I mean, the hair is bad enough

I wouldn't deviate an inch from my path to greet Sen. Orrin Hatch,* as vile an authoritarian theocrat as ever trod the sacred sands of Provo in New Zion. But at this moment I feel kindly enough toward him to make a campaign contribution.

He has just made the wise Latina look the fool on incorporation. No one following the issue can now fail to believe Sotomayor thinks Heller is irrelevant. Under the "rational belief" standard she loves, Heller would apply nowhere except Washington D.C. It is a permissive standard and could sanction your city council banning firearms because of a public health danger to to citizens' hearing. All you have to do is get a petri dish full of politicians and a few Schumeresque judges to agree deafness is bad and there oughtta be a law preventing it.

Hatch did let her off a little too lightly on her conviction that arms possession and use is not a fundamental right.

Not that it will do any good. Barring evidence of cannibalism, she's in. Since I need to look at her the rest of my life, I just wish Ms. Justice Sotomayor would quit getting her hair done at the barber college.

*Namedropping: I've worked with him, however briefly. His personality is as repulsive as his politics.

Hopeful change comes to the prairies

South Dakota has a new U.S. Attorney, a fellow named Greg Johnson who is among the "fine attorneys (who) have distinguished themselves as some of the brightest their profession has to offer," (President) Obama said in a statement.

Greg , 34, has been brightly chasing billable hours for a private law firm since 2005 or so. Previously he was a state prosecutor in Sioux Falls where he distinguished himself by trying "a range of felonies and misdemeanors," according to the Sioux Falls Argus-Leader.

He also avows he told his dad to butt out of the appointment process, and U.S. Sen. Tim Johnson, D-S.D., can be right proud that his kid made it strictly on his own merit. Nope, no nepots 'round these parts.

I just knew things would get all unicorny under His Obamaness.

How quaint

From some garage or auction sale I have an old window fan, the small one with expandable sheet-metal wings designed to be placed under a sash open about ten inches. It's a supurb idea, particularly to exhaust a kitchen where garlic is popular. This morning mine started wheezing and stalling. I was distraught because they're hard to find. Then I remembered how we used to live and took a look. Sure enough, a little hole in the housing is marked, "oil."

Huh? Well of course I keep a can of 3-in-1 oil handy. Do you take me for a yuppie or something?

Scholarly Report

History reveals all sorts of things, even the probable origin of hoary jokes. For instance, contemporary writer George Ruxton created a composite 1830s Rocky Mountain fur trader named Killbuck who yarned a lament on his bad luck with Indian wives.

"...There wasn't enough scarlet cloth nor beads nor vermilion in Sublette's packs for her. Traps wouldn't buy her all the fofurraw she wanted; and in two years I sold her to Cross-Eagle for one of Jake Hawkins guns -- this very one I now hold in my hands...".

So next time you hear about a guy who got a gun for his wife "great trade, eh," you'll know.