Nothing runs like a Deere

I've been suffering from a severe case of Mind Your Own Business lately.  It is personally profitable in one way or another, but it wrecks havoc on my favorite self-image. If I neglect my duties as a scourge of thieving politicians and goofy, power-mad, government minions everywhere, why am I continuing to consume precious oxygen?

What profits me if my kitchen is cleaner, the bank account slightly less laughable, and the lawn machinery tuned and ready for The Moon When the Crabgrass Thickens? If, I mean, all that selfishness is at the expense of omitting seditious comment on official ignorance piled upon bureaucratic stupidity upon political venality?

One hopes that St. Peter does not ask such a question, but just in case, I strive here for a tiny down payment on partial redemption.

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Early in February I noticed my passport was expired.  I cross guarded borders only rarely  any more, but who knows, so I sent John  Kerry my $110 and a couple pages of personally identifying information. The form promised processing in four-to-six weeks. About three weeks later the check cleared. Three weeks after that I received a nice email from John saying my application had been received and that processing would take four-to-six weeks. Then, a week later, John joyfully wrote me that my "application" had been "approved," that the Department of State of the United States of America had deployed its vast resources and concluded that I am me, the same me as identified on previous passports.

And Secretary Kerry reported that it had been mailed already, on April 2 or perhaps earlier. It included a note:

"You requested delivery by regular mail. Passport Agencies use Priority Mail. This means you should receive your passport on or about 04/07/2015."

Until reading this I had no strong urge to mock the U.S. Postal Service -- or perhaps John's trust in Snail Mail.

But waidaminnut. Priority Mail is advertised as, well, priority; faster than Bill Cody's speeding pony, more rapid than a New Jersey senator's grab for a bit cash.

I think my passport is coming from New Orleans, 1,203.3 miles distant, or, with six days elapsed time as predicted by the Secretary of State, an average of barely more than 200 miles per day.

Excuse me, Gentlemen, but I think with fresh spark plugs, on-the-fly refueling, and relief drivers,  we might do about that well using my lawn tractor. If not, there is always the pony option.

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Hell, I'm in no rush for the passport. Take your time John, mailman, et al.  The only big deal here is a reminder that government always, in matters from the largest to the smallest, speaks with a forked tongue.

Patience my ass...

It is a pretty normal day here at Camp Jiggleview. The weather is chilly and gray, so I'm tidying up the dump, running some errands, and planning to spend the afternoon and evening getting the shop squared away for spring projects.

Meaning that I am missing the latest hysterical predictions about that word Janet Yellin will choose or reject in her report and canned press conference this afternoon.

It is "patience." It is code for how soon she and her fellow pin-stripe central bankers will slow down the Federal Reserve Cartoon mimeograph machine.  If "patience" stays in, the presses keep rolling merrily along on into the distant future.  If "patience" is deleted she'll retard the throttle from Mach 3 to Mach 2.95.

In the latter case, you can rejoice. That thousand dollars you have tucked away in a CD will start earning five dollars a year. Instead of about two.

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A rate increase negligible for virtually all Americans is a bigger deal for the banks, currency traders and other one per centers.  Dealing in billions and trillions they can live and die on such tweaks. Tweaklets.

Not so Joe Six Pack, to whom the damage is already done.

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I'm talking about a hard-working, respectable, frugal Joe Six Pack. He made his jeans last an extra six months. He usually bought generic. He told his whiny,  rotten high school daughter, "No, you can't have a $3,000 prom dress; $2,000 is the limit and I'm sorry as Hell it will ruin your life." And he made his six-pack of Busch Lite last three days.

Let's say a working life time of such intelligent thrift came to fruition in about 2007 when he celebrated having finally put $100,000 away for his golden years. Simple CDs would turn about $5,000 a year in interest. Even without compounding until he retired,  that income would help pad out his  Social Security check and company pension. There would be enough to keep the car in top shape and, maybe, even replace it at 200,000 miles.

Enough for some travel, maybe even one of those cut-rate six-day cruises that would make the missus so happy.

But in an eye-blink his world changed because all the politicians and gnomes decided the only way to  bail out the Bank of America was to make his $100,000 nest egg worthless as an investment. They would print enough money to make interest superfluous -- meaning zero plus a giggly, face-saving fraction of a per cent.

Instead of $5,000 a year Joe would earn $500. Rounding and crunching the numbers, that means he has  already suffered a permanent loss of something like $30,000 since 2008. A modest car, that cheap cruise, a trip to Yellowstone.

Just to make ends meet, he spends his golden years in the Walmart foyer, handing out carts and trying to be nice to shoppers. Joe, meet the American dream as redefined by Bernanke, Yellin, and all the politicians and too-big-to-fails to whom they kowtow.

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I agree this tome is too long, too windy. The Hell with it. You say "immoral" your way. I'll say it mine.

Down at the Quad-Cities Loophole the Other Day

Some days are luckier than other days.

Some Bushes are better than others.

Roll out the barrel

And, just for lagniappe, a little plastic souvenir of where she was.

According to the old man selling out his personal collection, he fired it there in the 60s. It is a Rock Island Arsenal product inspected by Mr. Frank Krack, and perhaps built by him. He was an assistant foreman who, apparently,  sometimes liked to create some of the RIA National Match/Camp Perry products.

Both slide and frame are Colt 1911, manufactured in 1917 according the SN lists.

No, I won't say what I paid, but  I risked finger injury in getting the asking price out of my pocket. The  seller was still setting up; the Colt had just hit the table as I approached. I decided to haggle only  half-heartedly because there was a very anxious dude standing close behind me, breathing heavily, and I didn't think it was my body cologne exciting him.

'bye, Jumbo

Majestic, eh?

Forget it. Ringling Brothers Circus is pasturing the elephants in favor of Joe Bob's big truck and a batch of freaky Mongolian camel riders.

Thank the Humane Society and various PETA types for further turning America into a flaccid two-inch prick.