I do not hate crazy people. If I did I'd lose half my friends including, possibly enough, myself.
In fact, if you ask me, the trouble with American politics is that we have too few crazy people. Worse, the loonies we have aren't crazy enough.
Rand Paul, for example. He'd rather be president, of course, but he thinks that, at best, he might have to settle for No.2. This accounts for the semi-libertarian lip prints all over the Romney carcass. At least he'd get to live in the Naval Observatory and look through the cool telescopes when ever he wanted. Besides, there would always be Chief Quartermaster to tell him to the split second what time it is, meaning he could swap his Rolex for a semi load of Brylcream, effecting a personal economy. All this is only a little bit nuts. In fact it is quite common across the governing class -- from Obama's outright statists to neoconniest thugs of the Republican "right."
That's why I am supporting Randi, our newest United States senator. And no, it isn't just because she's an attractive woman. It's because I admire spunk, and appointing yourself senator in a wacky American alter-government seems spunky to me. It's also because The Republic of the united States of America occupies ground in that delightful no-man's land where genuine genius mates with stupendous delusion.
These guys are mostly libertarian/ancaps writ large, albeit with a discouraging quotient of Pat Robertson prating. They claim to believe what most of us believe. Pro-gun. Free markets. A little more federalism,, etc.
However, the political philosophical underpinning seems to be a notion that American government(s) were legal up to about 1870 when somebody or something else took over. As nearly as a guy can tell from their site, they served some legal papers on Obama or Holder or one of those guys and thereby became our de jure government .
These guys really like to stick "de jure" into their prose at every possible opportunity. I approve. "De jure" sounds rillyrilly intellectual. I mean it's Latin, and you can't get more intellectual than that. In fact, the news about Randi reminds me I've been meaning to practice my own Latin more religiously.
So postus endus cuz it's time to turn on airem conditionem. Hottern Hellica here, and that's de facto.
t
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 12, 2012
The Honey Trap or, "Why We're Broke"
Iowa again; no apologies.
Even in Hicksville a fellow can find excellent evidence to counter the widely accepted fallacy that government officials are occasionally smart enough to pour piss out of a boot.
I suppose this one caught my attention because a certain number gives me something in common with a big Iowa DNR enterprise. Calculating my income and outgo for last year, I wound up with an operating profit of $4,230.* Coincidentally, so did the DNR owned and operated Honey Creek Resort.
There's one slight difference. I am not in hock for $30 million, meaning I don't have to stick a gun in my neighbors' ribs and lift the interest payment on $30 million from their wallets.
A few years ago DNR commissars got together with dullards in the legislature and Governor Tom Vilsack. There's no hard evidence they were smoking, drinking, or injecting mind-altering substances at the party, but you can be forgiven for harboring suspicion because, collectively, they decided they were experts in the resort business. A flurry of architecting and market studying and public relationing followed. And borrowing.
In 2006 Honey Creek Resort opened its mortgaged doors down on Lake Rathbun, itself a government invention. (The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers ignored the banjos and throttled the unobjectionable little Chariton River. I don't really know why. The best guess seems to be a Corps of Engineers desired to economically stimulate itself by giving the Corps of Engineers something new to manage, but that's a subject for another essay.)
And the Honey joint has been sucking on taxpayers ever since. Even the DNR admits it and in a left-handed way concedes there is no exit strategy. New DNR Boss Chuck Gipp:
Some legislators have argued Honey Creek should be sold. Gipp says the state should keep it. “At this point in time, unless there’s somebody that comes along and is willing to pay what the worth of what that facility is, we’re not going to sell it at 10-cents-on-the-dollar. That would be foolish,”
Mr. Gipp, incidentally, is a conservative small-government Republican. He was in the legislature when the Honey Creek Dacha was approved. He voted to sign my name to the IOU. If he's embarrassed that the asset is now worth 10 per cent of the debt, it doesn't show.
As I say, it's only a little Iowa issue, but, 'course, if you root around in your own state's forays into enterprises requiring several sentient neurons, who knows what you might find. Thirty million here, thirty million there -- pretty soon you're talking about enough money to send a First Lady on a couple-three vacations.
---
*An estimate. If an audit proves it unreliable, I claim the same poetic license His Ineptness gets when he reports, oh, say, the unemployment or inflation statistics.
Even in Hicksville a fellow can find excellent evidence to counter the widely accepted fallacy that government officials are occasionally smart enough to pour piss out of a boot.
I suppose this one caught my attention because a certain number gives me something in common with a big Iowa DNR enterprise. Calculating my income and outgo for last year, I wound up with an operating profit of $4,230.* Coincidentally, so did the DNR owned and operated Honey Creek Resort.
There's one slight difference. I am not in hock for $30 million, meaning I don't have to stick a gun in my neighbors' ribs and lift the interest payment on $30 million from their wallets.
A few years ago DNR commissars got together with dullards in the legislature and Governor Tom Vilsack. There's no hard evidence they were smoking, drinking, or injecting mind-altering substances at the party, but you can be forgiven for harboring suspicion because, collectively, they decided they were experts in the resort business. A flurry of architecting and market studying and public relationing followed. And borrowing.
In 2006 Honey Creek Resort opened its mortgaged doors down on Lake Rathbun, itself a government invention. (The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers ignored the banjos and throttled the unobjectionable little Chariton River. I don't really know why. The best guess seems to be a Corps of Engineers desired to economically stimulate itself by giving the Corps of Engineers something new to manage, but that's a subject for another essay.)
And the Honey joint has been sucking on taxpayers ever since. Even the DNR admits it and in a left-handed way concedes there is no exit strategy. New DNR Boss Chuck Gipp:
Some legislators have argued Honey Creek should be sold. Gipp says the state should keep it. “At this point in time, unless there’s somebody that comes along and is willing to pay what the worth of what that facility is, we’re not going to sell it at 10-cents-on-the-dollar. That would be foolish,”
Mr. Gipp, incidentally, is a conservative small-government Republican. He was in the legislature when the Honey Creek Dacha was approved. He voted to sign my name to the IOU. If he's embarrassed that the asset is now worth 10 per cent of the debt, it doesn't show.
As I say, it's only a little Iowa issue, but, 'course, if you root around in your own state's forays into enterprises requiring several sentient neurons, who knows what you might find. Thirty million here, thirty million there -- pretty soon you're talking about enough money to send a First Lady on a couple-three vacations.
---
*An estimate. If an audit proves it unreliable, I claim the same poetic license His Ineptness gets when he reports, oh, say, the unemployment or inflation statistics.
Jul 11, 2012
F**king deafie?
A deaf man says he was clearing airport security at Louisville when TSA agents (1) robbed him of his candy (2) laughed at him for being deaf and (3) called him a "fucking deafie." He reported it on his blog, then, according to Reason magazine, got to thinking about the TSA's well-known lust for revenge on anyone who questions the way it executes its holy mission and took the post down.
I will suffer all the Godwin jeers anyone cares to hurl in order to pose a question.
In 1938 or so a German Brown Shirt got quite a bang out of taunting Jewish humans as "fucking Juden." In 2012 American TSA agents get off by ridiculing deaf humans as "fucking deafies." What distinguishes the the American from the Nazi?
Reserving the right to edit my views if I'm wrong in taking the report at face value, I hereby withdraw a semi-apology I once wrote for endorsing those who think Thomas Jefferson is spinning in his grave, justifiably screaming, "What's taking you so long?"
I will suffer all the Godwin jeers anyone cares to hurl in order to pose a question.
In 1938 or so a German Brown Shirt got quite a bang out of taunting Jewish humans as "fucking Juden." In 2012 American TSA agents get off by ridiculing deaf humans as "fucking deafies." What distinguishes the the American from the Nazi?
Reserving the right to edit my views if I'm wrong in taking the report at face value, I hereby withdraw a semi-apology I once wrote for endorsing those who think Thomas Jefferson is spinning in his grave, justifiably screaming, "What's taking you so long?"
My Pants Fell Down (and other laments)
1. A vast lethargy has overcome Camp J and all who inhabit it. As Commandant, I can take comfort only in the fact that I seem to recline, motionless, a little less than New Dog Libby. And it isn't even hot.
2. Today's duty Wranglers were well-fitted when new, and my mirror image (full-frontal disgust) reveals no substantial chassis changes. Further, the belt fastens in the same hole as it has for a very long time. Further further, the jeans were barely burdened. A thin sheaf of small bills, the Buck Squire 501, and one pair of 14-inch Diamond channel-locking pliers. Yet my pants fell on the short walk from the shop bench to the hose bib. Only reliable elastic on my shorts prevented revelation of gross cleavage to revolted passers-by. (Boxers or briefs? None of your damned business.) I conclude that my butt is shrinking. I am unable to assign meaning to the fact.
3. The wardrobe malfunction occurred as I was fixing a hose connection. The outrage leading to the entire incident was almost -- but, alas, not quite -- enough to get my heart started. Upon investigation I discovered the washer inside the plastic 37-function nozzle from WalMart (I suppose) was likewise plastic. Meaning that after one months use it would seal fluids only at and above the viscosity level of hot asphalt. Replacing it with a Luddite's rubber, I tried to work up enough ill-will to avenge myself by finding the guy who decided that melted Sprite bottles could be turned into sealing washers and shoot him. Couldn't.
4. And that made me feel guilty about something else. This is but the second post of July, A.D. 2012. Meaning I have gone days and days without trying to ridicule the Court of His Ineptness, without sprinkling even a little scorn on the 535 congresssslugs and zoning administrators and like vermin. What a sad dereliction of muh sworn duty.
To bring this all together, I must note that meaningful social comment here in the Age of AmSoc requires deep feelings of hatred and bile combined with a willingness to engage in what, in other circumstances, would be unforgivable lapses into vulgar, thoughtless, and cruel means of expression.
Guys, I just can't do it lately, so I'm all like WTF!? Is my reservoir of noble muckraking venom in my ass which, as I mentioned above, seems to be shrinking?
(If so, does Obamacare cover it?)
2. Today's duty Wranglers were well-fitted when new, and my mirror image (full-frontal disgust) reveals no substantial chassis changes. Further, the belt fastens in the same hole as it has for a very long time. Further further, the jeans were barely burdened. A thin sheaf of small bills, the Buck Squire 501, and one pair of 14-inch Diamond channel-locking pliers. Yet my pants fell on the short walk from the shop bench to the hose bib. Only reliable elastic on my shorts prevented revelation of gross cleavage to revolted passers-by. (Boxers or briefs? None of your damned business.) I conclude that my butt is shrinking. I am unable to assign meaning to the fact.
3. The wardrobe malfunction occurred as I was fixing a hose connection. The outrage leading to the entire incident was almost -- but, alas, not quite -- enough to get my heart started. Upon investigation I discovered the washer inside the plastic 37-function nozzle from WalMart (I suppose) was likewise plastic. Meaning that after one months use it would seal fluids only at and above the viscosity level of hot asphalt. Replacing it with a Luddite's rubber, I tried to work up enough ill-will to avenge myself by finding the guy who decided that melted Sprite bottles could be turned into sealing washers and shoot him. Couldn't.
4. And that made me feel guilty about something else. This is but the second post of July, A.D. 2012. Meaning I have gone days and days without trying to ridicule the Court of His Ineptness, without sprinkling even a little scorn on the 535 congresssslugs and zoning administrators and like vermin. What a sad dereliction of muh sworn duty.
To bring this all together, I must note that meaningful social comment here in the Age of AmSoc requires deep feelings of hatred and bile combined with a willingness to engage in what, in other circumstances, would be unforgivable lapses into vulgar, thoughtless, and cruel means of expression.
Guys, I just can't do it lately, so I'm all like WTF!? Is my reservoir of noble muckraking venom in my ass which, as I mentioned above, seems to be shrinking?
(If so, does Obamacare cover it?)
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