More Proof that Global Warming is Bullshit.
Conceding the point that Global Warming Alarmists are wrong, at least this time, the same Watermelon Douchebag interviewed to pooh-pooh the report tries to cover his own ass:
"This is something that people don't appreciate. We tied a record in 2010 (for temperature records) globally. That is primarily from the C02 we put in the atmosphere in the 70s and early 80s, and we have been ramping up since then," he said.
"So it is not good. We are seeing the response from a mistake we were making 20 years ago, and we are making bigger mistakes today."
In other words: we're wrong, but not for the reasons you'd think (i.e. we don't know what the fuck we're talking about), but because we just haven't had enough time to be proven right yet. Global warming won't kill us all in 2020, like we originally said and gave Al Gore a Nobel Prize for repeating, but maybe in 2040...maybe 2068...it might happen...possibly...if everything else falls into place.
They sound like the guys who, circa 500 AD, were all over screaming about the return of Christ and the accompanying worldly upheavals (Question: if Jesus returns to Save, why does that require war, plagues, the deaths of millions and natural disasters?), excoriating the sinful, and demanding that they repent before all their flesh was burnt away and their immortal souls sent to experience the eternal torments of Hell.
Come Jan. 1, 501 AD, what happened? Nothing. And then the Doommongers were all, like, "Yeah, but the day of judgement is still coming, you'll see! Any day now...any day...You'll be sorry you didn't listen when it comes, Boy! Yessirrreee!" and they've been repeating that nonsense for the last 1500 years. When they fail, or are proven wrong, they simply move the goal posts, change the subject, make excuses, and go back to their smug lunacy, still convinced they have all the answers and that you are an idiot.
The Global Warming crowd has much in common with those so-called "prophets" (besides that they, too, don't know what the fuck they're talking about); given enough time and the vagaries of circumstance, any prediction comes true...eventually. Doesn't matter if we're talking football teams, religion, whatever. It's why Nostradamus'predictions only make sense in retrospect; if Nostradamus was of any real value then you would think someone would be taking advantage of them and doing things with them...like preventing Hitler's rise to power, nipping Soviet Communism in the bud, and being prepared for 9/11. Nostradamus, as predictive tool, is useless.
The current state of climatological "science" is, likewise, complete crap. It's the scientists who made it that way, too. They do no one, and especially their own cause, no good when they make contradictory statements along the lines of "well, the data is bad, the report is flawed, but it could still be right". This willful disbelief of scientifically-established facts by supposedly-reputable scientists for the purposes of advancing a personal and political agenda is frightening; it's bordering on mental illness, really. You might as well grow a long white beard, get yourself a sandwich board and paint"Repent!" on it and wander the streets; you'd be doing pretty much the same thing.
Ultimately, however, Science, Nostradamus and Religious Doofuses alike, are correct in this regard: this planet is doomed, and there's not much mankind can do to either prevent it, or as these dimwits would have you believe, speed the process up. Our Sun will go nova, cook off the atmosphere, boil off all our water and give us all a permanent crispy coating and kill us all. A comet, asteroid, or meteor will smack into our little blue marble, and kill us all. E.T. will come along, and decide we look tasty...and kill us all. The Moon will eventually escape the Earth's gravitational tug, spin off into space, and leave us with no tides and a greatly-reduced capacity to generate internal planetary heat...and we'll all die. Some nasty bird flu or common cold virus will evolve to a newer, more robust and sophisticated stage and infect us all, and we'll all die. Islamonazis in Iran or Pakistan will initiate a nuclear war that will engulf the planet in flames and fallout...and we'll all die.
Extinction is, indeed, part of the cycle of life, even more natural than granola and weaving your own clothes out of hemp, and it's pretty much unavoidable. The ultimate destruction of this planet is certain, and when viewed from this perspective, then putting up solar panels in order to save an exotic flea, or a few Stone Age New Guinea Tribesmen is a complete waste of time. Yes, we should do everything we can to ensure that our environment is as clean as possible, but to believe we can ever "restore" it to a "pristine" condition that can be maintained indefinitely is sheer stupidity. Expensive stupidity.
There is an arrogance, mostly born of ignorance, amongst some of the most ardent EnviroWeenies which is the natural consequence of their mistaken beliefs; In this formulation, it is believed that Man has the ability to "freeze" time and natural processes alike, that there will be a moment of ecological perfection that we can achieve, and then through conscious effort (and government control, naturally) we'll magically halt progress at the exact moment when everything is "perfect", and then live in a continuous present where tomorrow resembles today, and nothing ever changes ever, ever again.
This, incidentally, has also always been the historical goal of the world's worst dictatorships; to arrest progress at the every moment they are at the height of their power, and then exercise continuous power in ever-subtler forms throughout an unchanging future. Some of you lefties and dolphin lovers had better read Orwell. You might be cured of your unfortunate leftard tendencies.
Message to the Watermelons (Green on the outside, Red on the inside): Your thought processes are wrong, your fundamental beliefs are often easily overturned by reason and the very science you claim as your best ally, and every time it happens, you simply change tack and re-center the argument, never recognizing the errors you've made, only redoubling your efforts in a different direction. It's difficult to take you seriously.
You're no better than the morons who shout about Armageddon and the Rapture: when it doesn't come to pass, they figure it's because they weren't pious enough. So they just try harder, and get more annoying, and fall deeper into mental illness.
I'm not in favor of trying to save that which cannot be saved, whether it's souls or polar bears, and especially not by means that require my standard of living to be drastically reduced because all you eventually accomplish -- for all your talk and supposed "authority", whether Divine or Scientific -- is to make yourself look like an ass, and piss us normal people off.
Friday, January 21, 2011
JFK Is Still, Thankfully, Dead...
JFK and the Madness of the American Left.
From the American Spectator; Interesting read. It has been one of the great mysteries of the last 200 years as to why political violence is almost always perpetrated by those on the Left (the ones who claim to want to bring about a Utopia of peace, plenty and brotherhood), and no one ever notices, or points this out. Mostly because the great majority of people are dimwits, and neither care , nor have the capability to understand the subject.
It's always Conservatives and right-wingers who are vicious, nasty, reactionary brutes, who cling to guns, and want to engage in genocide, and no one corrects this mistaken view of things. The worst murderers in our history were all -- Hitler, Pol Pot, Mao, Stalin, Tito, Castro, Lenin --creatures of the Political Left.
To the Left violence cannot be separated from politics, because it's through violence that Leftist politics are advanced. If left to their own devices, most people with the sense to pour piss out of a boot would choose democracy, capitalism and conservatism in a heartbeat, leaving the Left out in the cold. It has to foment violence, invent crises, cause societal disruptions, murder, steal, cheat the electoral process, just to survive.
It also explains why the attempted killing of Gabrielle Giffords in Arizona just had to be explained as a political act by various pundits on the Left; because they couldn't conceive of the attempted execution of a democrat as anything but apolitical act, especially because most of them would unquestionably take the opportunity to do the same to a republican.
From the American Spectator; Interesting read. It has been one of the great mysteries of the last 200 years as to why political violence is almost always perpetrated by those on the Left (the ones who claim to want to bring about a Utopia of peace, plenty and brotherhood), and no one ever notices, or points this out. Mostly because the great majority of people are dimwits, and neither care , nor have the capability to understand the subject.
It's always Conservatives and right-wingers who are vicious, nasty, reactionary brutes, who cling to guns, and want to engage in genocide, and no one corrects this mistaken view of things. The worst murderers in our history were all -- Hitler, Pol Pot, Mao, Stalin, Tito, Castro, Lenin --creatures of the Political Left.
To the Left violence cannot be separated from politics, because it's through violence that Leftist politics are advanced. If left to their own devices, most people with the sense to pour piss out of a boot would choose democracy, capitalism and conservatism in a heartbeat, leaving the Left out in the cold. It has to foment violence, invent crises, cause societal disruptions, murder, steal, cheat the electoral process, just to survive.
It also explains why the attempted killing of Gabrielle Giffords in Arizona just had to be explained as a political act by various pundits on the Left; because they couldn't conceive of the attempted execution of a democrat as anything but apolitical act, especially because most of them would unquestionably take the opportunity to do the same to a republican.
Cat: The Other White Meat...
I've got a bone to pick with my neighbors about their fucking cats.
I normally don't see the cats in this neighborhood, or at least rarely see them, but for some reason this week has seen an explosion in the visible feline population with several deleterious effects.
The question I have is; why is it that everyone and their mother finds it necessary to let their cats out when there's the remnants of two major snowstorms about (now three: we got another 6" of snow last night), the streets and sidewalks are full of freezing-cold ice and filthy water with a heavy salt content, and the temperature is lower than a democrat's IQ?
I don't recall seeing cats all summer, but I'm seeing a bunch of them every night now. And I don't mean like early in the evening, either; I'm talking seeing prides of night-stalking kitties at all hours of the evening. I keep expecting to hear a David Attenborough voice-over when one of these prides passes the house.
And there are several groups of them, too. I've counted at least three little kitty street gangs active in the neighborhood. It's like the Sharks and the Jets, only with hairballs.
Having this many cats running loose, of course, leads to certain problems. Prime amongst them are the raucous catfights at all hours of the night, the garbage pails knocked over and the plastic bags within all ripped up, trash strewn all over the place, as the cats snack on household refuse.
However, the biggest woe is my next-door neighbor's tabby, who has the most annoying "meow" that I have ever heard. It sounds like a crying infant with a harelip. It is the strangest and most distressing sound I can remember ever having heard.
And you can set your watch by it: 2:00 A.M., every fucking morning, that cat sits at the front door and calls out until someone gets up and lets it back into the house. Eventually, usually at 3:30 or so, the cat manages to achieve success. The entire time, my testicles retreat into my chest cavity, and my sphincter clenches with every meow. The sound is that horrendous.
I hate cats. I hate cats more than just about any other living creature on this planet. It's a toss-up as to whether I hate Muslims or Cats more; if I had my way, this War on Terror bullshit would include a campaign to kill cats, too. Cats are nasty, cats are sneaky, cats are vindictive, and cats are stupid. An ex-girlfriend once had a cat (that I bought her because she wanted a pet), and this fucking animal did nothing but eat, shit, and climb the Venetian blinds in the dead of night. I kept secretly praying he'd hang himself with the sash cords.
Pet him?
Never happened. If you got close, he ran off, or worse, took a swipe at you (she refused to have this 10-pound cat de-clawed because that would be "inhumane" and leave him "defenseless"). The only time this thing would welcome or initiate any sort of contact was if there was food involved. He wasn't a pet; he was a museum exhibit that would sit high on the bookshelf, and you could only admire him from across the room.
A show of loyalty or appreciation, like you'd get from a dog?
Other than the occasional dead cockroach proffered as a peace offering, I'd say no. The thing displayed far less fidelity than Charlie Sheen does. The only thing constant about it's behavior was it's ability to wake me up to feed it by standing on my chest and kneading...with it's claws deployed. As soon as it woke me up, it would jump off the bed and go hide.
Of course, there are few things as disgusting as cleaning a litterbox (somehow, this became my job when the ex-girlfriend didn't feel like doing it, and I couldn't stand smelling it, anymore), just one of the great joys of cat ownership. If the smell doesn't make you want to gag, there's always the excitement one feels when finding the sandy little turds the cat kicked under the refrigerator while trying to bury it's crap to bring you blissful happiness.
Cats suck. People who love cats suck harder. I'm getting pretty annoyed at being awoken in the wee small hours by people's pets as they fight in the streets, raid my garbage pails, or howl and fuck right under my bedroom window.
Now, I could take matters into my own hands and mete out my own brand of anti-feline justice; I have a Super-Soaker, and I'm told that a mixture of water and vinegar is quite effective in teaching wayward cats a lesson. I also have a couple of squirrel traps handy, and I could easily rig them with guillotine blades. I will, however, do neither.
I'm not going to shoot anyone's cat with a douche mixture, nor will I trap and decapitate any cats, as much as I'd like to. I do respect people's property, and besides, I couldn't make some child sad with the loss of a beloved pet. However, I'm really pissed -- I'm certain that others are, too -- and I think it's time to do something about it. So, I'm hanging up the following note to my neighbors all over the neighborhood this morning:
Dear Cat-Owning Douchebag,
There are some of us in this neighborhood who enjoy a good night's sleep, something difficult to come by at the best of times, but almost impossible to achieve when someone's cats are fucking under your bedroom window, knocking over the garbage pails, fighting in the streets, or howling all night long to be let back indoors.
You know it happens, because you hear it, too -- you know you do -- you just don't care. So long as the cat isn't your house making all this noise, you couldn't care less about the effect your careless pet ownership is having on your neighbors.
Keep your cats in your own house, and on your own property, please. If you can't do this, then don't be surprised when someone (not necessarily me) decides that your child's pet has become a pest and then does the unthinkable. You just know that there's at least one person in this neighborhood just crazy enough to do it, too.
Before your cat goes MIA, or you find a little kitty head on your coffee table, do yourself --and everyone else -- a favor; BE RESPONSIBLE AND HAVE SOME CONSIDERATION FOR OTHERS, ASSHOLE!
Thank you.
You have to be firm with these people in order to get your point across, sometimes. If this goes on much longer, I might forget my aversion to killing an animal and break out my slingshot and steel ball bearings.
I normally don't see the cats in this neighborhood, or at least rarely see them, but for some reason this week has seen an explosion in the visible feline population with several deleterious effects.
The question I have is; why is it that everyone and their mother finds it necessary to let their cats out when there's the remnants of two major snowstorms about (now three: we got another 6" of snow last night), the streets and sidewalks are full of freezing-cold ice and filthy water with a heavy salt content, and the temperature is lower than a democrat's IQ?
I don't recall seeing cats all summer, but I'm seeing a bunch of them every night now. And I don't mean like early in the evening, either; I'm talking seeing prides of night-stalking kitties at all hours of the evening. I keep expecting to hear a David Attenborough voice-over when one of these prides passes the house.
And there are several groups of them, too. I've counted at least three little kitty street gangs active in the neighborhood. It's like the Sharks and the Jets, only with hairballs.
Having this many cats running loose, of course, leads to certain problems. Prime amongst them are the raucous catfights at all hours of the night, the garbage pails knocked over and the plastic bags within all ripped up, trash strewn all over the place, as the cats snack on household refuse.
However, the biggest woe is my next-door neighbor's tabby, who has the most annoying "meow" that I have ever heard. It sounds like a crying infant with a harelip. It is the strangest and most distressing sound I can remember ever having heard.
And you can set your watch by it: 2:00 A.M., every fucking morning, that cat sits at the front door and calls out until someone gets up and lets it back into the house. Eventually, usually at 3:30 or so, the cat manages to achieve success. The entire time, my testicles retreat into my chest cavity, and my sphincter clenches with every meow. The sound is that horrendous.
I hate cats. I hate cats more than just about any other living creature on this planet. It's a toss-up as to whether I hate Muslims or Cats more; if I had my way, this War on Terror bullshit would include a campaign to kill cats, too. Cats are nasty, cats are sneaky, cats are vindictive, and cats are stupid. An ex-girlfriend once had a cat (that I bought her because she wanted a pet), and this fucking animal did nothing but eat, shit, and climb the Venetian blinds in the dead of night. I kept secretly praying he'd hang himself with the sash cords.
Pet him?
Never happened. If you got close, he ran off, or worse, took a swipe at you (she refused to have this 10-pound cat de-clawed because that would be "inhumane" and leave him "defenseless"). The only time this thing would welcome or initiate any sort of contact was if there was food involved. He wasn't a pet; he was a museum exhibit that would sit high on the bookshelf, and you could only admire him from across the room.
A show of loyalty or appreciation, like you'd get from a dog?
Other than the occasional dead cockroach proffered as a peace offering, I'd say no. The thing displayed far less fidelity than Charlie Sheen does. The only thing constant about it's behavior was it's ability to wake me up to feed it by standing on my chest and kneading...with it's claws deployed. As soon as it woke me up, it would jump off the bed and go hide.
Of course, there are few things as disgusting as cleaning a litterbox (somehow, this became my job when the ex-girlfriend didn't feel like doing it, and I couldn't stand smelling it, anymore), just one of the great joys of cat ownership. If the smell doesn't make you want to gag, there's always the excitement one feels when finding the sandy little turds the cat kicked under the refrigerator while trying to bury it's crap to bring you blissful happiness.
Cats suck. People who love cats suck harder. I'm getting pretty annoyed at being awoken in the wee small hours by people's pets as they fight in the streets, raid my garbage pails, or howl and fuck right under my bedroom window.
Now, I could take matters into my own hands and mete out my own brand of anti-feline justice; I have a Super-Soaker, and I'm told that a mixture of water and vinegar is quite effective in teaching wayward cats a lesson. I also have a couple of squirrel traps handy, and I could easily rig them with guillotine blades. I will, however, do neither.
I'm not going to shoot anyone's cat with a douche mixture, nor will I trap and decapitate any cats, as much as I'd like to. I do respect people's property, and besides, I couldn't make some child sad with the loss of a beloved pet. However, I'm really pissed -- I'm certain that others are, too -- and I think it's time to do something about it. So, I'm hanging up the following note to my neighbors all over the neighborhood this morning:
Dear Cat-Owning Douchebag,
There are some of us in this neighborhood who enjoy a good night's sleep, something difficult to come by at the best of times, but almost impossible to achieve when someone's cats are fucking under your bedroom window, knocking over the garbage pails, fighting in the streets, or howling all night long to be let back indoors.
You know it happens, because you hear it, too -- you know you do -- you just don't care. So long as the cat isn't your house making all this noise, you couldn't care less about the effect your careless pet ownership is having on your neighbors.
Keep your cats in your own house, and on your own property, please. If you can't do this, then don't be surprised when someone (not necessarily me) decides that your child's pet has become a pest and then does the unthinkable. You just know that there's at least one person in this neighborhood just crazy enough to do it, too.
Before your cat goes MIA, or you find a little kitty head on your coffee table, do yourself --and everyone else -- a favor; BE RESPONSIBLE AND HAVE SOME CONSIDERATION FOR OTHERS, ASSHOLE!
Thank you.
You have to be firm with these people in order to get your point across, sometimes. If this goes on much longer, I might forget my aversion to killing an animal and break out my slingshot and steel ball bearings.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Don't Believe Anything Hillary Clinton Has to Say..
Hillary Clinton Confirms She Has No Plan for Second Term.
She also says she's looking forward to "returning to private life".
Bullshit.She knows Obama is dead in the water, assuming no great miracle occurs between now and the end of the year that somehow saves his sorry ass. This woman was within striking distance of the Presidency in 2008, and you just know she's salivating at the prospect.
The only thing worse than a second Obama term would be a third Clinton term, either of them. Because when you get one of these people, the other one quickly slithers into the picture.
She also says she's looking forward to "returning to private life".
Bullshit.She knows Obama is dead in the water, assuming no great miracle occurs between now and the end of the year that somehow saves his sorry ass. This woman was within striking distance of the Presidency in 2008, and you just know she's salivating at the prospect.
The only thing worse than a second Obama term would be a third Clinton term, either of them. Because when you get one of these people, the other one quickly slithers into the picture.
You Deserve To Be Scammed...
...if you fall for this one.
One of the great joys in life is having an e-mail address for the simple reason that no matter how crappy your day is, no matter how desperately bad you feel, you can always count on there being at least one e-mail that will brighten your day, ever-so-slightly.
For me, it's not the "inspirational" e-mail that well-meaning-but-otherwise-clueless friends pass on to me. I'm not one to get all choked up and inspired by the sappy missive that tells the tale of the 9-year-old cancer victim who somehow manages to put a sunny spin upon her impending demise, and which somehow always requires that I forward this piece of utter rubbish to another 10 people so that my wishes may be granted.
I blow my nose with those e-mails.
No, I get my kicks out of the obvious scams that wind up in your e-mail box. They're unavoidable, it seems, like that J.C. Penney's catalog you get in the mailslot every week, and you haven't shopped there in 15 years, and can't figure out how they've tracked you down after you've moved six times. No, I find the scams funny because I can just imagine some complete mouthbreather falling for them hook, line and sinker.
Some of them are really very well written, and almost believable, until you get to the part where there's $15 million waiting for you, if only you do what the writer asks...and open up your bank account.
Sometimes though, the scam is so transparent, and the e-mail so badly written, that they become the joke in and of themselves. If you add a little imagination to the mix, you can amuse yourself for hours on end. Here's one of the latest scam mails in my inbox:
MY HART CHOOSE YOU. Dear friend i am Mrs Cindy Buker and i have been surffering from ovarian cancer disease and the doctor says that i have just two days to leave. I am from (Mississippi) USA but based in Africa Burkina Faso since Nine years ago as a business woman dealing with gold exportation. Now that i am about to end the race like this,without any family members and no child.I have 3 Million US DOLLARS in Africa Development Bank(ADB)Burkina Faso which i instructed the bank to give St Andrews Missionary Home in Burkina Faso.
But my mind is not at rest because i am writting this letter now through the help of mycomputer beside my sick bed. I also have 4.5Million US Dollars at Ecobank here in Burkina Faso and i instructed the bank to transfer the money to the first foreigner that will apply to the bank after i have gone that they should release the fund to him/her, but you will assure me that you will take 50% of the money and give 50% to the orphanages home in your country for my heart to rest.You are to contact the bank through this email address (address removed for safety reasons)
Now, here's what's so funny about this one;
To begin with, Miss Buker can't possibly be from Mississippi. The first giveaway is that she spelled "Mississippi" correctly. The second giveaway is people who are really from Ole' Miss, spell it "M-I-Crooked-letter-Crooked-letter-I-Pee-Pee-I", because that's how they were taught to do it in the dirt-floored-one-room schoolhouse they went to after they brought the harvest in, and finished their chores.
They say "Crooked Letter" because it's hard to say "ess" when you're missing your front teeth. Besides, anyone from Mississippi almost immediately starts giggling like a deranged schoolgirl when they get to the "Pee-Pee" part.
And if it was really an emergency, why are you only contacting me now -- when you only have "two days to leave"?
A dead giveaway is that the woman claims to:
a) Be a successful businesswoman, and
b) Have $7.5 million dollars
If she were really from Mississippi, this would both be near-impossible, and a goddamned miracle; people who say "crooked-letter", are missing half their teeth, and haven't returned to a decent, civilized country for treatment upon finding out they have ovarian cancer are not usually noted for their financial acumen.
In fact, I rather doubt they have a treatment for cancer in Burkina Faso that doesn't involve a witch-doctor shaking a dead snake, with a chicken bone stuck through his nose, and a gazelle hunt.
Besides, if you really have $7.5 million dollars, you'd think you'd find a lawyer to write you a will to ensure the orphanages actually do get that money, and you wouldn't have to depend on the good will of an anonymous "foreigner" contacted via a blind e-mail. I'm sure they have lawyers in Burkina Faso; someone has to be there to sue the witch-doctor for malpractice when they've used the wrong dead snake when failing to cure your leprosy, or prescribed the incorrect amount of rhino dung for your jock itch.
But the really, really, really dead giveaway is the e-mail address. It ends with a .ru (Trust me on this one).This means the e-mail originated in Russia, or was at least sent through a server located in Russia. An e-mail purporting to have been sent by a dying Redneck in Africa will probably not come to you via a Russian server.
Still, I just know someone, somewhere (probably in Mississippi) will fall for this.
One of the great joys in life is having an e-mail address for the simple reason that no matter how crappy your day is, no matter how desperately bad you feel, you can always count on there being at least one e-mail that will brighten your day, ever-so-slightly.
For me, it's not the "inspirational" e-mail that well-meaning-but-otherwise-clueless friends pass on to me. I'm not one to get all choked up and inspired by the sappy missive that tells the tale of the 9-year-old cancer victim who somehow manages to put a sunny spin upon her impending demise, and which somehow always requires that I forward this piece of utter rubbish to another 10 people so that my wishes may be granted.
I blow my nose with those e-mails.
No, I get my kicks out of the obvious scams that wind up in your e-mail box. They're unavoidable, it seems, like that J.C. Penney's catalog you get in the mailslot every week, and you haven't shopped there in 15 years, and can't figure out how they've tracked you down after you've moved six times. No, I find the scams funny because I can just imagine some complete mouthbreather falling for them hook, line and sinker.
Some of them are really very well written, and almost believable, until you get to the part where there's $15 million waiting for you, if only you do what the writer asks...and open up your bank account.
Sometimes though, the scam is so transparent, and the e-mail so badly written, that they become the joke in and of themselves. If you add a little imagination to the mix, you can amuse yourself for hours on end. Here's one of the latest scam mails in my inbox:
MY HART CHOOSE YOU. Dear friend i am Mrs Cindy Buker and i have been surffering from ovarian cancer disease and the doctor says that i have just two days to leave. I am from (Mississippi) USA but based in Africa Burkina Faso since Nine years ago as a business woman dealing with gold exportation. Now that i am about to end the race like this,without any family members and no child.I have 3 Million US DOLLARS in Africa Development Bank(ADB)Burkina Faso which i instructed the bank to give St Andrews Missionary Home in Burkina Faso.
But my mind is not at rest because i am writting this letter now through the help of mycomputer beside my sick bed. I also have 4.5Million US Dollars at Ecobank here in Burkina Faso and i instructed the bank to transfer the money to the first foreigner that will apply to the bank after i have gone that they should release the fund to him/her, but you will assure me that you will take 50% of the money and give 50% to the orphanages home in your country for my heart to rest.You are to contact the bank through this email address (address removed for safety reasons)
Now, here's what's so funny about this one;
To begin with, Miss Buker can't possibly be from Mississippi. The first giveaway is that she spelled "Mississippi" correctly. The second giveaway is people who are really from Ole' Miss, spell it "M-I-Crooked-letter-Crooked-letter-I-Pee-Pee-I", because that's how they were taught to do it in the dirt-floored-one-room schoolhouse they went to after they brought the harvest in, and finished their chores.
They say "Crooked Letter" because it's hard to say "ess" when you're missing your front teeth. Besides, anyone from Mississippi almost immediately starts giggling like a deranged schoolgirl when they get to the "Pee-Pee" part.
And if it was really an emergency, why are you only contacting me now -- when you only have "two days to leave"?
A dead giveaway is that the woman claims to:
a) Be a successful businesswoman, and
b) Have $7.5 million dollars
If she were really from Mississippi, this would both be near-impossible, and a goddamned miracle; people who say "crooked-letter", are missing half their teeth, and haven't returned to a decent, civilized country for treatment upon finding out they have ovarian cancer are not usually noted for their financial acumen.
In fact, I rather doubt they have a treatment for cancer in Burkina Faso that doesn't involve a witch-doctor shaking a dead snake, with a chicken bone stuck through his nose, and a gazelle hunt.
Besides, if you really have $7.5 million dollars, you'd think you'd find a lawyer to write you a will to ensure the orphanages actually do get that money, and you wouldn't have to depend on the good will of an anonymous "foreigner" contacted via a blind e-mail. I'm sure they have lawyers in Burkina Faso; someone has to be there to sue the witch-doctor for malpractice when they've used the wrong dead snake when failing to cure your leprosy, or prescribed the incorrect amount of rhino dung for your jock itch.
But the really, really, really dead giveaway is the e-mail address. It ends with a .ru (Trust me on this one).This means the e-mail originated in Russia, or was at least sent through a server located in Russia. An e-mail purporting to have been sent by a dying Redneck in Africa will probably not come to you via a Russian server.
Still, I just know someone, somewhere (probably in Mississippi) will fall for this.
This Just In: "U.S. Senator" is a Euphemism for "Asshole"...
Have no fear: The Best-and-Brightest are on the job!
Here's proof:
"It appears that a museum owned by the people of the United States, celebrating the history of the United States, cannot find companies in this country employing American workers that are able to manufacture statues of our founding fathers, or our current president," Sen. Bernie Sanders, an independent from Vermont who caucuses with Democrats, said in a letter to the museum.
"That is pretty pathetic!" he exclaimed. "I was not aware that the collapse of our manufacturing base had gone that far."
Of course, Bernie will never admit that it is, in part, his fault that our manufacturing base has disappeared. Bernie, you see, if the only U.S. Senator with the balls to call himself a Socialist, although the original article goes through contortions not to spell that out. It is his, and his ideological fellow-traveler's fault that America doesn't make anything except Marlboros, Doritos, Pepsi and laxatives anymore; they've taxed manufacturing, in fact business of all kinds, within an inch of it's life topay for the Welfare State. It's saddled business with contradictory regulations with which they must comply that are so convoluted that on the one hand, artificial sweeteners are almost treated like controlled substances by the FDA, and on the other, the EPA likens them to toxic waste.
What's even more amazing is that Bernie apparently hasn't taken a trip to his local Wal-Mart (he wouldn't: only proles and animals, as Orwell would say, shop there, and besides, Wal-Mart is hostile to the labor unions that only priced American labor into international non-competitiveness, but which Bernie still loves so much). Had Bernie actually taken a stroll into the slums of the Big Box Stores, he would have noticed a lot of things -- especially all the Made in China, Made in Indonesia, Made in India and Made in Mexico stickers -- and perhaps had his epiphany when it might have made a fucking difference.
Do you think that Bernie, and his butt-buddies in the Democratic Moonbat Wing, now in possession of this depressing piece of information (i.e. that nothing except bad automobiles subsidized by the taxpayer, and breast implants covered by ObamaCare are made in this country) and repent of his past sins? Will Bernie and his cohorts change their tune about business?
Fuck no! Of course not. That would require them to advance policies which have stood in direct contravention of everything they've stood for for the last 50 years -- and make them look stupid in the process. It would also reveal a truth that Bernie and his ilk would rather the public remain ignorant of; the reason the American economy is in the shitter is because our elected officials put it there, and we let them.
And once that realization is made by even the dumbest amongst us, Bernie and his pals will be lucky to survive...perhaps even literally.
Here's proof:
"It appears that a museum owned by the people of the United States, celebrating the history of the United States, cannot find companies in this country employing American workers that are able to manufacture statues of our founding fathers, or our current president," Sen. Bernie Sanders, an independent from Vermont who caucuses with Democrats, said in a letter to the museum.
"That is pretty pathetic!" he exclaimed. "I was not aware that the collapse of our manufacturing base had gone that far."
Of course, Bernie will never admit that it is, in part, his fault that our manufacturing base has disappeared. Bernie, you see, if the only U.S. Senator with the balls to call himself a Socialist, although the original article goes through contortions not to spell that out. It is his, and his ideological fellow-traveler's fault that America doesn't make anything except Marlboros, Doritos, Pepsi and laxatives anymore; they've taxed manufacturing, in fact business of all kinds, within an inch of it's life topay for the Welfare State. It's saddled business with contradictory regulations with which they must comply that are so convoluted that on the one hand, artificial sweeteners are almost treated like controlled substances by the FDA, and on the other, the EPA likens them to toxic waste.
What's even more amazing is that Bernie apparently hasn't taken a trip to his local Wal-Mart (he wouldn't: only proles and animals, as Orwell would say, shop there, and besides, Wal-Mart is hostile to the labor unions that only priced American labor into international non-competitiveness, but which Bernie still loves so much). Had Bernie actually taken a stroll into the slums of the Big Box Stores, he would have noticed a lot of things -- especially all the Made in China, Made in Indonesia, Made in India and Made in Mexico stickers -- and perhaps had his epiphany when it might have made a fucking difference.
Do you think that Bernie, and his butt-buddies in the Democratic Moonbat Wing, now in possession of this depressing piece of information (i.e. that nothing except bad automobiles subsidized by the taxpayer, and breast implants covered by ObamaCare are made in this country) and repent of his past sins? Will Bernie and his cohorts change their tune about business?
Fuck no! Of course not. That would require them to advance policies which have stood in direct contravention of everything they've stood for for the last 50 years -- and make them look stupid in the process. It would also reveal a truth that Bernie and his ilk would rather the public remain ignorant of; the reason the American economy is in the shitter is because our elected officials put it there, and we let them.
And once that realization is made by even the dumbest amongst us, Bernie and his pals will be lucky to survive...perhaps even literally.
The Law of Unintended Consequences...
...will always come back to bite you in the ass.
Note to the French, and especially the U.S. Government:
When you give money away, don't be surprised when people take you up on the offer at greater-then-expected rates.
I especially loved this part:
"Most panels installed in France were made in China with a highly questionable carbon footprint," Environment Minister Nathalie Kosciusko-Morizet told parliament last month. Policy must "create jobs in France, not subsidize Chinese industry."
Good thing we're creating all those Green Energy jobs... in the least Green country on Planet Earth, huh?
Note to the French, and especially the U.S. Government:
When you give money away, don't be surprised when people take you up on the offer at greater-then-expected rates.
I especially loved this part:
"Most panels installed in France were made in China with a highly questionable carbon footprint," Environment Minister Nathalie Kosciusko-Morizet told parliament last month. Policy must "create jobs in France, not subsidize Chinese industry."
Good thing we're creating all those Green Energy jobs... in the least Green country on Planet Earth, huh?
Mark Steyn is Back!
I was in withdrawal. Seriously.
Dependence Day.
The opening paragraph is rather frightening, but it makes the point. We are in danger of gradually losing our liberties and our unique identity;
"If I am pessimistic about the future of liberty, it is because I am pessimistic about the strength of the English-speaking nations, which have, in profound ways, surrendered to forces at odds with their inheritance. "Declinism" is in the air, but some of us apocalyptic types are way beyond that. The United States is facing nothing so amiable and genteel as Continental-style "decline," but something more like sliding off a cliff..."
Dependence Day.
The opening paragraph is rather frightening, but it makes the point. We are in danger of gradually losing our liberties and our unique identity;
"If I am pessimistic about the future of liberty, it is because I am pessimistic about the strength of the English-speaking nations, which have, in profound ways, surrendered to forces at odds with their inheritance. "Declinism" is in the air, but some of us apocalyptic types are way beyond that. The United States is facing nothing so amiable and genteel as Continental-style "decline," but something more like sliding off a cliff..."
More Iowahawk...
CSI: Tuscon.
If you're still not reading Iowahawk, you should be strapped down and given a 72-hour enema.
There's no excuse.
If you're still not reading Iowahawk, you should be strapped down and given a 72-hour enema.
There's no excuse.
Some Thoughts on A Near-Death Experience...
I was almost killed yesterday.
It's a common occurrence here on the Isle of Thoughtless Douchebags. I'm surprised that it doesn't happen more often, honestly. But first, a little background.
The weather in these parts has been frightfully bad in recent weeks: two major snowstorms have been followed by an unrelenting rain, itself followed by some of the coldest winds of the season. I blame Al Gore. I was promised an unbearably hot and dry climate because of the internal combustion engine, but instead one must struggle through streets clogged with the remnants of a blizzard and a white Nor'easter, turned to ice, slush and frozen lakes by a 40-degree rainy day, followed by the near-zero blast of the Siberian Express.
This is absolutely awful if you're a pedestrian. The remaining snow (I promise you, it will still be here here in early May, but it will all have been turned black by then so that the little hillocks made by people who dug their cars and walkways out will resemble slag heaps) is made soft by the warmth and the rain. This causes a) flooding and b) the formation of deep -- often ankle deep -- layers of slush, where snow, warm water and the filth of the streets create a Slurpee-like semi-fluid mess that coats the sidewalks, and collects in pools at every crosswalk. No sooner does someone walk over it, then it refreezes, waiting for the next person to walk over it. The repeated cracking of the ice layer, welling up of the water beneath, and refreezing ensures that slush is even harder to get rid of, and avoid, than snow.
It also gets trapped in the potholes in the streets, and freezes over again, creating big patches of ice on the roads.
Conditions yesterday were such that movement by vehicle was an iffy proposition. I must have seen at least half-a-dozen vehicles, that having parked at slushy curbs, were then trapped by ice when their owners returned. For some reason, these folks find it necessary to continue to spin their wheels when trapped in the ice, which makes one of the most annoying sounds known to mankind; that of rapidly rotating rubber sliding on ice. Here's a hint -- it doesn't matter how much "gas' you give it -- you're stuck. All you're doing is digging the ruts deeper, ruining your tires and creating a noxious cloud of exhaust. That's why you always keep a good, metal snow shovel and a bag of sand or Halite in your trunk, Doofus.
Anyways, the conditions on the road were such that no one with half a brain should have been on them.
This is Staten Island, however, and the half-brained are all at work at their overpayed "City" jobs, leaving their quarter-brained offspring behind to ensure that background levels of stupidity do not fall below their natural intensity. The roads are busy, even in this frozen, sodden mess.
No one here ever takes the opportunity to stay at home when they really, really should. It's raining, and even colder weather is promised by the Asshole on Television; one must rush to the Supermarket for "essentials" because there will never, ever be any milk or bread again, should we survive the Ice Age that has descended upon us. Some of these folks might be excused; they're actually out there trying to do something -- like ensure their survival -- it's the other 90% of the drivers that should be pulled over and beaten within an inch of their lives that are the problem.
Because Heaven forbid someone should have to wait 10-15 seconds to make a left turn into a three-way intersection because there's a pedestrian in the crosswalk, and they're running late for something ridiculously unimportant.
This is a common problem in these parts, and I'm not certain what the root cause is. Perhaps people are just selfish. Maybe we've bred successive generations of morons. Perhaps they're not teaching people in driving school beyond the most basic "Red: Stop, Green: Go, Yellow: Haul Ass!" curriculum. People who drive around here regard a brake pedal like an enema: it's something slightly disgusting, and you should avoid it as often as possible. The concept of "Right of Way" has devolved into "I'll race you there". Traffic here is so bad that, often, if you miss your opportunity to make a turn when you "have the light", you might be stuck for as much as another 60 seconds waiting for your next opportunity. That's 60 seconds that your typical Staten Island Douchebag could be using to do really important things, like breathing, getting your mascara on right, or answering a text message.
Occasionally, you get someone with manners and courtesy, and they'll let you pass before they make their turn. Usually, what happens is the driver making the turn will either speed up and try to cut the turn fine so as to get through the intersection before you arrive, or, they make a wider turn to allow you to pass, but then gun the engine just as soon as they have sensed, let alone seen, an inch of daylight behind you. Either way, if you're a pedestrian on this island, you are likely to come within 12 inches or less of a rapidly moving vehicle to your front or rear at least three times a day. That means that at least three times a day, you're in danger of getting struck by a vehicle operated by a selfish twit in a rush to get to the next red light.
Crossing the street around here is much like being in one of those massive caribou migrations; you try to cross a raging river with tree trunks being swept downstream by floodwaters, like in one of those nature documentaries.
So, here I am, travelling across the dangerous landscape of a two-lane street at a three-way intersection. The street lights say I can cross; the little white man that's the universal symbol for "Walk" is lit up. I'm perhaps three steps into my treacherous journey when a blur of red passes before me.
Someone has decided to race me to the intersection. But the best laid plans of mice and men ofttimes go astray.
This driver of this little red Honda, not so much an automobile as it is a pregnant roller skate, misjudges the distance and timing, and instead of passing between me and the car stopped at the light, hits this stationary vehicle about 8 feet in front of me, and bounces backwards, whereupon it finds one of those icy patches on the road and does two full revolutions before coming to a stop against the well-used and twisted guardrail on the opposite side of the road. The silver SUV riding the red Honda's bumper decides this is an excellent opportunity to complete it's own turn, and so that driver guns his engine and dashes through the intersection, missing me, still in the crossswalk and now frozen by confusion, by perhaps two feet.
There is now a two car accident where there should have been none. The little Honda is facing the opposite lane of oncoming traffic at something like a 45-degree angle. There is steam rising from a ruptured radiator. Broken glass is now scattered on the slushy street. Somehow, I'm unscathed...and pissed off. The driver of the stationary vehicle now emerges from his car, and asks if I'm alright. Together, we rush across the intersection to check on the status of the moron who caused this accident in the first place.
We can't see the person at first; the car's airbag has deployed, and all you can see is a pair of arms flailing behind it. Eventually, the driver's door opens, and there SHE was.
I don't know why having the airbag in her face put her in a such a panic; She looks the type that should be well-accustomed to having her face buried in the pillows, if you catch my drift. She's a common type around here, almost the National Bird of Staten Island, that kind of neatly-manicured and perfectly cosmetic-ed, gum-snapping bimbo in designer everything, who probably awakes each morning to find a condom lodged in her vagina with no clue as to how it got there. Around here, she's known as Anna Putana (Putana = Italian for "Whore"), the 20-something, shallow, dumb-as-dogshit, Snooki-wannabe who's life revolves around nightclubs, Prada, and endless junior-high drama in which the main character is almost certain to be a knuckle-dragging Soprano's caricature named "Joey".
She is not to be mistaken for Staten Island's National Flower, The Morning After Spermburper, although the two are very often confused by the uninitiated.
So, Anna Putana gets out of her vehicle...and she's already on the cell phone. In fact, she was on the cell phone when she attempted the high-speed turn on slick streets with pedestrians in the crosswalk. The other driver and I ask if she's okay; she holds up her hand to silence us. You have got to be kidding. The Phone Call must continue:
Danielle, you won't believe what just fuckin' happened! Motherfucker! I'm gonna be late for my appointment.
It turns out this "appointment" is for...all together now...a mani-pedi. She was in a rush to have her nails done. Heaven forbid Anna should be forced to put her precious hooves into her Uggs without having them stripped of dead skin first, with her cuticles left untrimmed.
This ... I hesitate to call it a woman ... has just been in an automobile accident. One that she's caused. Her car is seriously damaged. She's almost killed one person, and wrecked someone else's car, and she can't put the fucking phone down. The Other Driver and I look at each other, dumbfounded. He shrugs, and whips out his own cell phone out and says he's going to call the cops.
This, naturally, Anna hears. It forces her to cut her own phone call short.
Danielle...I gotta call you back, this fuckin' asshole's callin' the cops!
Now begins the song-and-dance as this young scifuza (Ski-FOO-zah = also Italian for "Whore") tries to get the Other Driver to NOT call the Police. This is, it seems, the worst of all possibilities to her. She begs the guy not to call the cops, but he won't relent. She would have offered him oral sex, I'm certain, had there not been a third person (Me) within earshot. Then again, she looks like she's had two penises simultaneously at least once in her life. She tries to hop back into her car, presumably to make a getaway...only it won't move; the front end is flattened. So, she gets back on the cell phone:
Joey? Yeah, you have to come to (the scene of the accident), some guy is calling the cops on me.
Told you there was a Joey in there, somewhere.
I'm sticking around because a) I'm a witness, and b) I want that bitch in handcuffs. Besides, this is about to get good -- Joey has been called -- I know he'll arrive with the usual assortment of bozos.
They always do.
Now the argument starts. She's not at fault -- the other driver was sticking out into the intersection, she claims. Pure bullshit, of course. She tried to make a turn before I, the pedestrian, made her wait an extra 10-15 seconds, and cut it too fine. I saw it. She's offering to have the guy's car fixed, her boyfriend (Joey, naturally) does bodywork, and do we have to get a police report and get the insurance companies involved? The ambulance arrives first. No one has been hurt, but Anna suddenly feels light-headed and her neck hurts at the sight of an ambulance. I know her type: her neck is probably the strongest part of her body, after her mouth, so it's a transparent ploy for sympathy.
The Police arrive and take statements from Anna, The Other Driver and Myself, and begin to direct traffic around the accident. Suddenly, when there's an actual cop on the scene, every driver on this fucking rock remembers the rules of the road, and behaves themselves. A tow truck pulls up, and starts removing Anna's car, now looking like a beer can crushed against a frat boy's forehead. How the hell she managed to walk away from that is a fucking mystery to me; I had not realized the damage was that extensive, at first. Reminder to myself: never buy a fucking Honda.
Having had the ambulance folks check her out, and finding no sign of obvious injury, Anna is back on the cell phone. She's crying to someone, probably her father (it's a rule in the Gumsnapping Bimbo's Handbook : when in trouble, you call Joey first, your Father second) , that she is being arrested. The charges: reckless driving, driving without a license, driving without insurance, attempting to flee the scene of an accident, and using a cell phone while operating a motor vehicle. They should have added insult to injury and given her a ticket for being an asshole, too. The Police are going to escort Anna to the hospital for a more thorough physical examination before they send her to the hoosegow. She is being loaded into the ambulance when "Joey" finally arrives.
I know Joey. I've seen him in the museum in those "Family of Man" displays. He's usually somewhere between Homo Habillius and Neanderthal Man, or would be if either of those human ancestors wore Guinea Tees and reeked of Axe Body Spray. Joey must argue with the cops. Strictly speaking, he doesn't actually need to, but there's a rule in the Ultimate Guide to Goombahs that compels him to do so, or maybe it's a genetic defect, or the limited intellect contained within a tiny braincase. No matter. The Argument and attendant chest-beating is a biological compulsion. He has to argue over why his girlfriend is being arrested. He's not satisfied with the answer (i.e. she committed a crime and caused an accident). Out comes HIS cell phone. Naturally, he's talking to someone named "Vinny". Somehow, you knew there had to be a Vinny in there, somewhere. Whatever he's saying, I can't tell you. All I hear is "fuck, fuck, fuckin', fuck, this shit, fuck, fuckin', fuck, fuck".
That's almost poetry in this parish.
Anyways, I'm given information by the police officers about my role as a witness, and I'm asked if I have any charges to press. I figure Anna already has enough problems; she's a whore, she's shackled to Joey, and she can't drive for shit. Why pile on? Besides, the cops now have another problem on their hands; because another car arrives, and three more Ginzos hop out. None of them seems to have gotten the message that hair gel went out of fashion some time ago. They have parked their SUV in such a way as to restrict traffic from making right turns from the very place where Anna launched her tragic left. This is not surprising because they haven't come to see if anyone is hurt, they aren't there as concerned citizens to lend a hand to someone in need; they're there to help Joey beat the snot out of The Other Driver, obviously because Joey can't do it himself without messing up his own mani-pedi.
Joey, you see, talks a good game, but in reality he's a pussy. The ones who do the Tough Guy Routine usually are.
These guys came specifically to cause even more trouble. Don't ask me why they do this, because I can't really explain it. If I had to guess, it's so that they can add the distinction of a criminal record to their "reputation" without actually having committed a serious crime, or done real time. In the repeated, oft-embellished, retelling of the tale the arrestee will have beaten seven or eight cops to a bloody pulp before finally being tazered -- twice -- and taken into custody. In actuality, he will have been wrestled to the ground by a female cop, and meekly submitted to the subsequent handcuffing. He will have the satisfaction of hearing people who don't know the truth whisper to one another in the crowded beer-and-ecstasy mills-with-urine-all-over-the-floor that they congregate in, "don't fuck with that guy...he's done time".
Intelligence is not exactly at a premium in the cirlces these cretins move in.
Now the cops have their hands full. What was a routine traffic accident has now become a mini-riot because three dumbasses with more hormones than brains have decided that the only thing that can make this situation better is to attack an innocent guy. Of course, there is not going to be an actual beating; there are five or six cops on the scene. No, they have come to help Joey put on a mountain-gorilla display of empty machismo. There's something seriously wrong with this New Generation of Italian-American; they look like metrosexuals and have adopted the Urban Patois of African-Americans, right down to the exaggerated mannerisms, threats to violence, and gun-related innuendo. I can't tell you how many sideways-pointed gun gestures were made at The Other Driver each delivered with a chorus of "fuck you, Motherfuckah! I'll cap yo' ass, Bitch!"
I thought I was in a hip-hop video for a minute.
Of course, that's always shouted from behind the safety of a wall of cops. If they were real men, they'd just do it, and not just talk about it. If it were up to me, this sort of mental defective would be gassed, en masse.
Eventually, because this is also part of the process, someone else has to get arrested. It's unavoidable, like death, taxes, and Nancy Pelosi causing a severe Botox shortage on the day of a television appearance. Lou Ragu just can't put his testicles in neutral despite repeated warnings from a cop to knock it off, and he finds himself wearing stainless steel bracelets. He can't help himself, because he's somehow not "authentically Italian" in his circles if he doesn't (over-)act like a complete douche, create a problem where none exists, and piss a cop off in the process. As soon as someone gets arrested, the small riot magically disperses. The display has had it's intended effect: to convince anyone who's witnessed it that there's a strange genetic mutation running through the Italian community of Staten Island, New York.
It's fucking embarrassing.
Anyhow, sometime soon I expect a summons to court in the case of The People of New York State v. Roseanne Rosannadanna, Joey Baggadonuts, Salvatore Badabing, Nicky Potatosalad, et. al.
It's a common occurrence here on the Isle of Thoughtless Douchebags. I'm surprised that it doesn't happen more often, honestly. But first, a little background.
The weather in these parts has been frightfully bad in recent weeks: two major snowstorms have been followed by an unrelenting rain, itself followed by some of the coldest winds of the season. I blame Al Gore. I was promised an unbearably hot and dry climate because of the internal combustion engine, but instead one must struggle through streets clogged with the remnants of a blizzard and a white Nor'easter, turned to ice, slush and frozen lakes by a 40-degree rainy day, followed by the near-zero blast of the Siberian Express.
This is absolutely awful if you're a pedestrian. The remaining snow (I promise you, it will still be here here in early May, but it will all have been turned black by then so that the little hillocks made by people who dug their cars and walkways out will resemble slag heaps) is made soft by the warmth and the rain. This causes a) flooding and b) the formation of deep -- often ankle deep -- layers of slush, where snow, warm water and the filth of the streets create a Slurpee-like semi-fluid mess that coats the sidewalks, and collects in pools at every crosswalk. No sooner does someone walk over it, then it refreezes, waiting for the next person to walk over it. The repeated cracking of the ice layer, welling up of the water beneath, and refreezing ensures that slush is even harder to get rid of, and avoid, than snow.
It also gets trapped in the potholes in the streets, and freezes over again, creating big patches of ice on the roads.
Conditions yesterday were such that movement by vehicle was an iffy proposition. I must have seen at least half-a-dozen vehicles, that having parked at slushy curbs, were then trapped by ice when their owners returned. For some reason, these folks find it necessary to continue to spin their wheels when trapped in the ice, which makes one of the most annoying sounds known to mankind; that of rapidly rotating rubber sliding on ice. Here's a hint -- it doesn't matter how much "gas' you give it -- you're stuck. All you're doing is digging the ruts deeper, ruining your tires and creating a noxious cloud of exhaust. That's why you always keep a good, metal snow shovel and a bag of sand or Halite in your trunk, Doofus.
Anyways, the conditions on the road were such that no one with half a brain should have been on them.
This is Staten Island, however, and the half-brained are all at work at their overpayed "City" jobs, leaving their quarter-brained offspring behind to ensure that background levels of stupidity do not fall below their natural intensity. The roads are busy, even in this frozen, sodden mess.
No one here ever takes the opportunity to stay at home when they really, really should. It's raining, and even colder weather is promised by the Asshole on Television; one must rush to the Supermarket for "essentials" because there will never, ever be any milk or bread again, should we survive the Ice Age that has descended upon us. Some of these folks might be excused; they're actually out there trying to do something -- like ensure their survival -- it's the other 90% of the drivers that should be pulled over and beaten within an inch of their lives that are the problem.
Because Heaven forbid someone should have to wait 10-15 seconds to make a left turn into a three-way intersection because there's a pedestrian in the crosswalk, and they're running late for something ridiculously unimportant.
This is a common problem in these parts, and I'm not certain what the root cause is. Perhaps people are just selfish. Maybe we've bred successive generations of morons. Perhaps they're not teaching people in driving school beyond the most basic "Red: Stop, Green: Go, Yellow: Haul Ass!" curriculum. People who drive around here regard a brake pedal like an enema: it's something slightly disgusting, and you should avoid it as often as possible. The concept of "Right of Way" has devolved into "I'll race you there". Traffic here is so bad that, often, if you miss your opportunity to make a turn when you "have the light", you might be stuck for as much as another 60 seconds waiting for your next opportunity. That's 60 seconds that your typical Staten Island Douchebag could be using to do really important things, like breathing, getting your mascara on right, or answering a text message.
Occasionally, you get someone with manners and courtesy, and they'll let you pass before they make their turn. Usually, what happens is the driver making the turn will either speed up and try to cut the turn fine so as to get through the intersection before you arrive, or, they make a wider turn to allow you to pass, but then gun the engine just as soon as they have sensed, let alone seen, an inch of daylight behind you. Either way, if you're a pedestrian on this island, you are likely to come within 12 inches or less of a rapidly moving vehicle to your front or rear at least three times a day. That means that at least three times a day, you're in danger of getting struck by a vehicle operated by a selfish twit in a rush to get to the next red light.
Crossing the street around here is much like being in one of those massive caribou migrations; you try to cross a raging river with tree trunks being swept downstream by floodwaters, like in one of those nature documentaries.
So, here I am, travelling across the dangerous landscape of a two-lane street at a three-way intersection. The street lights say I can cross; the little white man that's the universal symbol for "Walk" is lit up. I'm perhaps three steps into my treacherous journey when a blur of red passes before me.
Someone has decided to race me to the intersection. But the best laid plans of mice and men ofttimes go astray.
This driver of this little red Honda, not so much an automobile as it is a pregnant roller skate, misjudges the distance and timing, and instead of passing between me and the car stopped at the light, hits this stationary vehicle about 8 feet in front of me, and bounces backwards, whereupon it finds one of those icy patches on the road and does two full revolutions before coming to a stop against the well-used and twisted guardrail on the opposite side of the road. The silver SUV riding the red Honda's bumper decides this is an excellent opportunity to complete it's own turn, and so that driver guns his engine and dashes through the intersection, missing me, still in the crossswalk and now frozen by confusion, by perhaps two feet.
There is now a two car accident where there should have been none. The little Honda is facing the opposite lane of oncoming traffic at something like a 45-degree angle. There is steam rising from a ruptured radiator. Broken glass is now scattered on the slushy street. Somehow, I'm unscathed...and pissed off. The driver of the stationary vehicle now emerges from his car, and asks if I'm alright. Together, we rush across the intersection to check on the status of the moron who caused this accident in the first place.
We can't see the person at first; the car's airbag has deployed, and all you can see is a pair of arms flailing behind it. Eventually, the driver's door opens, and there SHE was.
I don't know why having the airbag in her face put her in a such a panic; She looks the type that should be well-accustomed to having her face buried in the pillows, if you catch my drift. She's a common type around here, almost the National Bird of Staten Island, that kind of neatly-manicured and perfectly cosmetic-ed, gum-snapping bimbo in designer everything, who probably awakes each morning to find a condom lodged in her vagina with no clue as to how it got there. Around here, she's known as Anna Putana (Putana = Italian for "Whore"), the 20-something, shallow, dumb-as-dogshit, Snooki-wannabe who's life revolves around nightclubs, Prada, and endless junior-high drama in which the main character is almost certain to be a knuckle-dragging Soprano's caricature named "Joey".
She is not to be mistaken for Staten Island's National Flower, The Morning After Spermburper, although the two are very often confused by the uninitiated.
So, Anna Putana gets out of her vehicle...and she's already on the cell phone. In fact, she was on the cell phone when she attempted the high-speed turn on slick streets with pedestrians in the crosswalk. The other driver and I ask if she's okay; she holds up her hand to silence us. You have got to be kidding. The Phone Call must continue:
Danielle, you won't believe what just fuckin' happened! Motherfucker! I'm gonna be late for my appointment.
It turns out this "appointment" is for...all together now...a mani-pedi. She was in a rush to have her nails done. Heaven forbid Anna should be forced to put her precious hooves into her Uggs without having them stripped of dead skin first, with her cuticles left untrimmed.
This ... I hesitate to call it a woman ... has just been in an automobile accident. One that she's caused. Her car is seriously damaged. She's almost killed one person, and wrecked someone else's car, and she can't put the fucking phone down. The Other Driver and I look at each other, dumbfounded. He shrugs, and whips out his own cell phone out and says he's going to call the cops.
This, naturally, Anna hears. It forces her to cut her own phone call short.
Danielle...I gotta call you back, this fuckin' asshole's callin' the cops!
Now begins the song-and-dance as this young scifuza (Ski-FOO-zah = also Italian for "Whore") tries to get the Other Driver to NOT call the Police. This is, it seems, the worst of all possibilities to her. She begs the guy not to call the cops, but he won't relent. She would have offered him oral sex, I'm certain, had there not been a third person (Me) within earshot. Then again, she looks like she's had two penises simultaneously at least once in her life. She tries to hop back into her car, presumably to make a getaway...only it won't move; the front end is flattened. So, she gets back on the cell phone:
Joey? Yeah, you have to come to (the scene of the accident), some guy is calling the cops on me.
Told you there was a Joey in there, somewhere.
I'm sticking around because a) I'm a witness, and b) I want that bitch in handcuffs. Besides, this is about to get good -- Joey has been called -- I know he'll arrive with the usual assortment of bozos.
They always do.
Now the argument starts. She's not at fault -- the other driver was sticking out into the intersection, she claims. Pure bullshit, of course. She tried to make a turn before I, the pedestrian, made her wait an extra 10-15 seconds, and cut it too fine. I saw it. She's offering to have the guy's car fixed, her boyfriend (Joey, naturally) does bodywork, and do we have to get a police report and get the insurance companies involved? The ambulance arrives first. No one has been hurt, but Anna suddenly feels light-headed and her neck hurts at the sight of an ambulance. I know her type: her neck is probably the strongest part of her body, after her mouth, so it's a transparent ploy for sympathy.
The Police arrive and take statements from Anna, The Other Driver and Myself, and begin to direct traffic around the accident. Suddenly, when there's an actual cop on the scene, every driver on this fucking rock remembers the rules of the road, and behaves themselves. A tow truck pulls up, and starts removing Anna's car, now looking like a beer can crushed against a frat boy's forehead. How the hell she managed to walk away from that is a fucking mystery to me; I had not realized the damage was that extensive, at first. Reminder to myself: never buy a fucking Honda.
Having had the ambulance folks check her out, and finding no sign of obvious injury, Anna is back on the cell phone. She's crying to someone, probably her father (it's a rule in the Gumsnapping Bimbo's Handbook : when in trouble, you call Joey first, your Father second) , that she is being arrested. The charges: reckless driving, driving without a license, driving without insurance, attempting to flee the scene of an accident, and using a cell phone while operating a motor vehicle. They should have added insult to injury and given her a ticket for being an asshole, too. The Police are going to escort Anna to the hospital for a more thorough physical examination before they send her to the hoosegow. She is being loaded into the ambulance when "Joey" finally arrives.
I know Joey. I've seen him in the museum in those "Family of Man" displays. He's usually somewhere between Homo Habillius and Neanderthal Man, or would be if either of those human ancestors wore Guinea Tees and reeked of Axe Body Spray. Joey must argue with the cops. Strictly speaking, he doesn't actually need to, but there's a rule in the Ultimate Guide to Goombahs that compels him to do so, or maybe it's a genetic defect, or the limited intellect contained within a tiny braincase. No matter. The Argument and attendant chest-beating is a biological compulsion. He has to argue over why his girlfriend is being arrested. He's not satisfied with the answer (i.e. she committed a crime and caused an accident). Out comes HIS cell phone. Naturally, he's talking to someone named "Vinny". Somehow, you knew there had to be a Vinny in there, somewhere. Whatever he's saying, I can't tell you. All I hear is "fuck, fuck, fuckin', fuck, this shit, fuck, fuckin', fuck, fuck".
That's almost poetry in this parish.
Anyways, I'm given information by the police officers about my role as a witness, and I'm asked if I have any charges to press. I figure Anna already has enough problems; she's a whore, she's shackled to Joey, and she can't drive for shit. Why pile on? Besides, the cops now have another problem on their hands; because another car arrives, and three more Ginzos hop out. None of them seems to have gotten the message that hair gel went out of fashion some time ago. They have parked their SUV in such a way as to restrict traffic from making right turns from the very place where Anna launched her tragic left. This is not surprising because they haven't come to see if anyone is hurt, they aren't there as concerned citizens to lend a hand to someone in need; they're there to help Joey beat the snot out of The Other Driver, obviously because Joey can't do it himself without messing up his own mani-pedi.
Joey, you see, talks a good game, but in reality he's a pussy. The ones who do the Tough Guy Routine usually are.
These guys came specifically to cause even more trouble. Don't ask me why they do this, because I can't really explain it. If I had to guess, it's so that they can add the distinction of a criminal record to their "reputation" without actually having committed a serious crime, or done real time. In the repeated, oft-embellished, retelling of the tale the arrestee will have beaten seven or eight cops to a bloody pulp before finally being tazered -- twice -- and taken into custody. In actuality, he will have been wrestled to the ground by a female cop, and meekly submitted to the subsequent handcuffing. He will have the satisfaction of hearing people who don't know the truth whisper to one another in the crowded beer-and-ecstasy mills-with-urine-all-over-the-floor that they congregate in, "don't fuck with that guy...he's done time".
Intelligence is not exactly at a premium in the cirlces these cretins move in.
Now the cops have their hands full. What was a routine traffic accident has now become a mini-riot because three dumbasses with more hormones than brains have decided that the only thing that can make this situation better is to attack an innocent guy. Of course, there is not going to be an actual beating; there are five or six cops on the scene. No, they have come to help Joey put on a mountain-gorilla display of empty machismo. There's something seriously wrong with this New Generation of Italian-American; they look like metrosexuals and have adopted the Urban Patois of African-Americans, right down to the exaggerated mannerisms, threats to violence, and gun-related innuendo. I can't tell you how many sideways-pointed gun gestures were made at The Other Driver each delivered with a chorus of "fuck you, Motherfuckah! I'll cap yo' ass, Bitch!"
I thought I was in a hip-hop video for a minute.
Of course, that's always shouted from behind the safety of a wall of cops. If they were real men, they'd just do it, and not just talk about it. If it were up to me, this sort of mental defective would be gassed, en masse.
Eventually, because this is also part of the process, someone else has to get arrested. It's unavoidable, like death, taxes, and Nancy Pelosi causing a severe Botox shortage on the day of a television appearance. Lou Ragu just can't put his testicles in neutral despite repeated warnings from a cop to knock it off, and he finds himself wearing stainless steel bracelets. He can't help himself, because he's somehow not "authentically Italian" in his circles if he doesn't (over-)act like a complete douche, create a problem where none exists, and piss a cop off in the process. As soon as someone gets arrested, the small riot magically disperses. The display has had it's intended effect: to convince anyone who's witnessed it that there's a strange genetic mutation running through the Italian community of Staten Island, New York.
It's fucking embarrassing.
Anyhow, sometime soon I expect a summons to court in the case of The People of New York State v. Roseanne Rosannadanna, Joey Baggadonuts, Salvatore Badabing, Nicky Potatosalad, et. al.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Working on Some Stuff...
Posting will be lighter than normal in the coming days, as I'm working on some blockbuster posts (I hope).
ObamaCare in Microcosm...
Don't they have fucking NyQuil in Britain?
This is your future if ObamaCare is not repealed, and if genuine, real, needed reforms of the Nation's Healthcare system continue to be delayed by politics, sloganeering and posturing.
Nationalized healthcare systems do not work for the simple reason that supply and demand can never be adequately judged by nameless, faceless, anonymous, parochial bureaucracies given the contradictory missions of providing the Best for the Least, with no penalties whatsoever for abject failure in this endeavor.
After all, how do you punish a Government Ministry? What does bankruptcy mean to them? Unemployment? Personal ruin? It's the government, and it has the resources (it takes them as it needs them, you know) to reinforce it's failures -- often to the point of complete lunacy.
You need a free market system to do these things. Only a free market system can do them.
Otherwise, you get a hospital system that is bursting at the seams because of the fucking flu.
Here in New York, we pretty much all catch the flu beginning in December and hold onto it until March or April, picking up all sorts of other viruses and infections along the way, and somehow, civilization doesn't come to a screeching halt, nor are the hospitals stuffed to overflowing with people who should be home eating chicken soup and watching I Dream of Jeannie re-runs on the couch in their Snuggies.
The secret weapons in our arsenal? NyQuil and Tylenol Cold and Flu.
Here endeth the lesson.
This is your future if ObamaCare is not repealed, and if genuine, real, needed reforms of the Nation's Healthcare system continue to be delayed by politics, sloganeering and posturing.
Nationalized healthcare systems do not work for the simple reason that supply and demand can never be adequately judged by nameless, faceless, anonymous, parochial bureaucracies given the contradictory missions of providing the Best for the Least, with no penalties whatsoever for abject failure in this endeavor.
After all, how do you punish a Government Ministry? What does bankruptcy mean to them? Unemployment? Personal ruin? It's the government, and it has the resources (it takes them as it needs them, you know) to reinforce it's failures -- often to the point of complete lunacy.
You need a free market system to do these things. Only a free market system can do them.
Otherwise, you get a hospital system that is bursting at the seams because of the fucking flu.
Here in New York, we pretty much all catch the flu beginning in December and hold onto it until March or April, picking up all sorts of other viruses and infections along the way, and somehow, civilization doesn't come to a screeching halt, nor are the hospitals stuffed to overflowing with people who should be home eating chicken soup and watching I Dream of Jeannie re-runs on the couch in their Snuggies.
The secret weapons in our arsenal? NyQuil and Tylenol Cold and Flu.
Here endeth the lesson.
National Treasures...
Your weekly dose of Professor Hanson. Have some dignity and take it like a man. Really, it's good for you; consider it Bran Flakes for the Brain.
Resident Obama is like the proverbial leopard that changes it's spots. Actually, he's more like a chameleon who changes his colors to match his background, although a chameleon at least has the decency to claim an evolutionary -- rather than revolutionary -- reason for doing it.
I didn't watch much of Obama's vaunted "healing" speech this past week, if only because the first five minutes turned me off (really, raucous cheering and cheerleading at a memorial service?), and because I pretty much knew what Obama would say before it flowed out of the teleprompter. He's become that predictable and transparent. Reading the transcript later on, I figure I pegged about 80% of that speech's content in my head without ever having listened to it.
Besides, I don't do grief, especially the sort of over-the-top-made-for-television grief that becomes little more than a new slant on the Reality TV meme in the hands of network spinmeisters.
P.J. O'Rourke has always been one of my favorite writers, although I must admit, I liked him more when he was writing for National Lampoon. Still, you won't find very many who can make a point with this kind of humor and insight.
He makes the case that liberalism, and in particular, that great bastion and champion of liberalism, the New York Times, is on it's last legs (it must be: they interviewed me, after all). But why that wasn't evident already to anyone with the same mental capacity of your typical Irish Setter, is beyond me.
Any publication that would continue to pay Paul Krugman, Tom Friedman, Maureen Dowd and Frank Rich is, by definition, unserious and necessarily myopic in it's editorial views. It isn't so much that Paulie, Tommy, MoDo and Frankie are bad people as much as it is that their ideas and thought processes are so incredibly suspect.
Those ideas fail, incidentally, because they bear no resemblance, or have no relevance to, what we normal people call Real Life.
Because Frankie and Tommy, Paulie and MoMo have no conception of what life is actually like to those of us who don't get six-figure salaries to spout complete nonsense from Pinch, or attend the tony cocktail parties of the self-important-but-totally-irrelevant.
Resident Obama is like the proverbial leopard that changes it's spots. Actually, he's more like a chameleon who changes his colors to match his background, although a chameleon at least has the decency to claim an evolutionary -- rather than revolutionary -- reason for doing it.
I didn't watch much of Obama's vaunted "healing" speech this past week, if only because the first five minutes turned me off (really, raucous cheering and cheerleading at a memorial service?), and because I pretty much knew what Obama would say before it flowed out of the teleprompter. He's become that predictable and transparent. Reading the transcript later on, I figure I pegged about 80% of that speech's content in my head without ever having listened to it.
Besides, I don't do grief, especially the sort of over-the-top-made-for-television grief that becomes little more than a new slant on the Reality TV meme in the hands of network spinmeisters.
P.J. O'Rourke has always been one of my favorite writers, although I must admit, I liked him more when he was writing for National Lampoon. Still, you won't find very many who can make a point with this kind of humor and insight.
He makes the case that liberalism, and in particular, that great bastion and champion of liberalism, the New York Times, is on it's last legs (it must be: they interviewed me, after all). But why that wasn't evident already to anyone with the same mental capacity of your typical Irish Setter, is beyond me.
Any publication that would continue to pay Paul Krugman, Tom Friedman, Maureen Dowd and Frank Rich is, by definition, unserious and necessarily myopic in it's editorial views. It isn't so much that Paulie, Tommy, MoDo and Frankie are bad people as much as it is that their ideas and thought processes are so incredibly suspect.
Those ideas fail, incidentally, because they bear no resemblance, or have no relevance to, what we normal people call Real Life.
Because Frankie and Tommy, Paulie and MoMo have no conception of what life is actually like to those of us who don't get six-figure salaries to spout complete nonsense from Pinch, or attend the tony cocktail parties of the self-important-but-totally-irrelevant.
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