Saturday, April 06, 2002

I LOVE THIS WOMAN! My fantasy-mistress ANN COULTER performs a brilliant take-down of the "Rehabilitate the sleazy bastard legacy of that sleazy bastard Bill Clinton" movement in her latest op-ed column. I couldn't agree more.

Bill Clinton was never a leader. He lurked in the shadows until he saw a parade coming down the street, then scurried to the front, where he pretended to lead by high-stepping and twirling a baton like a demented drum major. If the parade turned a corner and left him standing in the street, he scurried down the nearest alley and emerged in front again, still high-stepping and twirling. My initial feeling of repugnance for the man was reinforced by his eight years of tracking shit on White House carpets, and he is worse after leaving office.

My cyber-buddy, JB, makes an excellent point when he blogs about the pedophile priest coverup in the Catholic Church. The guys in the white robes and pointy hats being excoriated for attempting to bury the misdeeds of their priests are no different than the Clinton minions and the entire Democrat Congress, who worked together like some corrupt cabal to hide or excuse the sexual escapades of their One True God. Yeah, both did the dirty for the good of their church.

Friday, April 05, 2002

BWHAHAHAHAH! I have locked a tractor beam on the mercenary little shit Scott's ass and I am using auxillary power (generated through his Dad) from my impulse engines (I have STRONG impulses) to haul him to my house this weekend. We have a deal: He wants to go to the beach, and I want to posh my page. I live near the beach, and he knows how to posh my page. I believe we can achieve a certain symmetry in that arrangement. It's a perfect win-win scenario, especially since I don't intend to pay him any more money. If he is not content with my intrepretation of the deal, I will grab him by his ragged forelock and APPLY OVERWHELMING FORCE to bend him to my will. I am, after all, Captain of the Starship GUT RUMBLES, and I boldly go where no gut has gone before!

If my prey resists my show of force, however, I may be in big trouble. Scott is 14 years-old, but he's a head taller than I am. He is wiry and strong, filled with youth and piss and vinegar. I am ragged and old, filled with arthritis and gray hair and lower back pain. If push comes to shove, I can rely on experience and wisdom to best my opponent, which works well in episodes of Star Trek, but may not play out according to my script in real life. I could end up unconscious and bleeding on the floor while Scott goes to the beach and my blog remains unposhed.

Maybe diplomacy is a better tactic...

HELL NO! I'm thinking like a EUnich! What's the matter with me? Did I suddenly become French? No, I don't think so.

My decision is clear. Scott will posh my page or I'll die with my fingers intwined in his ragged forelock. When he arrives, we'll start the ball.

I would prepare for battle by lifting weights and performing pushups, but it's late and I'm sleepy. I'll worry about Scott tomorrow.

I have ranted before about the fact that the most neurotic, anal-retentive, overly-sensitive, ungracious, discourteous and downright hostile mutants in our society today are making THEIR RULES the ones WE ALL have to live by. In OVERLAWYERED today is the story of a woman who was evicted from her apartment in Denver because she screams at lot, and "FIRE!" at the top of her lungs, at all kinds of odd hours is her favorite thing to scream. Her neighbors thought her behavior disrupted the peace and tranquility they expected in their homes, especially when trying to sleep at night, and they complained. The landlord attempted to toss the screamer, and the lawyers moved in for the kill.

The woman has Tourette's Syndrome and therefore cannot control these screaming outbursts. She has special rights under The Americans With Disabilities Act, which means she is very likely to win her lawsuit and stay in her apartment. The neighbors, just common, everyday working stiffs, who want only a quiet home and a good night's sleep, probably will be told to put up with it or get out themselves. Her special rights trump everyone else's. If all the tenants move away and the landlord loses his property, all because of a screaming banshee that nobody can stand to live around, that's just tough. That's the way the Law of the Lowest Uncommon Denominator works.

People have sued under the ADA because they had horribly stenchful flatulence and the boss had the unmitigated gall to mention it to them. The basic reasoning behind the suit was, "Yeah. I SMELL LIKE SHIT! But you and everybody I work around better get used to it, buy some nose-plugs or find other employment, because I have the RIGHT to smell like shit and YOU DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT to complain about it. So there!"

Guess what? Under the ADA, they have the right to smell like shit and you don't have the right to complain about it, any more than the neighbors of the woman who screams "FIRE!" all the time. This recent explosion of special rights created for twisted people may reward them, but it punishes everyone else. The more rights we grant, the less free we become.

Philip Howard, author of (I know this should be italics, but I haven't figured out how to do that yet) "The Death of Common Sense" puts it succinctly: "Intending to check the abuse of authority, we transferred power to every angry person to bully society." And bully they do.

If I had horrible flatulence and someone mentioned it to me, I would not hire a lawyer. I would go see a doctor and attempt to cure the problem. But I suppose I'm a crusty old troglodyte. I was raised to have manners and a modicum of consideration for the feelings of those around me. That's a very passe attitude today.

If the woman screaming "FIRE!" is cured tomorrow, moves to California and starts smoking cigarettes, she may find herself staring down the other end of the gun she pulled in this case. She can scream "FIRE!" all the time and live anywhere she wants. But if she adds a little smoke to offend a delicate bully's nostrils, SHE'S OUTTA THERE!

Makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?
If I were forced to live in Oakland, California, I would throw myself under a bus at the earliest opportunity. California itself is bad enough, being the certified nut-bowl of the entire country, but OAKLAND, home of the "Ebonics" movement, must be where people too crazed and deviant for San Fransisco end up. The OAKLAND TRIBUNE featured this heart-warming story of a local nutjob named Kate Raphael, who has nothing better to do with her spare time than travel 7,500 to Palestine and become trapped in the Aida refugee camp. She is described as a "Berkley activist." A better term is "insane, rabid Berkley fool," but so many insane, rabid fools reside in Oakland that the woman is considered worthy of the headline of the story.

Why not, when the writer says, "Military activity has centered around a standoff at the Church of the Nativity, where Palestinians SOUGHT REFUGE as Israeli troops advanced." Yeah, right. Their path to sanctuary was littered with all the guns, ammo and grenades they dropped on the way, too. About "200 Palestinian militiamen" are holed up in the church while the merciless Israeli army drinks the blood of Arab children with their evening meals.

Ms Raphael is a member of the International Solidarity Movement, which leads me to believe that insane, rabid fools exist outside of Oakland, because she has about 200 fellow idiots with her. They say they are there to protest "the Israeli occupation." I say they are there to show their asses. This woman needs to get a blog. It'll give her something worthwhile to do with all that idle time on her hands.
SOME PEOPLE ARE JUST TOO STUPID! My gag reflex just kicked in and I can't comment on THIS STORY without a barf-bag. I become sick when people mistake being "sensitive" with having intelligence and glow with self-satisfaction when they do incredibly asinine things. Ugggh! Where's the Peptol-Bismol when I need it?

Thursday, April 04, 2002

I WISH I HAD THEIR PROBLEMS!

If you check the hit counter over on the left side of this page, you'll see that I am just under 1,900 as I write this missive. That figure does not represent the hits I received just today. It does not represent the hits I received just this week. It is the total number of hits I have gotten since I started this site on December 26, 2001. You can do the math and see that I average about... well, A LOT FEWER HITS THAN I WOULD LIKE! Besides, I believe about 500 of those hits came from my mother, just so she can see if I'm still using filthy language in my posts, even after she asked me not to. Sorry, Mom.

On the USS Clueless, CAPTAIN DENBESTE broke my heart with his whining about how it's lonely at the top and all the traffic he receives is a heavy burden to bear. I really like what Denbeste does; he worked hard to create an interesting, unique niche in the Blogosphere, and I am one of those many hitters who visit his site almost every day.

But c'mon, man! DON'T GIVE ME THAT 'BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR' CRAP! If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, and stop begging for sympathy from the likes of me because you are TOO POPULAR! Gag me with a spoon.

I try to post every day (operating on the LIEKS THEORY that if you write six blogs and four of them blow chunks, you still have two good ones to show for the effort) and I often wonder if I'm not throwing messages in a bottle on a vast ocean where they never wash ashore anywhere. It gets lonely in front of this keyboard sometimes. I have not prostituted myself to the point of sending e-mails, such as the ones Denbeste mentions, begging "please LINK ME!" but damn me if I haven't considered it. Back when I made my living playing guitar, I sometimes had to walk into a bar, collar the manager and say, "Hey! LISTEN TO MY MUSIC!" I got a lot of jobs that way.

My hero, INSTAPUNDIT weighed in on the same subject and seemed to share a brotherly compassion for Denbeste's problems. I admire Glenn Reynolds as a blogger they way I admire Johnny Unitas as a football player. They both have godlike stature in their fields. But I don't symapthize with Denbeste's complaints about 4,000 hits per day, nor Instapundit's record of more than 42,000 in one day. Hell, I'm still waiting for MY counter to turn 1,900, which means, if you do the math, that I've had as many hits since the start of this blog as THEY receive in... well, YOU DO THE MATH! I WAS AN ENGLISH MAJOR! I don't do math.

Instantman threw me a link (without mentioning the name "GUT RUMBLES") on February 10 this year, the same day SAMIZDATA did, too (They did call me GUT RUMBLES), and I was very grateful. Under my "nom de reality," I wrote two other pieces that Samizdata posted, but those didn't attract attention to THIS site because I used the run-of-the-mill, totally unimaginative, made-up name of "Rob Smith" when I scribed those. If my REAL NAME were Rob Smith, I would invent a better one for blogging. Thank God my Mom named me Acidman Mars.

I wish I had learned to blog earlier, when the field was not so crowded with good writers. I find several new blogs every day and I constantly am amazed about how good some of them are. I also take comfort from the fact that NOBODY EVER HEARD OF THEM, EITHER. Carving out a niche in Blogdom is a lot more difficult than it once was. But I keep trying.

Being computer illiterate doesn't help my situation, either. You don't see a lot of bells and whistles on GUT RUMBLES. I have permlinks to Instapundit and Samizdata, a comments page and a hit counter, all of which were installed by that mercenary little shit Scott, who did it all in about five seconds and never told me how. The only reason I can do links is because I threatened to strangle his 14 year-old ass if he didn't STOP RIGHT THERE and let me write down the code, which I taped to the top of my monitor so I never forget it.

You mustl notice that I never use different fonts, I don't have those really neat indentations when I quote somebody else and I never put a picture ANYWHERE. The reason is simple: I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THAT STUFF! It's a severe handicap, because I've seen several "Blogs of Note" on BLOGGER where the bells and whistles certainly overwhelm the literary content. That crap makes my head ache, but it impresses other people. I would like more poshness on my site, but I was born a hillbilly and raised as a cracker, so too much sophistication fits me like a button-down collar and a tight necktie. It ain't comfortable, Bo. So just consider GUT RUMBLES as a mud-stained, beat up, four-wheel drive vehicle operated from the hick town of Rincon, Georgia, by a redneck from Effingham County, where still having all your teeth when you smile for your shotgun wedding picture on your 16th birthday is considered high-fallutin'.

So, I don't want to hear about too much traffic until I AM THE ONE complaining about it. (By the way, just check my archives for the week of 2/10/02 and follow the links I gave to COP3. You can see me on Instapundit and Samizdata. I AM NOT making that up.

(By the way... I hate to say this about someone whose writing I really admire, but am I the only one who thinks Steven Denbeste is pretty much a tight-assed, egotistical, yankee-sounding prig?)

I am certain that a portent of great evil lurks here, but I'm going out at night to LOOK AT THIS phenomenon. Readers of chicken bones and goat entrails probably see signs that we're all gonna die, but I think it's cool. A solar system love dance, right in our western skies!
MAN, THAT'S GOT TO HURT! According to this story, a quick-thinking 12 year-old girl made SHORT WORK (pardon the pun) of a flasher on an elevator by grabbing his zipper and yanking up with enough force to cause a bloody wound. The man lost all interest in flashing, fled on wobbly legs and probably is curled in a fetal position somewhere, whimpering and trying to find the courage to pull his zipper DOWN.

I'm delighted that the girl prevailed, and I hope that the zipper is the only thing connecting the pervert's wherewithall to his body. When he unzips, it FALLS OFF. Let "stumpy" try that trick again.

Wednesday, April 03, 2002

Here's ANOTHER STORY ABOUT PEDOPHILE PRIESTS. All of these sudden revelations about sexual mischief and Church cover-ups are making me wonder about certain things. Are there really THAT MANY child molesters in the priesthood? Or did the church compound its own problems by not exposing and punishing a few miscreants when the Chuch first learned of their crimes? Most of the priests being hauled to justice now molested more than one child over a long period of time, and they got away with it until now. Authority figures knew and allowed it to continue. Thus, they abetted the perverts in their midst and made what would have been a small problem if handled in the beginning a large problem now. There is plenty of blame to go around all across the board.

I never understood why such unnatural behavior as celibacy is required of a priest in the first place. Everybody makes certain sacrifices for his or her job, but NO SEX, not EVER is a BIGGIE, and I am not certain I would want anybody willing to go that far for the job to work for me. That sort of dedication is pretty fanatical from my point of view.

I read that the Church established the doctrine to protect its own treasure. Celibate priests produced no heirs to make claims against the wealth of the Church when they died, so the Church didn't have to worry about losing any of its land or gold to greedy, money-grubbing widows or orphans. No, the money-grubbing, greedy Church could keep it all, generation after generation. That idea worked well through the centuries, because the Church has a LOT of wealth now, the better to pay hush money in the beginning and settle all the lawsuits now for priestly misbehavior. They got away with this scheme for a long time, while even Popes fathered illegitimate children, because communication was slow and a village 20 miles down the road was a LONG way to travel. Playing cat in the sandbox, burying some nasty business, was not that difficult a long time ago.

Now, however, we have cars, airplanes, newspapers, mercenary tort laywers and the internet, which make dirty little secrets much more difficult to hide. To put it bluntly, the shit has hit the fan and there's no way to clean up the mess discreetly. The Church will pay for its sins.

But I am afraid some innocent people will, too. This feeding frenzy over pedophile priests reminds me of the ABUSED CHILDREN IN DAY CARE CENTERS crisis we experienced in the '80s. Many zealous prosecutors jumped on this bandwagon (Janet Reno, for one) and railroaded a lot of innocent people into jail, or simply ruined their lives in a total witch hunt. It was a disgusting spectacle, totally misguided, and tragic in what it did. I don't want to see this sort of injustice happen again.

Of course, if the Church had cleaned up its mess in the beginning, it wouldn't have this crisis on its hands. Some of the guys in the white robes and the tall hats need to answer for their sins, too.

Recent videos of the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve are now available for $95.81 each. If you buy one expecting to see the pristine, unspoiled wilderness and the spawning Caribou, you'll be disappointed. The ANWAR is dark 24-hours every day right now and the temperature is 70 below zero, not counting the wind-chill factor. THAT'S WHAT THAT GOD-FORSAKEN PLACE IS REALLY LIKE!

Let Jimmy Carter go there now and listen to "the music of the wild" he rhaposidized about in the New York Times. He'll hear the howl of the freezing wind and feel ballistically-driven snowflakes shattering those wild-boar teeth of his for about five minutes before he freezes solid as Snicker's Bar dipped in liquid nitrogen (That's not a ridiculous analogy. I HAVE DONE THAT, and the results are immediate and impressive. Think "nutty, chocolate brick in less than a second." Then think of Jimmy Carter as a nutty brick, period.).

Environmentalists, politicians who pander to environmentalists and every other ignorant fool who wants to save that place should go there now and camp out for a few weeks. Opposition to drilling will vanish quickly.
Here's some more dirt on the ENRON SCANDAL. While doofus-pundits and Congress-dorkles lament the fate of the little guys who lost their life savings in the collapse of the company, this tidbit emerges: "Total attorney's fees for the nation's largest bankruptcy likely will be a staggering $500 million to $1 billion... such fees are paid ahead of creditors."

Of course they are. Lawyers, like Egyptian scarab beetles, feast on a corpse. And they get fat doing it.
THE BAR CROWD MUST HAVE BEEN TOO DRUNK TO VOTE! (See a few posts below) Koleen Brooks is now the ex-mayor of Georgetown, Colorado. She lost her RECALL ELECTION in a landslide.

In a concession speech after the votes were tallied, she mooned the crowd, lit a doobie and said, "If you voted against me, YOU SUCK!"

Okay, I invented that last part. But she did ask for a recount, just to see if the 65% to 35% loss was an accurate total. I don't believe hanging chads will matter.
Today, I experienced one of those days where something was terribly wrong with my bio-rhymns from the time I got out of bed this morning. I woke up groggy and three cups of coffee didn't clear the cobwebs from my mind. I felt tired and distracted all day. Usually, I can juggle several tasks at one time; today, I had incredible difficulty focusing on even one.

I have days like this, and I believe I've had them all my life. I don't know where they come from or what causes them, but I recognize the bottom of my mental sine wave when I feel it. If I were a contestant on Jeopardy tonight, I would embarrass myself, probably misspelling my own name in the little booth window and forgetting how the hand-clicker worked. If I actually got the chance to answer anything, my reply would be "DUH..." and I wouldn't remember to put it in the form of a question. I simply am not at my best and brightest today, so if my blogs suck, please forgive me. I will be better tomorrow.

That's the weird thing about days like today. I usually experience a tremendous rebound effect and feel downright brilliant the next day. I hope it happens again this time.

Tuesday, April 02, 2002

Everybody else has piled on THIS CLUELESS ASSHOLE, so I will, too. I prefer JIM BEAM to this idiot. And I hate to inform Alex that a lot of bloggers write BETTER THAN HE DOES, no matter how much allegedly clever scribing he carves into newspapers. Where has this guy been?

Alex Beam should enjoy the webloggers out in the ether, because they write for passion and readership, not for glory and a paycheck. Most of them have REAL JOBS and blog for the hoot of it. It's a pure and pristine thing. I love writing GUT RUMBLES and wish only that I was linked to other sites more often than I am.

Alex Beam and Eric Alterman should have a beer together and commiserate about how their castle is being invaded by raging Visigoths. We're out there, and we're not going away until we've stormed the walls and raped all your women. Make fun of that idea as best you can.

I'm sharpening MY sword right now.

The truth hurts
I just went to check the rants of JB, the "Long Haired Country Boy," who appears to have HIS BLOG up and functioning now, after a few minor difficulties. I am heartbroken to see that GUT RUMBLES has no PERMALINK on his page. Hell, after all I did for him--- and HE coulda had my cherry, too. Nobody has ever permalinked me before.
I hate going to meetings at work, because usually they take too much time, they don't accomplish a damned thing and if ever a decision is made, you have to call ANOTHER MEETING to make sure the decision is carried out. I went to one of those today that lasted an hour and a half.

We assembled to discuss an engineering project that is nearing completion, and it is an obvious thalidimide baby. It won't do what we require it to do if engineering stays on the current path, and engineering is nearly out of money for the project. Engineering wants desperately to ditch that deformed baby in a production dumpster to see if WE can dig it out, resusitate it and give it a good life.

No one involved has passed the point of no return on this project, and if we actually utilized all the teamwork, problem-solving and root cause analysis training we all received in the past, success remains a possibility. It STILL CAN BE DONE, even after that meeting. But here's what went wrong:

Character #1: Already engaged in a pissing contest with the project engineer, he wishes to pillory his enemy rather than solve the problem. Lot's of hidden agendas here that had nothing to do with the problem.

Character #2: A combination of three people from project engineering, there to protect their baliwick and outnumber Character #1 in a sustained pissing contest. More hidden agendas and an empire to protect, too.

Character #3: There to present every grievance he has against "the system" instead of dealing with the subject at hand. Constantly beating his personal drum whether it has anything to do with this project or not, and since it's not HIS project, he doesn't want to talk about it in the first place. He would rather beat HIS drum.

Character #4: My boss. He must make a decision that WE have to live with, and it damned sure ain't the one engineering wants to lay in our lap, and he does not want to referee the obvious pissing contest occurring before his eyes. He probably is the only one at the meeting who has a clue about what we can accept and how to go about getting it. He spoke less than charcters #1 through #3. But he laid out the correct, firm but polite demands, and got his way, God bless him.

Character #5: The Training Department (two poor unfortunates). They kept their mouths shut and took copious notes during the proceedings. As an ex-trainer, I know the helpless feeling that creeps over you in a meeting such as this. WHATEVER THEY DECIDE, I'm going to have to teach this shit. I belong to a service organization. They command, I serve. I'll do the best job I can, but IF THESE ASSHOLES CAN'T MAKE UP THEIR MINDS WHAT THEY WANT, then how can I provide it for them? You start to notice an itching, burning sensation in your seat when the meeting goes really off-track. They were rooting hard for Character #4.

Character #5: Me. Silent most of the time. I discussed the issue with Character #4 this morning, long before the meeting. He knows what we need and I totally agree. I was extraneous to the proceedings and mainly there to watch the show, which resembled a three-ring circus, complete with juggling clowns and dancing bears. My presence was not required, except for professional courtesy, which I could do without most of the time.

We formed an action plan, after focusing all our energy for about five minutes straight on the problem we came to solve, while wasting the other hour and a half. If we do what we decided to do, we can keep this deformed baby out of the dumpster. I just hope SOMEBODY remembers the decision we made amid all that noise.

If we end up with a deformed baby from this project, I'VE GOT TO RAISE IT, and I don't want that. Enough of my life is deformed already.
A college education is supposed to be a ticket to success in this country, but more and more CAMPUS IDIOTS are behaving more and more like Arab extremists, just as ignorant, hateful and anti-civilization as the worst Palestinean who ever strapped on a plastique vest and went out to achieve martyrdom by killing someone. University administration officials seem unwilling to confront these mobsters; in some cases, they give them active support.

It is a sad state of affairs and I fear for the generation who matures and is "educated" in such a foul environment.
When my son is with me every other weekend, we often watch the Cartoon Network together. He likes it and so do I, because fifty years of hard living still haven't quelled my love of Warner Brothers' Looney Tunes. Wile E. Coyote is my favorite character of all time, but I love Bugs and Daffy and Porky and Yosemite Sam and The Tazmanian Devil, too.

I didn't realize until I read THIS UNBELIEVABLY POLITICALLY-CORRECT CRAP that I will not see Speedy Gonzales, the Mexican Mouse, racing hither and yon and wearing his big sombrero while screaming, "Arriba! Arriba! Andele! Andele!" again. No, Speedy has been banned as a terrible anti-Latino stereotype by whatever anal-retentive dorks the PC cartoon network world puts in charge of such decisions.

I always thought Speedy was one cool dude. He outfoxed and outran the bad guys every time, and always came out on top in any situation. How is that a terrible, anti-Latino stereotype? Speedy never got arrested, he didn't bounce a low-rider up and down the road and he had no illegitimate children or tattoos. But he did have an accent and he wore a sombrero. We damned surely can't have that kind of racist crap in such a sensitive country as ours. Speedy, you're OUT! (Except in Latin America, where Speedy is still VERY POPULAR)

Thank God we don't have an organized Coyote Anti-Defamation League or they would take away my dear, beloved Wile E., too.

CHECK YOUR POWERS OF OBSERVATION. HERE is a test. Go examine "What's wrong With This Picture" and see if you can figure it out. The test is difficult and you may need a few moments to discover the correct answer. Get close to your computer monitor and go gimlet-eyed and game-faced. Listen to no distracting outside noises.

If you don't know the answer in five minutes, you are a hopeless case. Go sit in the cabinet under the sink in your kitchen and don't come out. Ever.
SOUNDS LIKE MY KINDA MAYOR! Koleen Brooks is mayor of historic Georgetown, Colorado, and she's facing a recall election and criminal charges for making a false police report, after a claiming a suspicious "attack" she evidently faked. I believe what really got her in hot water was not her job performance or the police report, but the fact that she's AN EX-STRIPPER who has been accused since her election of smoking pot, baring her breasts in the bar where she once danced and attempting to drag the old history-obsessed farts in town kicking and screaming into the twentieth century by luring modern businesses to their idyllic haven in the Rockies.

Hell, I thought Bill Clinton proved that a sleazy personal life took nothing away from stellar performance in office. That was his story and he stuck to it, even with illicit semen stains tracking his movements. At least Koleen is not accused of giving or receiving oral sex behind her official mayorial desk. Her WEB SITE is considered offensive by some of the old fuddy-duddys, but she can flaunt her sexuality and still be a good mayor, can't she? Well, CAN'T SHE?

She feels confident that she'll win the recall, especially if the bar crowd turns out heavily at the polls. Just check the web site and you'll see that she brings some impressive assets to her office.

Monday, April 01, 2002

Suffolk, Virginia, Mayor Curtis Milteer issued a proclaimation declaring April CONFEDERATE HISTORY MONTH in his town. Mayor Milteer is black. "It's a matter of recognizing and respecting everyone's heritage, even if it's not the same as our own," he said.

Governor Mark Warner lacks the same sort of courage and consideration for citizens of Virginia, which is not surprising considering the source. He refused to issue a similar proclaimation for the state, probably because he feared the wrath of dorkles such as Charles Christian, president of the Sufflok chapter of the NAACP. "This raises a red flag," an indignant Christian warned. When asked what he might do about it, he answered in cryptic, saying "If we have to be the frontrunner, we'll just have to be the frontrunner."

I have news for Charles Christian. The NAACP has not been a "frontrunner" in ANYTHING for years. The group is a parody of what it once was, and antics such as the boycott of South Carolina over the Confederate flag simply reinforce the impression that the NAACP is a useless, impotent, witless brigade of performing clowns. Good grief, man! If you really gave a crap about the advancement of colored people instead of riding your personal hobby horse with mastubatory abandon, you would pay attention to schools that TEACH BLACK KIDS TO READ which is the TRUE key to advancement in this country.

Naw, that doesn't interest the NAACP. Their self-appointed role in society today is to pitch ridiculous hissy fits. That's what they do best. Hell, THAT'S ALL THEY DO anymore.
The Supreme Court has decided to take at look at California's THREE STRiKES LAW to determine whether sending somebody to prison for 25 years to life for a petty crime is "cruel and unusual punishment." I'm interested to see how the Court rules on this issue.

"Three Strikes" makes sense if the purpose of the law is to remove evil, nasty and dangerous felons from polite society. I don't want professional murderers, rapists and armed robbers going in and out of a revolving door when they're caught, only to emerge quickly back on the street to prey on more innocent victims. But "Three Strikes," while passed with the best of intentions, mutated into something just as brainless as those idiotic "Zero Tolerance" rules in public schools. Any sense of proportion, clear reasoning or judgment was legislated out of the picture.

Just as mandatory sentences for drug crimes put a lot of people who are not menaces to society in jail for incredibly long terms (which forced prisons to free murderers, rapists and armed robbers to make room for them), "Three Strikes" has become a perverted version of what it was supposed to be. California did not invent a system to keep the really bad guys in jail. It developed a heartless, mindless government machine that chews up people who fall into its implacable jaws and spits them out in pieces.

We may have a few real dingbats out there on the fringe wearing black robes and pretending to be judges, but we also have a great many good people with excellent minds dispensing justice. We should allow them to do their jobs and not tie their hands with bureaucratic, one-size-fits-all regulation. Judges are supposed TO JUDGE. Let them.

I'm a real law and order guy. But I hope the Supreme Court calls "Three Strikes" out.

The Supreme Court has decided to take at look at California's THREE STRiKES LAW to determine whether sending somebody to prison for 25 years to life for a petty crime is "cruel and unusual punishment." I'm interested to see how the Court rules on this issue.

"Three Strikes" makes sense if the purpose of the law is to remove evil, nasty and dangerous felons from polite society. I don't want professional murderers, rapists and armed robbers going in and out of a revolving door when they're caught, only to emerge quickly back on the street to prey on more innocent victims. But "Three Strikes," while passed with the best of intentions, mutated into something just as brainless as those idiotic "Zero Tolerance" rules in public schools. Any sense of proportion, clear reasoning or judgment was legislated out of the picture.

Just as mandatory sentences for drug crimes put a lot of people who are not menaces to society in jail for incredibly long terms (which forced prisons to free murderers, rapists and armed robbers to make room for them), "Three Strikes" has become a perverted version of what it was supposed to be. California did not invent a system to keep the really bad guys in jail. It developed a heartless, mindless government machine that chews up people who fall into its implacable jaws and spits them out in pieces.

We may have a few real dingbats out there on the fringe wearing black robes and pretending to be judges, but we also have a great many good people with excellent minds dispensing justice. We should allow them to do their jobs and not tie their hands with bureaucratic, one-size-fits-all regulation. Judges are supposed TO JUDGE. Let them.

I'm a real law and order guy. But I hope the Supreme Court calls "Three Strikes" out.

Sunday, March 31, 2002

The electricity blipped during the storm, so I had to tour the house and reset every digital clock I own. I set them all a few minutes apart, just to put some variety in my life. A time warp occurs if I walk from my bedroom to the kitchen. Weird.

I dug through my CDs and found some old stuff I had not listened to in a long time. Remember Highway 101? Paulette Carlson broke up that band to start a solo career and neither she nor the band has been heard from since. Too bad, because the band made good music and Paulette sang like a bird. "Sleeping in the Bed You Made For Me" is a classic. Then, I ran across Mary Chapin Carpenter and listened to "This Shirt" three times in a row with the volume turned up loud. I popped Dire Straits in next and played "Sultans of Swing" over and over again. I believe that might be the greatest rock and roll song of all time, with extremely tasty guitar licks by Mark Knopfler. I also have "Neck and Neck," where Mark plays with Chet Atkins, and that's downright obscene. I've played guitar for more than 30 years and I HATE IT when people blow my doors off and make it look so easy. A lot of good guitar players cruise around out there, but I can always distinguish Eric Clapton, Mark Knopfler and Leo Kottke anytime I hear them, no matter what the music. They are stylists and their sounds are unique. Hell, I'M A STYLIST, TOO; I just don't play as well as those guys do.

If I decide to ditch my career in the chemical industry, I believe I could make a living as a minstrel again in Key West. The going wage is $50 an hour and a typical set is four hours. The pickers start at noon and somebody's on stage until 4:00 AM. I thought I was better than at least half of the people I saw playing there. Hell, I'm better than 90% of them. I'm pretty wonderful when you get right down to it. If I only had a little humility, I would be perfect.

I put new strings on my Martin today and she sounds good, a lot better than that damned alarm clock is going to sound in the morning. If I threw some stuff in the truck and left right now, I could be there around sunrise. It's a tempting thought.
Just in case you didn't notice from my posts, I am in a foul mood today. The weather accomodates me nicely, because Mother Nature is angry, too. She and I are of the same mind: Dark, dank and dismal, which would make a great name for a team of lawyers, ranking right up there with U. Fuckem and B. Donne.

I'm glad the sun is not shining. It gives me a perfect excuse for not going outside today.

I should have gone to bed and taken a nap. Instead, I surfed the news and found THIS SCARIFYING STORY. Whore-dog Bill Clinton is busy raking in the dough and attempting to rewrite history at a frenetic pace, which is proper for someone who has a lot of ugly history to rewrite.

Meanwhile, the THE BEAT GOES ON in the Middle East, with more suicide bombings today. Now some jerkwad named Brigadier General Sultan Abdul Aynayn, head of Arafat's Fat-Head movement in Lebanon, is threatening reprisals against both Israel AND THE UNITED STATES if "one single hair" is harmed on Arafat's Fat-Head. How about we leave the hair intact and cut off the bastard's head? You threaten REPRISALS, Sultan Abdul Anus? Come get some, you pompous little shit.

I am sick and tired of these people. Maniacal morons, blovating toads and exploding lackeys. God, what a tribe of pathetic losers. The world will be better off without them.
The sky outside my window resembles a giant bruise, with black, yellow and purple colors roiling through it. Thunder and lightening make a glorious noise in the clouds. The rain is falling sideways and I am tempted to stand on my back patio and wave a 1-iron in the air. C'mon, God, show me what you've got! It's Easter Sunday and I'm ready for a sign!

But I won't. I'll do this post and take a nap. It's good sleeping weather.
I stole this and I'm not going to say where I saw it. I'm writing a new book. It's called "Men are from Mars, and Women are Worthless Pieces of Shit." I'm going to dedicate it to my ex-wife.
I just realized that today is Easter Sunday. One year ago, I was bonding with my family unit by dyeing eggs the night before and hiding them all over the mini-farm this morning. I believe we hid 48 and retrieved 45, so the ants and scavangers enjoyed a good Easter, too. I had a wife, a son, two dogs, two cats, four goats and 28 chickens.

Now my family unit consists of me, myself and I. It's Easter Sunday and I could give a tinker's dam about it.
Sigh! If only environmentalists had their way and we could return to THE GOOD OLD DAYS everybody would live a life of bliss. Except for those who don't enjoy the nasty and brutish aspects of primitive living. Give me electricity and a dentist with novacaine over a fire and a pair of pliers anytime.
HERE she goes again!. Ann Coulter, pundit, lawyer and damned sexy woman, pulls no punches in her treatment of Halle Berry and her Academy Award. At the risk of being branded a white Southern racist (hell, I'm from GEORGIA! I'm ALREADY branded a white, Southern racist by folks in California and Washington DC), I totally agree with Coulter's thesis. Fathered by a black man and raised by a white mother, Berry is not exactly "black," no matter what Hollywood liberals have to say about it. Therefore, I face a quandry.

If the slavery reparation lawsuit succeeds, does Berry pay or collect?
TRAPPED LIKE THE RAT HE IS! Yasser Arafat ramains defiant, waving his pistol around his turbaned head while he stands in the dark in his isolated office where the toilets no longer flush. You GO, guy! Israel has PENNED THE RAT and now can't decide what to do with him. I say leave him right where he is. You have tanks that can blow him away at any time, and he says he wants to be a martyr. Let him do it.

If he's serious, he'll come charging out with guns a-blazing, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and go down in a warrior's death. If not, he'll deplete the battery on his cell phone begging for help and meekly surrender when he doesn't get any. I pick door #2. A rat is a rat.

It's one thing to convince young women to blow themselves up. That's easy when YOU don't have to do it. It's another thing altogether to die like a man. A rat doesn't have that sort of character.
If you check the time on this post, you'll know for certain that I have no life at all.

I went out to eat with some of my nekkid friends from Key West last night (tonight?) and we consumed dead, lightly-burnt cow meat and enough wine to make the trek back up the River Street ramp difficult. We dined at "The Boar's Head," an excellent restaurant which once connected to a nice bar called "The Other End." I played in what we musicians called "the pig's ass" many times. The bar now is a cheesy souvenir shop, where yankee tourists go to die. But the memories live on. I picked up many a strange lay in that place years ago.

I went back and re-read the blog I am supposed to critique for the "Blog Review" just to make certain that I was not too harsh on the writer. After further deliberation, I decided that I was not harsh enough. The blog purely sucks. I'm sorry. I hate to say that, but I AM JUDGMENTAL and facts are facts. It's baaad, and that ain't good.

But here's a NEW KID ON THE BLOG who has possibilities. JB-- DO NOT hire that mercenary little shit Scott to teach you html code. He will take your money and run, just as he did with me. And I KNOW WHERE HE LIVES! So you bettah fuggetaboutit. Give me your e-mail address and I'll tell you everything I know, which I can do in one short paragraph. I am not exactly Yoda when it comes to computers, as this site plainly shows.

Tell me more about the blonde, too.