republicans, but hey … last time I looked, the main ones who raised the issue of Obama being black is the Clintons and some other Demos.

And I Quote: “(He’s) one-third whiny, one-third creepy and one-third boring.” ~ Comedian-slash-political pundit Dennis Miller, commenting on Barack Obama’s … well, on his whiny, creepy boringness

Although I am in possession of a secret tape where you can hear Obama telling his people that when he wins the presidency, the first thing he’s going to do is ship all white people back to Europe. Ssssh … don’t tell.

by The Texas Trouble Maker

I have already told you about a couple adventures I had when I was a youth, in the military, and posted to Korea, back when they had a war raging over there. Well, writing about those ancient days brought back some other memories of when I also acted a bit stupid.

Probably the most stupid thing I ever did while in the military was to volunteer to go to Vietnam in the fall of 1966, and to stay there, until January 1968. Being somewhat stupid got me there, and I added to all that by going to Thailand on R&R. You all know what R&R is, don’t you — officially, it means Rest and Recuperation, howsomever, back in the days before girly men were allowed in the military, it meant Rape and Restitution. Not that I would ever engage in such activity, due to my Roman Catholic upbringing.

Anyway, after having spent a few months in Vietnam, I was eligible for some R&R and with a group of comrades, decided to go to Bangkok, Thailand to see what those elephant worshipers had to offer in the way of amusement. Only trouble was, it was monsoon season, the rains were particularly heavy, and the GI airlines were not flying to Bangkok or anywhere else. We could have boarded a ship that would have taken us on a seasick journey, but we did not want to be sick — at least not that way.

So, as most depressed military folk do, our little group got into a corner of the Tan Son Nhut Air Base NCO Club in Saigon and got pie-eyed on beer and cheap whiskey. Somewhere in the conversation, a buddy of mine came up with a brilliant idea.

“Hey Tex, didn’t you tell me that you knew how to fly a plane?”

“Yeah Turpo — I can fly anything Cessna makes; from the 182 down to the 140 model. Why you asking?”

“Well, I just noticed that Air America has one of those Special Mission airplanes parked across the runway in front of their billets. Bet one of those birds could fly in all this rain.”

“You think that we can just go over there and ask one of their civilian pilots to fly us to Bangkok just because we want some R&R?”

“Naw, I know those rich sons won’t give us the time of day; I was thinking that since you know how to fly a plane, we might just steal one of the CIA birds and fly it to Bangkok.”

“And what the hell would we do with a stolen plane once we got to Bangkok? You think someone won’t come looking for it and us?”

“Geez, we don’t have to keep it. Once we get to Bangkok we can just leave it where we land it — and, unless you are real stupid, you don’t have to tell the CIA we stole one of their fancy spy planes.”

“You think they won’t mount a search for a stolen plane? Bet they would have a chase plane on our tail as soon as we took off — that plane isn’t exactly a warplane you know — it is used only for inserting troops into tight spots, for making airdrops in isolated places and for observation.”

“Yeah, it can fly so low and slow a regular plane can’t even chase it. Only thing that can hurt it is ground fire, but who the hell will be outside waiting for a plane to fly over in this rain? Nothing is flying, that is why we ain’t already enjoying some R&R in Bangkok.”

“Turpo. I have to admit you are onto something. I have to agree it would be easy to steal one of those Peacemakers and get it into the air. The only leetle problem is that it probably doesn’t have enough range to fly 450 miles to Bangkok.”

“No, no, Mac — take another look at those planes – they are equipped with drop tanks – bet they can fly a thousand miles.”

“Okay Turbo, you sneak across the runway and find which of those birds has full tanks and open doors and I will come over there and fly it.”

That is how the adventure started; Turpowitz made a suggestion, I responded with an equally dumb answer and we all got to daring each other to actually steal a plane. Turpo found an open plane, and then signaled for the rest of us guys to come over and join him. Five of us boarded the plane after we undid the tie-downs, pulled the wheel chocks and took the gust locks off the control surfaces.

I slid into the pilot seat and started renewing my acquaintance with airplane instruments. In less than two minutes, I had the panel energized and the engine ready to crank. When I flipped the starter switch, that turbo engine made more noise than a Phantom Jet. I figured that CIA folk would come running, but they did not, and I got the Peacemaker rolling. I turned onto the runway, not paying any attention to which way the wind was blowing, maxed the throttle and then did my best to keep the plane on line.

I remembered flaps and deployed them. When I did, we went up but hardly forward. The Peacemaker, being designed to fly in and out of tight places, went up like crazy into the rain and when I lost sight of the ground, I tilted the nose back down until I had some reference points again, and then leveled out and went straight ahead. At the combat cruising speed of 129 knots per hour, I banked west on a heading that would get us to Thailand.

We had fuel and we were still pie-eyed, and happy, because we were going on R&R. Then, after an hour and a half in the air, heading directly west towards the Gulf of Thailand, and with no gulf waters coming into sight, I began to suspect that either the instruments were wrong or maybe we were bucking a strong headwind.

It was a headwind, and instead of reaching the coast near Phu Quok Island, in predicted time of one hour and 30 minutes, it took us two hours and fifty minutes. No way were we going to reach Bangkok at that speed. In addition, when someone remarked that Phu Quok Island was in Cambodia and that the Cambodians were not exactly receptive to Americans using its airspace, we had to make a big decision.

Either reverse course and give up the idea of R&R, or fly out over the gulf waters at wave top level to get out of Cambodian airspace, and then turn north towards the Thailand land mass. Being we were still sipping our beer and whiskey reserves, we decided on the latter course.

Somewhere over the Gulf of Thailand at an altitude of maybe 60 feet, a big red light started flashing on the instrument panel. The auxiliary tanks were about to run dry. I immediately switched to the main tanks and dropped the external ones. Now we had to make land before we ran the main tanks dry.

Turpo checked his tourist map and picked a place named Rayong, just south of Chon Buri. Since we did not have any official flight maps aboard the plane, I could not identify any navigational beacons or even a public radio station to home-in on. We were getting into so much trouble I quit drinking.

Finally, I just nosed the plane onto a north heading, and had Turpo dial the nav gadgets to see if there were any beacons located in that direction. He located a weak signal and we decided that is had better be coming from a shore-based station, and headed that way.

We soon found out that the beacon was coming from a Thai coastal defense ship anchored in the gulf, because when we flew over the thing, the crew lit up the sky around us with fireworks — actually, they were tracers. There were more fireworks from more naval ships as we headed further north, or rather northeast because the strong winds were blowing us that way. I could not crab into the wind and fight my way north because the fuel gauge was unwinding as if we had a hole in the tanks.

We spotted land, then the glow of lights, which indicated a good size town. It looked promising and since the gauges said I had maybe 15 minutes of fuel left, I looked for a landing site.

I want everyone to know that Fairchild builds a damn fine airplane. The Peacemaker dropped down out of the sky on command and planted her huge all-terrain tires right on a beach in front of a Thai Casino. She stopped within a hundred yards because I had deployed max flaps and had turned into the wind.

The wind worked to our advantage. Allowed us to land safely among the beach chairs and umbrellas. No one was around because of the weather, so I taxied the plane into the underbrush and we all jumped out and ran through the rain towards the nearest building, which turned out to be a casino.

We rushed through the doors and surprised the heck out of the staff because they had not been expecting customers. They made us welcome and we stayed there six days before our money ran out and we had to hitch a ride on a local bus that took us to Bangkok where we could make connections with one of the R&R aircraft that made the run between Bangkok and Saigon.

We would have flown the Peacemaker back to Saigon, however; someone stole it while we were having a good time inside the resort. Those Thai men are a bunch of thieves — can’t leave anything unguarded.

Saigon was still Saigon when we got there. We went back to work, finished our tours, and went our separate ways when we got back to the States. I have never flown another Fairchild airplane since then, however, still highly recommend the manufacturer, although they do not install adequate fuel tanks in their aircraft.

Sometimes, especially late at night, when I have my hand wrapped around a second bottle of Jack Daniel’s, I will admit, just a bit, to having been stupid. Only while I was in the military, mind you.

News Flash! in this critical election year: Nutbag Islamo cleric Abu Qatada (Osama bin Laden’s “right-hand man in Europe”), who was arrested in 2002 and remanded to the Belmarsh high security prison in London, is now out on bail and resting comfortably in his quaint little English home. Where he also, incidently, receives approximately $2,000 a month in “state benefits.” That’s sort of the way we’re moving in this country, trying to confer full rights of citizenship on terrorists, and then paying them for the privilege.

And, of course, I will remind you that the world’s oppressive dictators in Cuba, Venezuela and all over the Middle East are huge Obama supporters. Am I the only one bothered by that?

Speaking of Obama, his baby mama is being reinvented as a Jackie Kennedy of colour. We’ve already forgotten about that angry black woman who never felt any pride in being an American … the one who said Americans are mean and bitter people. Where’d she go anyway? In a closet until after the election?

Did you like the way I put a “u” in “colour” in that last paragraph? You know, maybe spell it, “peouple of colour.” Putting u’s in there gives it a more European feel, which is much less Americany and therefore much less offensive to the rest of the world. Lord knows, we just want to fit in.

Speaking of leftist hyperbole, just in the last year alone, global warming maven-slash-alarmist AlGore devoured more than 213,210 kilowatt-hours (kWh) of electricity at his Nashville crib. According to the Energy Information Administration, that’s 20 times more electricity than the average American home … or enough to power up 232 of those average households for a month. And it’s probably just as well we turn a blind eye to his guzzling SUVs and private jets ‘cause, after all, the man did get the Nobel Prize. Which, incidently, I understand will soon go on sell at Wal-Mart for $9.99 so everybody else who wants to can have one as well.

But you know what? That thing with AlGore sucking down the power just serves to illustrate the weirdness and confusion of the whole carbon footprint madness, ‘cause AlGore’s power usage is that high after he had his home reworked to be more environmentally friendly. Serious. He installed solar panels and a geothermal system, he replaced his light bulbs with those much-touted, more-efficient “green” bulbs, and even re-did all the windows and duct work. After all that re-modeling, he ended up using 1,638 kWh more energy each month than he was using before. What up with dat?

By the by, the fact that AlGore is an environment god is just more proof that we’re living in the End Times. You know … war is peace, good is bad, up is down, truth is a lie? And yet, you continue to scoff.

A federal court judge in Los Angeles presiding over an obscenity case was busted last week when it was revealed he had pornography featuring fetishes and bestiality posted on his own personal website. Even ol’ Senator Dianne Feinstein (D-Calif.), who is normally an if-it-feels-good-do-it kind’a gal, said, “This is unacceptable behavior for a federal court judge.” If should be pointed out, however, that even though sexual perversion may be unacceptable for federal judges in California, when it comes to small-time Chancery Court judges in faraway places like, oh, let’s say, some little podunk county in east Tennessee, it ranks as a great big ol’ no problemo, y’all.

Two people in London have been charged with supplying crackhead diva Amy Winehouse with cocaine and ecstasy after a video of her smoking some foo-foo dust appeared on the Internet. Winehouse herself wasn’t charged in the case. The moral? Gee, I don’t know. Smoke all the flake you want, but don’t sell it? Anyway, I guess they figure it’s just a matter of time til l’il Amy pulls an Elvis and ODs on a bathroom floor somewhere under the toilet bowl, so why hassle the poor bird, wot? It’s here today, gone tomorrow, iddn’t it? Doubly true for drug monkeys.

Okay. Tim Russert died. That’s sad and he left us too young and all that. But my Lord, people … that’s all that’s been on the cable news ever since his heart stopped. Non-stop Tim Russert. What’s the deal? A president wouldn’t have gotten that much coverage. Shows just how self-important the media now thinks it is. Lose one and they shut the country down for the next ten years while all the other pundits can get face time talking about how great the dearly departed was. Seriously, Kennedy didn’t get as much coverage. Mother Teresa didn’t get as much.

And let’s go ahead and put Russia back on the “America’s Enemies” list, ‘cause these days all’s that’s missing back in the U.S.S.R. is the Iron Curtain. And looks like if old KGB alum Vladimir Putin has his way, the Curtain ain’t far off. Political humor is already being banned from Russian TV ~ unless you want to take shots at Bush … Bush is fair game all over the world. But anyone making jokes at Vladimir’s expense is digitally erased right off the TV screen. And then they’re digitally erased from their life. Seriously. Just ask Alexander Litvinenko. And he wasn’t even a funny guy. The more things change, the more they stay the same. And they will bury us, with the banging shoe.

No, seriously … everybody everywhere gets to crack on George Bush with total impunity. Even those stone age cave people that were discovered living down in South America ridicule Bush. Asked if they were offended at being called “cave people,” the caveman spokesperson said, “Hhaugh! Googaaga flill ump!” Which translates as, “No, we don’t mind being called cavemen. Just don’t call us bushmen.” Get it? Stone age humor for the 21st century.

by The Texas Trouble Maker

I belong to one of those reunion web pages that keep track of high school graduates. I enjoy the page because I started out before first grade with some of the members and went all the way through high school with them. I lost track of my classmates after I joined the military and until I joined the internet a few years ago and found that web page, I had no idea what had happened to most of them.

Just a couple days ago, someone posted a notice that Benny The Kid had kicked the bucket. In Pittsburgh slang, that means that he has shuffled off this mortal orb. Anyway, I was not as much interested in Benny going, as I was in wanting to know how he did it. You see, Benny was about the closest thing to a Mafia Member as anyone outside the Italian community could be. He was Irish, a Protestant and a wheeling — dealing gambling man. That was back in high school.

Benny took to gambling in elementary school because his daddy ran a poolroom. He was not content to flip cards, pitch pennies or bet on local ball games like the rest of the guys. Benny took to rolling the bones, playing poker and running his own little numbers racket when we started our sophomore year in high school.

Back in the 1940s the Mafia ran the numbers racket. You know what the numbers game is, don’t you? Today it is known as ‘pick three’. What Benny did was collect bets on a three-digit number all day long and then just before school let out in the afternoon he would have one of the cheerleaders draw three numbers out of a bowl. Hit the numbers and Benny gave you $50 dollars. Not a bad return on a nickel bet. The game became so popular that the teachers played the numbers too, then the bus drivers, the streetcar conductors, kids from other schools and some of the nuns at St Mary’s Church.

When Benny started taking bets on baseball, basketball and football scores, he drew attention from the Pittsburgh mob.

Have you ever seen a Mob Ambassador? Well, back then, he traveled in one of those big sedan autos driven by a gorilla who was helped by another gorilla. Sometimes the gorillas wore clothing, other times they just ran around covered with natural body hair. Of course, the Ambassador was always dressed in a silk-looking brown suit, white shirt, black necktie, handkerchief flowing out of a breast pocket and wearing a pair of brown and white shoes. A real Italian type, and impressive, unless you noticed that his outfit came from one of the northside haberdasher shops that retailed clothing made in a State Prison somewhere.

Anyway, The Ambassador came to Munhall High School one day in March 1950 — to see Benny of course. He came during lunchtime and we kids were sitting on the school steps engaged as usual in a hot blackjack game. Benny was dealing and when the mob ambassador got out of his sedan and walked up to our crowd, flanked by the two gorillas, I knew trouble was coming.

“Who among youse boys is da Kid?”

“I am. You want in? Nickel bet.”

“I come to tell you no more numbers, no more off-track bets, no more bets on ballgames. You haul it in boy or I will have Maurice do unto you a bad thing.”

“You come all the way from the northside to warn me?”

“Ya.”

“Okay. Now go back to the mob and tell the boss that I plan on running things in Munhall, Homestead, West Homestead, Calhoun and Homeville. As soon as I graduate high school.”

“Ha. Punk like you tink you is ready for hard work?”

“Yep. I have half the high school guys ready to work for me.”

“I ought to let Maurice do it to you. Right here and now, so you will learn dat you can not mess with the family.”

Maurice hitched up his pants and started for Benny. However, since gorillas have keen hearing, he stopped in his tracks. He might have looked unintelligent; however, he sure knew what the click of cocked zip guns meant and the snap of switchblades. You don’t mess with a gang of nine no matter who you are.

The Ambassador had sense enough to get back in his sedan and drive away. I thought that he had gone for reinforcements or a machine gun but Benny said that he was just going back to tell his boss that things were not Kosher in Munhall.

Turned out that Benny was hired by the mob just after he graduated. Benny accepted the job because he did not want to engage in a real war that had started in Korea. Me, being a patriot, joined the military and ended up in Korea. I lost track of Benny after that but always remembered one of the sure-thing bets he had taught me.

I made money on that same bet for 30 years before I turned into a church going, repentant old man. Anyway, the bet went like this:

Bet that the winning team in any baseball game will score more runs in one inning than the losing team will total in the entire game — take the ties, find a sucker to run the bet over a week or a season, and get rich.

It was a bet that Benny let me in on in math class one day. I never did get to thank him, but I will bet 8 to 5 that he is laughing about the wreath of poison ivy I sent to his funeral. Especially if the preacher breaks out in a rash during the eulogy.

People , this isn’t just nonsense, it’s freakin’ madness. That so-called “world’s first pregnant man” business … that’s not a man! For the love of God, media people, stop that. What you have is a gay woman who had her breasts surgically removed and is now jacked up on male hormones. She still has all her female equipment. She got pregnant through artificial insemination. She is a woman! She is a freakin’ pregnant woman. No pregnant man here! No pregnant man! God, people are so stupid. If you don’t think this whole thing is creeping me out, just count all the exclamation points I used in this paragraph, and I rarely ever use an exclamation point. Just enough already with this “world’s first pregnant man” thing. She’s not a man! She’s a woman!

Okay. I have got to get a grip.

According to a panel of global experts at the Goldman Sachs “Top Five Risks” conference, a water shortage will soon emerge as the world’s greatest crises. Yes, an even greater crisis than global warming, depleted energy reserves or “men” having babies. But does anyone else appreciate the irony of a planet that is 71 percent water facing a water shortage? Can you say desalination? Something? How about we just get on that?

I can already see that the 21st century is going to be known as the age of hyperbole and hysteria.

No, you know what? This is the age of Chicken Little.

And fat people …

… More and more, airlines are sneaking in extra charges for services that used to be a given, like $15 for a checked bag and $25 for phone reservations. Now they’re considering charging fat people more to cover the extra fuel it takes to haul their fat butts into the air. Unfair? Maybe. But retail stores charge more for clothes that climb into the plus sizes of X, XX, XXX and beyond. Takes more fabric to make the clothes so I guess it makes sense to charge more. After all, why charge the same for a small shirt, when a multiple-X size takes three and four times the material to manufacture? Now, I suspect this whole anti-fat-people movement is just a way to encourage the lard buckets to stay out of sight and not offend the sensibilities of those of us who are svelte and beautiful. To that I say … why not? Fat people are a blight. They should be melted down into suet. And the first fat person to go should be ______________ (fill in the blank).

Another scheme airlines have come up with to increase revenue is to install those new body scanners that can see through clothing and then project the images to a pay-per-view TV in the executive lounge.

I never thought I would live to see it, but Hillary finally conceded the Demo nomination to Obama. S’funny, but every time Obama tried to call her to discuss the situation, he kept getting her voice mail. Then, when she finally did pull the plug, he learned about it on the TV. And to all the people who think he might seriously consider asking her (and Bubba) to be his VP? Yeah, that’s going to happen … right after monkeys fly out my butt.

Seriously. He’d pick Tony Rezko first.

Yeah, I stole that monkey gag from Michael Myers and I’d do it again. You got a problem with that?

And I Quote: “Flash in the pan.” ~ Mark Penn, Hillary’s grossly overpaid chief strategist last year as he dismissed upstart newcomer Barack Obama as a threat to her presidential bid (they thought the biggest threat to L’il Hill would come from John “Have You Ever Seen A Haircut Walking” Edwards)

And I Quote: “Whoever said that after denial comes acceptance hadn’t met the Clintons.” ~ Columnist Maureen Dowd

By the way, John McCain, as per your VP pick, I have two little words for you: Colin Powell. Do this and the White House is yours, no ifs, ands or buts.

An Iraqi government spokesman name of Ali al-Dabbagh said last week that Iraq had a “different vision” from the U.S. as regards American troops being deployed there beyond 2008. What he actually said was, “A joint vision on (the war) is yet to be achieved between the two sides and … the Iraqi side has a different vision and it will not undercut or be negligent towards Iraqis’ rights and sovereignty.” Hey, Ali al-Dabdoodoo, you know what? How about showing a little respect to the 4,000+ men and women (so far) who have given their lives to liberate your sweltering little toilet bowl of a country. That motley group of religious fanatics you call an “army” make the Keystone Kops look like Navy Seals. Tell you what … give us back our dead and wounded and refund the three trillion American dollars we’ve sunk into trying to give you a leg up and we’ll be glad to leave you with it, you ungrateful prick. You want to live on your face with a scimitar at your neck? Knock yourself out. But show some respect to your liberators.

Here’s you a bumper sticker: “Iraq ~ the new France.”

Green madness. Some scientists are now advocating adding insects to our diet. They say eating insects is good for us and for the environment. Well, scientists, so are cheeseburgers. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’re not using enough cheese. Besides, eating bugs is just gonna stir Peta up and you know it.

Speaking of eating, world leaders who attended last week’s U.N. food summit in Rome decided to tone down the menu. They caught a lot of flak last time they met because of their lavish meals. Something hinky about a bunch of politicians discussing global starvation while they’re stuffing their faces with lobster, goose, foie gras and expensive wine. This time ~ in order to appear a bit more PC and sensitive to all the starving people in the world ~ they’re dining on pasta, mozzarella, spinach and sweet corn. What? No bugs?

by The Texas Trouble Maker

I have been married a long time. So long that I know what my wife is going to say before she actually does it. Pisses her off no end when I just wave a hand and say either yes or no to whatever she is going to say. Pissed or not, she goes ahead and talks anyway.

I don’t think what I do is uncommon; however, I thought I might mention it so other fellows who experience the same thing will not feel like they are unique in any way.

Despite being married 55 years to the same woman, I am no closer to understanding how her mind operates. Take for instance, her habit of baiting me about what I want to eat. The following ought to give you an idea of what happens”

“Honey, what would you like to have for lunch?”

“Ohh, how about a couple of hot dogs, some chips and a coke, because I am busy working in the yard and don’t want to take the time to clean up for a sit down lunch?”

“No, hot dogs aren’t filling or good for you. You need a balanced meal. How about if I broil a pork chop, heat up some corn and beans and fix a salad?”

“No, I don’t want a big meal, I just want something simple. If you don’t want to microwave a couple wieners, then fix me a ham on rye with a slice of Swiss cheese.”

“That’s even worse. If you don’t want the pork chop, how about a sirloin, baked potato and a salad? I can put all kinds of things you like in the salad.”

“I don’t want a big meal. I am supposed to be losing weight. How can I lose weight if you keep fixing big meals all the time? All I want is a simple sandwich.”

“I was just thinking of you. You need a balanced meal. Do you want a pork chop or not.?”

“I don’t want anything right now. I’ll fix something when I get hungry. Uh, it isn’t even lunchtime yet. If you are hungry, fix something for yourself, I can fix something later.”

“Fine! I was just thinking about you.”

“Great! Think about fixing me a couple hotdogs next time I say I want hotdogs for lunch.”

“There is no need for you to get snippy with me; I was just thinking about you.”

“Okay honey, right now I am not hungry.”

One hour later:

“Well, I finished that job in the yard. Fixed a sprinkler head that the yardman ran over. Works okay, so I am going to wash up and change clothes. I did enough outside work for the day.”

“Your lunch is in the microwave. Just heat it up again.”

“What’s this?”

“Tilapia. If you don’t want it, just leave it and fix something else.”

“You fixed beets, new potatoes and salad too?”

“Yes!”

- – - – - – -

When my wife does fix me a meal, it is usually a good one. She says that she can’t cook; however, if I ever agree to that statement, I will be in deep trouble.

For certain, her weirdest hitch when cooking is the way she tampers with a good meal. Over the years she has hit upon some great meals and for some reason, just as I develop a hunger for that meal, she goes and changes it.

Take for instance what she did with one of my favorite meals — Spanish rice and wieners.

Yeah, that was a meal that she invented when we were first married and too poor to be able to afford steaks, pork chops and things like that. Anyway, she hit on a dish in which she casseroled spiced rice, wiener chunks, tomatoes and onion chips. It was a good meal because it was filling and tasted great. I grew to like that meal and looked forward to the one night a week she served it.

Recently, something reminded me of that meal and I asked her to prepare it — lots of it so I could get my fill. What she served caused some conversation.

“Hey Tex! What is this?”

“Spanish rice and wieners. Remember the other day you told me that you wanted me to fix it — you haven’t had it for a while?”

“Yeah, but what happened to the rice and the wieners?”

“I thought that you would like a change — you have been eating that same meal since we married.”

“Yeah — so why did you change it?”

“Well, the rice had too many carbs in it so I substituted grits and rye.”

“Maybe that is what is making the wieners taste like road-killed groundhog.”

“Those are turkey wieners — better for you than beef wieners.”

“Did I forget our anniversary or something? You trying to get even for something that I did?”

“If you don’t like it, fix your own dinner.”

- – - – - -

I suppose I am just like other husbands in that I like to cook a special meal. One that my wife does not like, and doesn’t know how to cook anyway. My favorite is stuffed cabbage — Slovak style.

Since my wife won’t eat the rice infested, pepper- spiced ground meat, rolled in cabbage leaves and cooked five hours in a big pot filled with Sauerkraut, Polish sausages, pork ribs, tomato paste and some garlic and onions, I do it myself. It is not a difficult meal to prepare and once it starts to simmer, the smell of that cabbage, kraut and garlic fills the air.

I use a big pot because I mean to eat the contents and nothing but the contents over a two or three-day period. Beer and black bread and a large bowl are all I need to be happy.

Odd things happen when I start to fill the pot with the ingredients. My wife likes to tell me that the kraut doesn’t go on the bottom because it will cook down, I ought to stir the tomato paste in rather than just dump the can on top, I need to cut the onions into smaller pieces, I am using too much garlic and way too much pepper. In addition, the spiced ground meat does not really go well with the ribs, the pot is too full, and the smell is terrible. Despite all that helpful nagging, I manage to cook the mess my way and when it is done, I do not offer my wife any.

There is one thing about the cabbage rolls that mystifies me — why does my wife think it is her duty to give our housekeeper, son-in-law and neighbors most of the pot contents? Why can’t my wife leave my meals alone? I don’t hand her meals out to the neighbors — unless she has done something with okra.

Uh, got to go. Time to cook up some cabbage rolls.

Ellas Otha Bates passed on this week at the tender age of 79. He was one of the last of the old time blues men. Maybe the last. They’re pretty much all gone now … John Lee Hooker, Jimmy Reed, Willie Dixon, Muddy Waters. There’s still some of the quote, unquote legends ~ Magic Slim, Koko Taylor, Eddy Clearwater, B.B. King ~ but none of those honest-to-God get-down Delta old timers who did what they did under constant threat from the Man and still managed to make it new. Like Ellas. Ellas was a pioneer. He brought an audacious and exciting rhythmic quality to the genre that was truly unique and still relevant today. Who’s Ellas Otha Bates? Yeah, I guess nobody knows him by his birth name. But if I said “Bo Diddley,” you’d know who I was talking about, huh? Rest in peace, blues man.

I got a wee bit of criticism over my Ted Kennedy comments from a couple weeks ago. As you know, Teddy is, I guess, dying from brain cancer. I said maybe he could say hello to Mary Jo Kopeckne if he gets a chance and possibly explain to her why he “left her there at the bottom of that cold, dark Chappaquiddick channel to drown like a kitten in a sack so (he) could save (his) own fat, drunken butt.” I guess that was pretty rough. You know, considering he didn’t suffer one single punitive measure as a result of that drunken binge so many years ago that left poor Mary Jo dead. Never apologized to her folks, never offered them any coin from his vast fortune, never did any jail time, never really suffered any consequence at all. Actually, now that I think about it, my saying that he saved his own “fat, drunken butt” while Mary Jo drowned is pretty much the worst thing that’s happened to him since he caused her death. So, all things being equal, I guess he got off easy.

What? You say he suffered because Chappaquiddick ruined any presidential aspirations he may have entertained? Well, maybe. But, really, I see that as a blessing for the rest of us.

Oh, enough of Ted. What happens now is between him and God. And that, my friends, is a face-to-face we’ll all have sooner or later ~ no do-overs, no plea deals, no excuses … just the White Throne and then eternity. Gonna be rough for a lot of phoney baloney smart guys.

Yeah, go ahead and scoff. Just don’t say you weren’t warned.

A 30-year-old IT consultant from London traveling to Dusseldorf on a business trip was stopped by security at Heathrow Airport this week because he was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Megatron the Transformer on it. For those of you who don’t know, “Transformers” is a kid’s comic book about sentient robots. For some reason, security made him change his t-shirt before they’d let him on the plane. Okay, I know security has to be careful and all, but I just have one question … the heck was a 30-year-old businessman doing wearing a Transformer t-shirt in the first place? Dude, you’re thirty. Get a shirt with buttons and a collar, for God’s sake. Maybe a necktie? Just do yourself a favor … lose the Game Boy and iPod and man up. You’re thirty.

Just reading that story gave me geek poisoning.

And I Quote: “I must announce that the Zionist regime (Israel), with a 60-year record of genocide, plunder, invasion and betrayal is about to die and will soon be erased from the geographical scene.” ~ Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, belaboring the whole “death to Israel” thing

And, oh yeah, let’s not forget to include “The Great Satan” …

And I Quote: “Today, the time for the fall of the satanic power of the United States has come and the countdown to the annihilation of the emperor of power and wealth has started.” ~ more Mahmoud

You heard him, people … the countdown has started. Tighten up out there. Tighten up, I say.

… “erased from the geographical scene.” Mahmoud, that’s gold.

You know, maybe when Obama gets in the White House, he can have Mahmoud and Khaled Meshaal and some of them other terrorist cutthroats over for the weekend. They can rent “Nuclear Jihad, The Ultimate Terror,” kick back in front of the big screen TV with some buttered corn, Milk Duds and a Big Gulp … and bond. I say … and bond.

By the way, Fidel Castro has given his endorsement to Barack, too. How many dictators and terrorists have endorsed him now? I guess maybe somebody will have to start a new website to help us keep up ~ www.anotherruthlessdictatorwhosupportsobama.com.

Speaking of ruthless dictators, let’s go ahead an address this business of the Bradley Weekly shutting down to “take the summer off.” If you buy that, you will definitely want to buy one of these Rolex watches I have under my trench coat … they come in assorted colors. No, uh, maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think a financially healthy, profitable newspaper closes down for three months for vacation. In fact, if it was anybody but the Weekly, I wouldn’t have believed they would even use an excuse that lame ~ that’s not even spin anymore … that’s wobble.

Then again, maybe I’m reading em all wrong. In which case … see you in the fall, guys.

Uh … well … I won’t see you in the fall. But maybe somebody will.

by The Texas Trouble Maker

I have never had any formal education as an engineer. Particularly the kind that builds things, not the kind who makes a locomotive run along steel tracks. Odd thing is though, I have always built things — starting way back when I played in my backyard in Pittsburgh.

Kids who grew up in Pittsburgh learned engineering starting in grade school. How to mine coal out of the family tunnel that ran into the mount behind the house, was probably my first serious work — it was imperative that I learn how to shore up the roof and walls of the tunnel otherwise, I wasn’t going to show up for supper again.

Then there was the engineering required for tossing a plank bridge across the twenty feet wide gully that nature created between our house and the street every time it rained. You had to know how to spike planks together and then rig a rope cradle in the plum tree to swing the planks across the chasm. Any miscalculation might cause a body to end up a half mile downstream on the steel grating that shielded the underside of the trolley trestle from being washed away.

There was an art to toppling trees, especially the big oaks that hung over the house. Let a tree trunk fall on the slate roof and we had to listen to the screams of Aunt Annie, who owned the house.

The best bit of engineering I engaged in, happened in the spring and early summer of a year. Pond construction. It was a demanding project, and if done properly, would result in a swimming hole that could be enjoyed through the summer and maybe the next couple of summers too.

I say pond building is an engineering feat because it takes teamwork, hard labor, careful design and collection of materials. The collection of materials starts when all the guys who will share in the benefits of a finished pond, scatter through the neighborhoods collecting sacks. Hemp sacks were the best because they lasted more than one year when filled with dirt and packed one atop another in an interlocking fashion to dam up water and to withstand the pressure of the water pool. Hundreds of sacks and the shovels and picks needed to move dirt.

In my neck of the woods, we kids constructed our ponds in a gully or ravine though which a stream flowed. We started out by picking the spot where we would toss up the dam and then we commenced to shave the sides and bottom of the gully to get dirt to fill the sacks, which would be stacked to make the dam.

Sounds easy, but you have to remember about tree roots, rocks and maybe coal seams that must be hacked away. The bigger the dig the bigger the pond. The deeper the dig the higher can be the diving board that will be constructed in a nearby overhanging tree. The bigger the pond, the thicker the dam. The whole project required mathematics and an understanding of hydraulics, gravity, coefficients of friction, weight displacements, fluidity of earth, compaction ratios and the likelihood of earthquakes and burrowing ground hogs.

The greatest dam I ever engineered was the one that blocked the flow of Mrs. Bodnar’s Creek near the Homeville post office. Yeah, the Big Muddy was its name and it was across the mouth of the little ravine behind the post office and Mrs. Bodnar’s house, hidden back there by a poison ivy patch and some locust trees. Geez, that dam was a marvel.

The ravine was just sixty feet wide where we sited the dam. Being that the creek ran strong, we had to do the shaving of the ravine sidewalls and floor before we could dam up the water flow. So, we shaved everything, packed the dirt in sacks and heaped the sacks sky high in preparation for the day when we would start laying down the sacks to form a dam. It had to be done in a hurry, and properly, to keep the dam going up before the water level did.

Thirty boys gathered on the day of the “plugging.” Down went the first layer of sacks, six sacks wide and interlocking with a smear of clay to seal the cracks between the sacks. Next level was the same. Then we did a layer 5 wide, and another atop it, still using clay to seal everything. The fifth and sixth layers were three sacks wide. The seventh and eighth layers were double wide and interlocked. The ninth and tenth layers gave us a dam that was eight feet high, penning a pool deep enough for diving. We still had some sacks left, so added one more layer and built a sheet metal spillway over the center of the dam to allow water to flow over the dam without eroding it. The spillway was also important because we had to have a flow of water to keep the pond clear of suspended mud.

No one noticed that Bodnar Creek had stopped flowing, or that there had been any activity behind the post office among the locust trees and the poison ivy vines.

It took a week for the pond to fill. Opening day was glorious because the water in the pond was nice and yellow-green just like sulphur water is supposed to be. We thirty engineers went skinny-dipping, wrestled in the mud and told nasty stories as boys often did. I reckon we made a lot of noise because the postmaster came back there to see what was happening. The grouch started screaming as soon as he saw the dam. Since he used some bad words, we boys took to flinging mud globs at him. He ran off to call the cops.

Willy the cop was as bad as the postmaster. Started right in raising three kinds of verbal hell about us kids building a pond. When we started tossing mud balls at him, he went off to contact the chief of police.

Chief Hampton was a reasonable man. We kids liked him because he was fair. He beat the hell out of us with an oak paddle when we erred, but otherwise, he gave us kids lots of wiggle room. The Chief did not mind the pond and since it was out of the public eye and on mining company land, he gave us the high sign to go ahead and have fun.

The Chief should have been more instructive with Willy though, because that night, Willy went sneaking back to the dam and tried to destroy it. I guess he knew something about engineering too because he went right to the center of the dam and started tearing into the sacking. Started down low and worked upwards. Then he took a long pole and started poking at things.

According to Butch Simpson and Andy Pavlick who were sleeping out, having a potato roast and cigarette rolling contest, near the pond, Willy got tired of poking at the “plug” and started walking back towards his car. That is when the dam burst loose like one of Mrs. Bodnar’s overfed geese and with a big gurgle — swoosh, let loose all that dammed up water.

The whoosh and wash was something to hear, according to Butch and Andy. So was the cracking of tree trunks down stream. The footbridge in the backyard of the post office shattered loudly and when the debris flooded into the back of the post office, the entire building slammed off its foundations and went across Homeville Road to fetch up against Henry’s Barbershop. The funny part was when Butch noticed that Willy and his car were also swept across the road and into Homeville Creek, which flowed behind the Barbershop. The grinding of metal was shrill — almost as shrill as Willy’s screams.

I didn’t learn about the pond until the next morning when I went to take a swim. The destruction was fabulous. The road crew was filling in the ditch that had been made across the road. Firemen were going through the post office and barbershop to make sure nothing would catch on fire. Postal inspectors were trying to gather up scattered mail. The local wrecker was trying to lift the squad car out of Homeville Creek. And Chief Hampton was rounding up all the boys who he had seen at the dam.

There was an overflowing crowd at the Municipal Building where they held juvenile court. Most folks having come to watch the Chief blister some asses, which was more or less a public event. Only this time we kids did not receive punishment. Not after Butch and Andy told the Judge and the Chief what they had seen.

Willy was given a choice – join the Marines and go fight Japs in the Pacific Islands, or pay for all the damage. He chose the Marines and when the war ended, he came home, became a cop again and was so damn mean to we kids that I for one couldn’t wait for someone to start another war so I could have an excuse for leaving Homeville.

I went to Korea right after a war started over there and I used my engineering experience to construct some damn good mortar shelters, observation posts and a thing called “hasty field fortifications.” It was easy, considering my background.