Saturday, January 19, 2002

Blogger died on me last night and devoured a nice piece of writing. I don't remember what it was...

My son is with me this weekend and he has mastered his Playstation II Madden Football game. He went undefeated last night and even ran up the score on a whipped opponent a couple of times. When I accused him of being Steve Spurrier, I thought he was going to fight me. I have raised my son well. He knows a real insult when he hears one. Go Dogs!

After Samizdata gave me the brush-off, I started pondering the incest and mutual masturbation that seem to be a predominant feature of the elite blogging community. When Justin Raimondo wrote about it, the top-drawer bloggers came after him with bared fangs, proving him entirely correct, with their linking and cross-linking to each other's sites, all full of clever insults and high-fives for clever insults, until I had to ask myself, "What are you pricks pissed off about?" You're doing exactly what he accused you of doing. In fact, a few of the elites were angry that they were not insulted BY NAME in Raimondo's piece. It reminded me of the cliques that develop in high school, where you have your "ins" and your "outs" clearly delineated. As an "out," I have little sympathy for those egotistical snots who are self-appointed "ins." I don't care whether Ken Layne started the blog phenomenon or not, nor do I care that Matt Welch and Tim Blair are his best friends. I admire Glenn Reynolds because he is THE MASTER, but they can all stuff Little Green Footballs up their ass and ride the USS Clueless to the moons of Jupiter. I write as well, if not better, than anyone Samizdata posts (yes, Perry, that means YOU, TOO) except for maybe David Carr and that luscious Croatian babe.

See? I can wear the garb, walk the walk and name-drop as well as anybody in blogdom. Why can't I be an "in?"

Friday, January 18, 2002

Shot down! I begged and slavered for Samizdata to allow me to post on their eclectic site and I was told forthwith, and in a most snidely manner, that they are not accepting blind blogs anymore. Fuck them. If they didn't have David Carr and that luscious Croatian babe writing for them (okay-- I'll admit that the luscious Croatian babe is what attracted me to the site in the first place) I wouldn't waste my time with those navel-gazing assholes. It seems even libertarians can become elitists, given a chance.

I'll just keep on posting and see what happens. But I have ambitions....

Thursday, January 17, 2002

I write under the Nom de Blog "Acidman" because I don't want anybody who may wield great influence on my career or my personal life to "Google" me and discover all the deep, dark secrets I sometimes disclose on my posts. The name has nothing to do with illegal drugs. I once supervised the operation of a 900-ton per day sulfuric acid plant when computers first hit the manufacturing scene, and "Acidman" was my password for everything I did on the computer at work. I kinda liked it back then and I kinda like it now.

I don't mean to say that I have anything against illegal drugs. I did lots of them back in my college days. But that was long ago, when I was young and ready for adventure; now, I am older, wiser and subjected to random piss-tests at work. My entire perspective has changed.

I still believe that the "war on drugs" is one of the most stupid, insane, lunatic brain-farts our government ever had. Someone may as well have declared "war" on human nature and expected to be victorious.

Wait a minute! That has happened over and over again. We still have laws against prostitution (not called the world's oldest profession for nothing), laws against gambling (while states that forbid gambling run their own lotteries), laws against consuming alcoholic beverages (except when purchised at state-licensed red-dot stores), laws against littering (when did you ever hear of ANYBODY actually being caught and forced to pay that $1,000 fine on all the signs that stand there by the side of the road so threateningly in their bed of litter?), laws against speeding (Good God. EVERYBODY breaks that one), and laws against breaking any of the aforementioned laws if you broke them by violating someone's civil rights, whatever the hell that means anymore.

I routinely violate, ignore or scoff at laws I believe to be stupid, and I consider myself to be a good American citizen. From what I see around me, I believe a lot of other people behave the same way. What does our government do in response? It passes MORE stupid laws that MORE people will violate, which only provokes the government to pass MORE stupid laws that even MORE people will violate, until finally, everybody in the country is a goddamned criminal.

When that happens, nobody is a criminal. And law doesn't matter anymore.

The "war on drugs" has made criminals of many people who are not real criminals. It has locked these non-criminals up in prison cells to serve harsh mandatory sentences that forced wardens and parole boards to free murderers, rapists and thieves to make room for the non-criminals to serve their time. The "war on drugs" has given police departments the right to dress out in full riot gear, take a battering ram to your front door with no advance warning, then shoot you dead in your own living room even though THEY BROKE INTO THE WRONG HOUSE. They don't go to jail. But if you survive the attack and they find a pot seed embedded in your carpet, they can seize your home, your car, all your property and your bank account and then pour all the loot into their own coffers to finance more troops and more break-ins and more property seizures, which then finance more troops for more break-ins and .... well, you get the picture.

All I know is this: 25 years ago, a gram of good cocaine cost $100. One week ago, I had someone offer to sell me a gram of good cocaine for $100. I didn't buy it (I am subject to random piss-tests at work) but I did the math. Adjusted for inflation, the multi-billion dollar war on drugs has managed to make cocaine as readily available as it ever was (maybe even more so. Hell, I don't hang out in bars anymore) at one-fourth the price it used to be. Along the way, the government has locked up a lot of people who don't belong in jail, gave law enforcment cretins the power to behave like the Gestapo, and poured billions of dollars down a rat-hole with the only real result being a problem that is bigger than it was when the government decided to declare war on it.

Now you have the under-reported scandal down in Texas, about the couple of dozen huge cocaine busts the police pulled off with the help of an "informer," where they roughed, cuffed and arrested numerous people only to discover that the "criminals" were guilty of possession of sheetrock dust. No drugs. Just bullshit. The police appear to have been taken for a ride by their "informant," who is probably long gone by now. The innocent citizens arrested are simply collateral damage. After all, this is a war. A stupid, shitty loser of a war that has corrupted more people than it ever will catch, but a war just the same.

I personally believe that taking a piss-test at work is a humiliating, degrading invasion of my privacy, especially when I am chosen by a random drawing. If I show up on the job obviously impared, then I have no business working in a chemical plant where I would be a hazard to myself and anybody else working around me. If I come to work fucked up, then I deserve to be fired. But this lottery crap is un-American.

Plus, it is totally illogical. I can get drunk as a pissant tonight, go to bed at eight o'clock and wake up hung over, feeling like shit and very under-equipped to do my job. But I can pass a piss-test in the morning, no matter how badly my hands tremble and no matter how foggy my head may be. If I had smoked a nice joint 20 days ago, however, and go to bed sober as a judge tonight, wake up at my best and my brightest in the morning, I could well light up a piss test like a Roman candle and be fired for it. It makes no sense. The whole rule is nothing but an on-your-knees, slavering blow-job to the government, just to show how you're on their side in this war. It is ridiculous. It is stupid. I would love to shit all over this rule just to prove my absolute contempt for it, but I can't.

Well, I COULD, but I've had this job for 22 years. I like what I do and it pays well. So, I'll blog about it here and piss in a bottle whenever they ask me to.

Some day are just flat-out better than others, just like golf balls, hamburgers and blind dates. Today should have been rejected at the factory and put in the rework bin. It pretty well sucked, start to finish. Well, it's not finished yet, but I expect it to end the way it began and I expect this blog to suck, too, because it's been that kind of day.

How about a note of levity? Did you hear that Viagra is coming out in liquid form? Yeah, it's true! And Pepsi is going to market it under the brand name "Mount and Do."

Bottoms up!

Wednesday, January 16, 2002

K-Mart is swirling down the toilet of bankrupcy just like the piece of crap it has become. On one hand, I hate to see that happen, because my mama worked for K-Mart for about 15 years and retired with a $25 dollar per month pension, along with a wad of K-Mart stock. I don't believe she ever sold any of it. On the other hand, I believe K-Mart deserves to go down the tubes because it became a really terrible place to shop, right when Wal-Mart had them in a fatal chokehold. There is no excuse for that.

I stayed with my mama after my prostate surgery because I had nowhere else to go, and mamas will always allow you to come home again. I needed that. I had tubes running into me where I didn't want them to go, and tubes running OUT of me where you don't even want to think about. I would not have done well by myself. But I was determined to find a place to live, replace all the furniture the bloodless cunt took from me and get back out on my own again. So, when I saw the full-color K-Mart ad in the Sunday paper touting genuine, solid-wood kitchen tables for $199, solid-wood chests-of-drawers for $150, kid's sleigh-beds for $177 dollars and a host of other neat, cheap things I needed, I went shopping.

I was not supposed to drive. I still had tubes running in and out of me, a piss-bag strapped to my leg, and I still felt as if I had been kicked in the belly my a full-grown mule. But I went to K-Mart to take advantage of these blue-light specials on furniture. I crab-walked into the store and picked out about $1,000 worth of stuff I wanted to buy. But I couldn't lift any of this stuff and load it onto a buggy. My belly was still full of staples. Hell, I wasn't even supposed to BE THERE by myself. So, I looked for a salesperson to help me. After a while, I became tired of looking and decided to sit down on one of the genuine wooden chairs I wanted to buy, since it was a floor model, right next to the genuine wooden kitchen table I wanted to buy, too. I tried to appear really pathetic, which I was, but that was no help, either. Finally, I crab-walked up to the Service Desk and asked the woman behind the counter if I could please have some help in the furniture department. I also told her that I wanted to spend about $1,000 in her store. She assured me that she would find me some help, so I crab-walked BACK to the furniture department while she keyed her Service Desk microphone and announced over the intercom: "Whhaaanatentionfurndehelpelmo!"

I waited another fifteen minutes with my butt parked on the same wooden chair and I never saw a solitary soul, except for a silver-haired old woman, who was pushing a buggy and appearing very puzzled about the variety of feminine hygene products available on the asile across from me. I finally gave up, crab-walked back to the service desk, and asked the woman behind the counter: "Do you own stock in this company?"

"Yes, I do," she replied.

"Sell it," I advised. "I'm leaving with over $1,000 dollars in my pocket that your store could have had, if only ONE HUMAN EMPLOYEE had waited on me." I left. When I got back to mama's house, I advised her to sell her stock, too, but she said it wasn't worth diddly-squat anymore and selling it wouldn't amount to a hill of beans. Diddly-squat and not worth a hill of beans. I couldn't have described K-Mart any better myself.

I ended up paying over $4,500 for the furniture I wanted. But I walked through a store simply pointing at what I wanted, with a salesperson jumping through hoops to please me. Once we agreed on a price, they delivered everything to my new home, put it all together for me and set it up exactly where I wanted it. They even threw in the free vacuum cleaner I asked for.

That's service. That's what keeps retailers in business. K-Mart forgot that principle somewhere along the way. Wal-Mart sells the same stuff for lower prices and you can find MORE THAN ONE HUMAN EMPLOYEE willing to help you any time you walk in the store. Where do you think I'm going next time I want to buy something cheap?

K-Mart deserves to die.
I slept like a rock last night for a full eight hours. The God I don't believe in must not hold a grudge for long.

I was listening to the Ken Hamblin radio talk show on my way home from work today and somehow (I missed the first hour because I go to work early and get off late compared to most jobs) the topic of discussion was FAT PEOPLE. Ken, the Black Avenger, is not a bit bashful about informing his listeners that even though he is more than 60 years old, bald, five feet six inches tall, and down in the back from an operation a few years ago, he works out, eats a vegan diet and IS NOT FAT. In fact, from the way he vented on the subject, he has absolute contempt for fat people.

Ken behaves that way sometimes. For a guy who keeps saying he will "slice the pie right down the middle" and "I'm an easy dog to hunt with," he doesn't see anything wrong with restricting the rights of others when he doesn't like what they do.

Ken doesn't smoke and doesn't like smokers. A few months ago, he had that flaming asshole of a mayor from that little podunk town in the People's Republic of Massachusetts who banned outdoor smoking everywhere. Hizzoner, Prickmaster the First, pumped his bilge about protecting public health, saving the children and making his little dorkburg a shining example for the rest of the nation to follow, no doubt totally convinced that a nut-bowl state such as California would quickly grab this ball and run with it. Ken agreed with the outdoor smoking ban, encouraged the mayor to keep up the good work and did everything but slobber all over the guy's shoes in abject adoration.

About a month after that interview, the mayor was arrested and jailed on multiple charges of child molestation. Molestation of YOUNG BOYS! That pompous, totalitarian bastard didn't want people smoking cigarettes, but WHAT DID HE LIKE TO SMOKE? HUH? Go to my archives and read my screed about the anti-smoking bullies. Am I right, or not?

One of Ken's callers today was a fat woman who whined longly and loudly about her inability to lose weight, despite the fact that she was on a 1,000 calorie per day diet. She couldn't cut back any more and the weight just wasn't going away. Ken asked her if she exercised. She replied that she could perform only "slow walking" because she had asthma, and it didn't take much to set that asthma off, "because of all the pollution."

I almost put my truck in a ditch. I had heard the bleat of a two-fer victim. She wanted sympathy. She was fat, through no fault of her own, and when she tried to diet, "pollution" thwarted her efforts to exercise. "HEY FAT LADY!" I screamed at the radio. "You're breathing the cleanest air you've ever breathed in your life. Pollution obviously never affected your ability to stuff food down your hungry pie-hole, or else you wouldn't be fat to begin with. You managed to overcome your asthma while sitting on your wide ass scarfing groceries like a shop-vac, so don't give me that 'pollution' crap now. You could breathe fine with your mouth full. I wish you would just go back to overeating. Maybe then you wouldn't whine like a milk-toothed puppy."

I want to add something else to the weaponry on my URBAN ASSAULT VEHICLE I blogged about yesterday. I want the hydrolic arm to have a "boot mode," preferably a black, high-top with a steel toe, that can be laser-guided square into the butt-cheeks of anybody who whines like this woman did, especially when "pollution" is used as an excuse for behaving like an undisciplined swine. See my archives for previous opinions on "environmentalists," all of whom should be dragged off and shot.

I go down in the dumps sometimes, and sound pretty whining and pathetic myself. But I do my best to GET OVER IT! It ain't easy sometimes, but who ever said it was supposed to be? Even on my worst days, I don't blame the fact that I'm too sorry or too lazy or too weak to cope with my problems on "pollution." JESUS ON A BROKEN CRUTCH. No wonder Bill Clinton was elected TWICE to the highest office in this land. He could feel this woman's pain and she was grateful. She became warm and fuzzy. She reached for a package of Oreos and ate them all.

I feel her making my skin crawl.

By the way, Ken. I will be 50 years old next month. I'm an inch taller than you are and I have a 30" waist. I smoke cigarettes. I eat dead, burnt animals. And I have a much better bullshit detector than you do.

Tuesday, January 15, 2002

While my brain was still sizzling in the deep-fat fryer of caffene today, I had another brilliant idea. A lot of bloggers are touting the concept and claiming the credit for the idea of "Fly Naked" as the solution to airline security problems. I totally agree that everyone should fly naked, as long as Delta doesn't put me in a seat next to a big, fat, sweaty GUY who smells of BO masked by an overdose of English Leather the way they did the last time I flew their glorified Greyhound bus with wings. Put me in a seat next to a naked member of the Swedish Bikini Team and I am fine.

But I believe we should demand sacrifices from EVERYONE, not just air travelers, during this national crisis. I believe that our government should LEGISLATE NAKED before those gasbag, doofus assholes pass another law. Can you imagine Ted Kennedy naked? If that bloated toad didn't have a quadrizillion dollars and the Kennedy name, he couldn't get laid in a whorehouse with a platinum Visa card. How about that wizened gnome, Joe Lieberman? I have always admired his ability to "wrestle with his conscience" and beat the shit out of it every time so that he can vote the straight party line on any issue, no matter what his stance was on it before the wrestling match. Can you just picture that mournful, hound-dog countenance atop a butt-ass naked body, just as shriveled and wrinkled as he appears from the neck up?

How about Henry Waxman? Now, if he has a dong that matches his nose, he may be what we called a "bank walker" when my friends and I all used to skinny-dip in the Gun Club Lake when I was a boy. A "bank walker" could leave a pair of footprints and a drag mark in the mud wherever he went. I have my doubts about Waxman being able to walk the bank that way. I think he should get naked so we all know for sure.

I wanna see my president naked. I'll bet he's hung like a Texas longhorn. He could probably use it as a pointer the next time he has to read a teleprompter for a speech. I wanna see Hillary naked, too, so I can prove my theory that there are cobwebs sealing her nether opening. I want to see Maxine Waters naked, too, just to see of she could be a female bank walker, leaving two footprints and TWO drag marks in the mud wherever she walks.

I don't, however, want to see Bill Clinton naked. Too many people have been there already.

God paid me back for that heathen rant I blogged last night. I tossed, turned and twisted in bed (all by MYSELF, I might add), had bizarre nightmares when I managed to lose consciousness briefly, and ended up with about three hours total sleep. I finally gave up at 4:00 this morning and watched the replay of the Texas vs. Texas Tech basketball game on ESPN while I pumped about two quarts of coffee down my throat. Then it was off to work, bright-eyed and bushy-tongued, with a distinct case of the skin crawlies from the caffene overdose I had administered to myself.

But my brain sizzled like spit on a griddle all day.

On the way to work, I decided that I want to get rid of my truck. That "Service Engine Soon" light that keeps coming on for a few days and then going off again is driving me crazy, and even though I have a full-sized, extended cab, Chevrolet-Like-A-Rock pickup, it's not big enough for the roads I drive, where it seems that every idiot in the state comes to compete in the Fool of the Year contest.

What cosmic force compels some people to drive in the left lane of a double highway at exactly the same speed as the vehicle in the right lane so that they create a rolling roadblock that nobody can pass? Why do some people drive in total darkness with only their parking lights on? Why do some people roar up behind you, tailgate six inches from your bumper for a mile or so, then roar around you, only to slow down so that YOU have to pass THEM and repeat the stupid dance all over again?

I don't know, and I don't believe I ever will understand those fruitcakes. That's why I want to get rid of my truck and buy something more appropriate for Georgia driving. Screw owning one of those gas-guzzling, road-hog SUVs. I want an URBAN ASSAULT VEHICLE. I want something that weighs about 15,000 pounds, with armor-plated bumpers, those whizzing razor-blade things that come sideways out of the wheels like those in the chariot race in Ben Hur, a fully-loaded, turret-mounted .50 caliber machine gun on the hood, rotated, aimed and fired by push buttons on the steering wheel, a bank of howitzers, also fired by buttons on the steering wheel, embedded in the rear bumper. I want a hydrolic arm that pops up from the roof and hurls laser-guided Chinese throwing stars at anyone talking on a cellular phone while driving, and also lobs low-yield neutron bomblets through the window of anyone playing rap music loudly on a car stereo.

And I want a really good CD player and a rear window defroster, too. Zero-interest financing would be nice. But I DON'T want Firestone tires.

Monday, January 14, 2002

I'm not a religious person. In fact, I'm an athiest. But I am not one of those anti-religious nutballs who not only refuse to believe in God, but don't want YOU to believe in Him either. I will never bring a lawsuit to stop prayer in school, to have a nativity scene removed from a public park at Christmas, nor to keep the Ten Commandments off the courthouse wall. The way I see it, you can be as religious as you want to be and I celebrate the joy it brings you, as long as you're not one of those crazed, maniac Osamaites who believes God told you to launch a jihad on my infidel ass and you're busy loading up your Reboks with plastic explosives with the intention of jogging over to my house to take us both into the Great Beyond.

My father died of prostate cancer almost ten years ago, and the church has been very good to my mother since then. She found comfort, support and love there, which is exactly what she needed at the time, and she stays active by participating in church functions, singing in the choir, going to Bible studies and attending services every Sunday. Churches, especially when they have a good, hard-working preacher at the helm, perform that sort of duty all over this country every day. It is a good thing.

But I remain an athiest because I have some really severe problems with God. I am totally unable to believe in a "Supreme Being" who is obviously as inept and incompetent as He is.

I was playing poker not long ago with a man who recently retired from where I work. He was clicking his new dentures and mumbling for a while, until he finally spoke up and said, "God got this crap backward. When you get old, you oughta shed your nuts and keep your teeth. At my age, I'd much rather eat than fuck." I believed that there was much wisdom in his words.

At my age, I would rather fuck than eat, but that privilege has been taken away from me, unless I want to give myself chemical injections from a hypodermic needle in a very sensitive part of my anatomy. Even then, the results are very unpredictable and nothing at all like a purely natural attack of good old honest lust. I think about it a lot, and I have decided that I could do a better job than God at building a person out of a lump of mud.

First of all, teeth and hair would last a lifetime. They wouldn't wear out, fall out or ever cause you any pain. Men would have full heads of hair even if they lived to be 100. It would never turn gray, either. Women would have hair only on their heads and a perfect Mohawk flanking their privates so that no strays ever hung out of a bikini bottom. No more shaving unsightly stuff for them. Their tits would not sag, ever, and the men's butts would never shrivel to withered shanks. Young people would not think about sex at all, while adults, male and female alike, hit their peak around 50 years of age, so that when the younguns moved out, still not really interested in screwing, mama and daddy would make constant whoopie in their empty nest.

All children would be born healthy. All marriages would last 'till death do them part. You wouldn't have to worry about the pursuit of happiness, because it would pursue you, and catch you no matter how fast you ran. No one would lie to you. Nobody would ever steal your things. Everybody would go to work evey day to a job that was fulfilling, rewarding and a pleasure to perform. Everybody would have lots of friends and really like their neighbors.

God doesn't see it that way. He gives us tooth decay, male pattern baldness, arthritis, excema, sagging tits, withered shanks, hair where you don't want it and no hair where you do, and babies born with terrible birth defects. He is testing us all the time, which is a concept I never understood, because if He IS OMNIPOTENT, He knows the outcome of the test before He ever puts it to us. But He does it anyway. I will believe in God when someone can convince me that He means well, but stays drunk all the time, or else He is such a Bart Simpson of a slob that THIS IS THE BEST HE CAN DO!

God allowed me to carry on a family tradition. He gave me prostate cancer, the same as He did my father. Mine hasn't killed me yet, because it was discovered and treated well before my 50th birthday. But He left me impotent, scarred and not quite right in the head. And He couldn't find it in His nature to do this nasty practical joke all of a sudden. No, this experience has dragged out over six months and there is still no end in sight. The indignities, pain and humiliation continue to this day. If I were God, I could do a much better job.

Jihad, my ass.

Lots of interesting stuff in the news today. While watching an NFL football game, President Bush managed to lodge a poorly-chewed pretzel in his throat and gag himself into unconsciousness, suffering a boe-boe to his head when he fell to the floor. As a long-time fan of the Atlanta Falcons, I have gagged myself into semi-consciousness many times while watching them play, and I didn't need the help of a pretzel to do it. I also suffered many boe-boes from banging my head against the coffee table while cursing the stench pouring from my television set after watching some egregiously putrid efforts on the field. I don't know what team Bush was watching, but I know it WASN'T THE FALCONS, because Bush was watching the playoffs, and the Falcons didn't make those. AGAIN!.

Anyway, thank God Bush survived. Forget the fact that he's got a war to win, a tax cut to keep, judges to appoint, a State of the Union speech to give and a hundred other important things to do. Can you imagine just how ridiculous it would be to have the President of the United States, the leader of the free world, the most powerful man on earth choke to death on a pretzel? Everybody who ever said Bush was too stupid to be President would smirk and say "I told you so. The fucker can't even eat right." Osama would produce another video, praising the might of Allah and going "Bwahahahaha!" at the top of his lungs. Mullah Omar might even make a guest appearance, rolling his one good eye while pretending to choke himself for the camera. Not even a such a gnomish dorkle as Joe Lieberman, who has made a career out of always appearing solemn and thoughtful, even while he fondles his codsack behind the shelter of his desk, could keep a straight face over such an incredible, humiliating end to the Bush presidency.

And Bill Clinton is worried about HIS legacy?

Then we had the news-dorks and certain camera-craving politicians pumping the Enron affair for all it is worth, which to my mind, is not much. But the piranahs of the press have been starving lately. Bush has been in office for almost a year now, and the incompetent bastard hasn't generated ONE SINGLE SCANDAL the entire time. For a press corps accustomed to the behavior of the previous administration, led by President Bacchus de Sade and his equally unethical minions, this has been a real crash diet. They went from feasting not only on scandal, but the scandal of the week, the scandal of the day, the scandal before noon, and the scandal of the coverups of the scandals. Then, all of a sudden, the cafeteria closed. They are really hungry.

The left-leaning Clintonista apologists are hoping desperately that they can find SOMETHING in the Enron fiasco with which to give Bush a few political boe-boes, or maybe cram down his throat like a poorly-chewed pretzel. After immersing themselves in the cesspool of Clinton for eight years, they really believe that they can make themselves smell better if they can bemanure someone else.

I don't believe it will work. If they dig too deeply into this turd-mine, they will probably find another piece of Clinton's legacy embedded in there somewhere and it will damage the Democrats a lot worse than it will Bush. But starving people do desperate things, as the Donner party proved.

Sunday, January 13, 2002

What ever happened to the deadly "flesh-eating bacteria" outbreak that was going to kill us all a few years ago? That scare came along to push "Mad Cow Disease" off the front pages, just when lots of people were convinced that they were going to die from THAT. Now you don't hear much about either one of those scourges. Some of the veteran death-dealers are still around, however, seeming to have a half-life that exceeds that of Uranium 235. Second-hand smoke is still slaying people in the thousands, celluar phones are causing brain tumors left and right, everybody who ever even heard the word "asbestos" is suing somebody over cosmic health damages that aren't evident, but are bound to occur one of these days, and silicone breast implants, of course, are as bad as they ever were. PCBs, dioxins and furans in the air are killing our children, except for those who live longer, healthier lives than ever before, as long as they don't become poisoned from weather-treated wooden playground equipment. Genetically-engineered plants are producing Triffids and body-snatcher pods all around us, the polar ice caps are melting while Buffalo, New York receives record snowfall, and the hole in the ozone is shrinking, which is bad, or growing, which is worse, depending on the "scientific study" of the week. Now people are complaining about "World Trade Center Syndrome."

This insidious malady, caused by breathing fumes from the fire, manifests itself through symptoms as varied as odd boogers in the nose where boogers never existed before, bowel movements that float instead of sink, itching, burning sensations around the anus, migrane headaches, nosebleeds, spontaneous kleptomania, kidney failure, testicular cancer, breast cancer, prostate cancer, skin cancer, CANCER cancer and a markedly increased rate of male pattern baldness IN FEMALES! Although no solid evidence exists to prove it, some people suggest that the smoke might even contain DEADLY FLESH-EATING BACTERIA!

Environmental activists, trial lawyers and other concerned citizens who smell a buck or two to be made out of that smoke are busy wringing their hands, issuing public health announcements and filing lawsuits in a selfless, humanitarian effort to save people from this menace. They are doing such a good job spreading the word that otherwise healthy people read this crap and immediately become sick, exhibiting every symptom they've heard about. Hell, I live 1,000 miles away from ground zero and these reports are making ME sick. I feel an overwhelming desire to upchuck.

The movie "Erin Brockovitch" won Academy Awards for telling a story about this same sort of environmental mau-mauing. Chromium 6 in a local water supply caused the citizens in some pissant town to develop all sorts of horrible health problems. Brain tumors, intestinal cancers, toenail fungus, tooth decay, wandering eyeball, rabies, scabies and chronic bedwetting were all traced directly to chromiun 6 in the drinking water. At least it was in the movie. Anybody with the brains God gave a rabbit knows that NOTHING can cause that many varied illnesses all by itself, especially not a substance that has been thoroughly tested and found to pose no adverse health effects except some increase in the likelihood of developing lung cancer when it is inhaled AS A DUST in large quantities over a long period of time.

If chromium 6, second-hand smoke or the fumes from the World Trade Center could do half of what the scare-mongers say, our military already would have developed a bomb full of that stuff and dropped it on Osama bin and we would be through with his bearded ass by now.

We have way too many people in this country that live in fear of toxins, poisons, carcinogens, environmental estrogens and whatever else some scare-mongering prick invented and some lazy asshole reported without question. I have a bit of news for those folks. Relax. Crawl out from under your beds and get a life. Irrational fear is as toxic as anything you will ever breathe or eat in this world.

Besides, if you think you're going to live forever, I've got some sad news for you.

Wow, I was getting worried there for a minute. Blogger finally let me enter, but it took a LONG TIME. I thought it was sick again.

I can see by the look of my page that young Scott has been busy. Thanks, Scott! You saved your father's life.