Sinful Sunday Thought

I have a small project in mind. Strictly speaking, it requires a building permit. Even more strictly, the  building permit will not be issued without a variance because I live in a "nonconforming structure." That is, my little house, on about  one and 1/4 acres, sets only 30 feet from the rear property line. The Smugleye-on-Lake Commissariat requires 35 feet. No credit is given for the the 200 feet of grass and trees in front of the house even though the greensward fans out to a generous 310 feet along the road.

It costs $200  (actually, about the cost of the project istelf)  to beg for a variance. Nonrefundable.  The zoning czars and the variance czars will get around to saying da or nyet in a matter of mere weeks or months.

So, since the project would change no footprint, would be unnoticeable to neighbors,  and could probably be done without alerting the zoning checka, I'm thinking just going ahead and pleading ignorance or something if my victimless crime comes to official notice.

But that isn't the sinful impulse.

One of the village council commissars peddles used cars. After the customer agrees to the deal, he tacks on a "documentation" fee, that is, he makes the sucker pay for his paperwork. (light bulb in the text balloon)

I write up the variance request, cut the check, fill out the long building permit form, and let the SOL bureaucracy play with itself until the issue is settled. I then surprise the Smugleye Politburo with a dun, my documentation fee. "Net 30 days; 1 1/2 per cent per month on the unpaid balance thereafter...Thank you for your business!"

I respond to nothing they say, just keep sending "Past Due!" notices and, when the fun of that wears off, file a small-claims action.  That costs $30, and -- even with the variance fee -- it strikes me as cheap thrills. -- even if I don't slip a tip to a reporter friend known for her weird sense of humor.

Poor Tam

She needed to peform surgery on a bubble-package imprisoning a baby seal. Rodded but not bladed, she had to humiliate herself by borrowing a knife.  At least her sad tale produced as good a quote-of-the-day as any:

...what kind of adult goes about their business without a knife on their person?

Wheeee!

Hey Kids! I almost  forgot to tell you. Come to Okoboji.  It's Willie Weekend! We have Willies wiggling all over  the place. Big Willies and So-So Willies and Wee Willies. One is very special, and if you can grab it it you'll get a wonderful reward. Wink.

---

Okay, so it's really Walleye Weekend, opening of the season with great fanfare and an astounding increase in retail prices. It marks the beginning of the annual Fleece -the-Tourist  extravaganza which runs through September.



There really is a special Willie walleye. It's tagged and worth a big bundle ($30k ? I never pay much attention.)

This post results from what is usually a nice quiet, traffic-free jaunt down to the nearest country convenience store. Also from my distaste for turning the quiet, contemplative, solitary art of fishing in to a goddam rave-cum-carnival-cum-lottery.

Hey Jack, you seen my boots?

Let's say this college student got caught in a dragnet. Let's say he was hauled to a California Lubyanka. Let's say he was told he would be released and driven home. Let's say he was then tossed into a tiny holding cell and left there for five days, without food, water, or a toilet.  The reason? "We just forgot."

And let's add, just for good measure, that the jailers accidentally left a dose or two of meth in that cell.

Now, what would you call authorities like that? Incompetent? Criminally insane? Thugs? Guards-in-training for the next Dachau?

Wrong, Bunkie. You should call them dedicated employees of your federal government, specifically of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

.