Love your bean counters

They run around in nice suits and polished shoes, but it is rewarding to think of them as  noble Transylvanian peasants. They tolerate a certain degree of evil, but when blood suckers cross the line, it is torches and pitch forks in the night.

I refer to auditors, and I all but worship them. You see, they try to keep the vampires in check and preserve that portion of my life blood not legally available for theft by the politicians and their familiars in the bureaucracy.

The latest instance from these parts has some officials down in southeast Iowa scurrying to come up with proposals for prison reform -- nice buffet meals, thick mattresses, etc. They might actually get it done, being as they are employees of the Department of Corrections, our state jailer.

State Auditor Mary Mosiman has ferreted out close to $800,000 in "improper expenditures " in one of those godawful "public-private partnerships." The actual bite is higher because some documents went missing before Mary's militia knocked on the door. How much higher we don't know, but I always apply a rule of thumb:  Double reported theft to approach the actual total.

The honey dipping apparently began when some mid-level DOC nabobs decided to create, or foster, a not-for-profit 501c3  to help it administer its community corrections programs. My God how the money rolled in, from the state, the feds, and other sources. The state guys and their private-sector pals set up a cozy  interlocking directorate and started an energetic game of catch. Bundles of money flew around the offices, no one worrying overmuch about who had the surest fielder's glove.

Sure enough, after about four years their budget started showing unexplained shortfalls. They could hide them for a while (Toss the money faster, Homer!) and succeeded in getting a c. $600,000 special appropriation from the legislature. That raised some eyebrows. Then, get this, one of the local boss men quickly went back to Des Moines for another $800,000.  (Once I heard of a guy who left his driver's license on the counter of a Stop 'n' Rob that he stopped and robbed.)

To much even for Des Moines, the highest levels called Mary and said sic 'em.

Having sicced, Mary was good enough to turn the file  (pdf)  over to the attorney general's office.  It would be nice if he does his job as well as she seems to do hers.

In fact, if I ever run across her, I think I'll give her a nice hug if she'll let me.

  

My Lazarus experience

It isn't fraught with spirituality or human drama. It is downright bestial in fact.

     The polar vortex exhausted my supply of ready firewood behind the burner. A warm and cuddly 30-degree day moved me to replenish from a ragged pile of cottonwood and oak out back, frozen through for  months. The chore almost done, I placed one billet on top of the burner to dry the surface moisture.

      A few minutes later I happened to glance at it, and my wondering eyes spied a happy little black bug. I named him Lazarus. Then I squished him.

      It's too early for bugs in the house.

Clear overkill

No more back packs at St. Johns. They are the terrorist book bag of choice, also favored by kids who require a clandestine comic book against the chance of an especially boring geography lecture.

Seems to me school bosses are stopping too far short of absolute security. Why not transparent pockets in the kiddies' jeans and pinafores? And mandatory Lucite wallets, particularly useful in nabbing randy (and probably futiley hopeful)  sixth-graders who carry a pack of those elastic things you get at the drug store.

An old-time school prank was floating a firecracker in a toilet bowl and lighting it off. Guys who got caught earned a paddle session and maybe a three-day suspension, but no one thought it a great reason to make Flossie Fine, the curve-breaking hall monitor, carry a see-through purse.

What happened at St. John's, you wonder? Nothing, actually, unless you quake at a couple of notes found in a rest room.

H/T Tam

Bunny Porn, Gun Porn

Yesterday was a savage bitch. In a fit of compassion at minus-17,  I fed Peter Rabbit a little of New Dog Libby's chow. The ingrate still refused to pose while I was outside. So this. The window was clean for a change, but double pane glass still fools the focusing fairies in my 3-volt cockroach.

Today, at last dark of morning, I awoke to rising temperatures, all the way up to three below.  Time to celebrate with Savage pleasure and with gratitude to that fine company for its findy sickle answer to Winchester levers -- especially the 1895.

She's been hanging on pegs since joining the family a few weeks ago, casually wiped down a time or two but still begrimed of long storage.  (Well-oiled storage, however; thank you, Mr. Previous Owner.)  Since there was nothing good on the internet, I decided to run her through my exterior detail shop.

Takedown was limited to pulling the Weaver K2, Redfield mount, and forearm. A little elbow grease with fine steel wool and brass brush left her shiny everywhere I could reach. The stock got a facial with Johnson paste wax, still my favorite cosmetic for oil-finished walnut.

She's from the 1950s in .300 Savage.

My never-sell-a-gun pledge remains in force, but I suppose I'll carry her to my next loophole table to explore trading opportunities. She ought to be even-up for a not-too-bad Garand or M1 Carbine. Maybe even a snazzy AR15 clone with a Pickiepickie rail, but I'd turn that offer down. I respect others' rights to own plastic, but, personally, I have my pride.