Welcome to One Uppity Female

The Meaning of Life, Secrets to Happiness, and How to Lose 10 Ugly Pounds and Enjoy Doing It

2009-01-20T14:20:00.003-06:00

(originally written Saturday, August 4, 2007)

Editor's note ... I originally wrote and saved this on my son's birthday in 2007 -- but never published it. (Too long, too obscure, not vaguely funny ... a whole laundry list of reasons I reject my own stuff.) With minor irony, I ran across the "Secrets to Happiness" page I referenced below, while I was cleaning my house recently.

Maybe it's a sign that some of us still wonder. What's this happiness business all about, anyway? So here ya go, unedited and rambling, showing I really haven't changed much since the summer of 2007. (I've come to realize that's a good thing.) I'll leave it up for a couple of days before I delete it.

*****
What's the Google keyword for "meaning of life"?

If you google "happiness," you get at least 67 million hits.

If you google some version of "meaning of life," you get 128 million. (Taking out at least a few million of us yakking about Monty Python, it's still got to be close to double the happiness vote.)

Keep asking the Philosophy 101 questions, and the answers get harder to take.

Try "fear." You get at least 160 million.

For "suicide," 77 million.

It seems that as much as we claim to seek happiness and the meaning of life, we are seduced by pondering the utterly forbidden, the complete and final rejection of our entire existence.

It took more than a third of the time we're allocated on this earth for me to figure out why I was even here. And, just like that idiotic twit who was handed power and almighty protection in a pair of ruby-studded pumps, we couldn't have understood it even if the Dalai Lama had scribbled it in our palm. We had to learn it for ourselves. (Anybody wonder why women love our Manolo Blahniks? Try walking around in a shoe made of semi-precious stone.)

(I'll pull out my fake beard and let you in on it, but you, too, probably won't get it until you work through it out on your own. The meaning of life is ... in living. True presence in its astonishing reality. The clarity you occasionally get on a sunny, brisk fall morning when you see yourself as if you were watching from an altitude of 30,000 feet. You're truly alive in that moment. Living in that way is the meaning of life.)

Between 1987 and 1997, people being treated for depression rose by more than 300%, from 0.7 percent to 2.3 percent. And this was a pre-9/11 world. It'd be easy to blame it on terrorism (and, in a phrase, admit that the 10-year goals of terrorists hit a happy milestone) had the answers been published last year. But this time period included some of our most prosperous modern years, when we discovered an embarrassment of riches and excitement in our lives. The more stuff we had, the harder we worked at fun, the less fulfillment we found.

While asking Google Man about life, I went ahead and asked him about other things. They were rhetorical questions, I have to admit. I had a theory, just from looking around at my life and those of my closest friends.

If you google "gratitude," you get 24 million.

Now "thanksgiving" brings up 35 million hits, but let's face it. Probably at least 20 million are argumentative recipes for Grandmother's Best Pumpkin pie. (Seriously. Look at our asses if you don't believe me.)

Try an almost laughably archaic word that some of us remember: Forgiveness. Sorry does seem to be the hardest word. It's also the loneliest in this bunch, at about 18 million hits.

Churches are great for some things -- weddings, funerals, rummage sales. But they're not so great at keeping out the riff-raff. Hence, I belong to a very patient church who still sends me mail because they have no sophisticated marketing database to inform them that I haven't ordered anything in several years.

So I still get their catalogues and reports, all put together and mailed by senior citizens finding meaning in their lives on a Tuesday morning. On the back of one of them, several months ago, usually reserved for quaint but very poorly executed clever sayings that wind up coming out like "Having feelings of worthlessness? Meet with the Empty Nesters on Tuesday mornings to get rid of them."

Here's what it said, and I didn't laugh once. I put them on my refrigerator:

Secrets to Happiness

1. Forget
2. Apologize
3. Admit errors.
4. Avoid mistakes.
5. Listen to advice.
6. Keep your temper.
7. Shoulder the blame.
8. Make the best of things.
9. Maintain high standards.
10. Think first and act secondly.
11. Put the needs of others first.
12. Forgive.

A major omission is of giving thanks, although #8 is sort of a left-handed version. But giving thanks isn't just saying, "well, at least I have ..." it's acknowledging that you truly are blessed. Some of the most inspirational speakers are also those with the most tragic circumstances -- their gratitude is astonishing. Even modern psychotherapists encourage their patients to have "thankfulness journals."

America, the richest land in the world, also happens to be the least grateful. We're constantly on the lookout for the elusive THAT to give our lives meaning, to assuage our seeking -- rather than pondering the miraculous life we have.

Oh -- that "How to lose 10 ugly pounds ..." If you're here for weight loss advice, I'm really sorry. But while you're thinking about that, take those weight loss magazines, those stacks of lies full of articles like "10 Things You Must Know Now to Keep Your Man," or even "How to Get Rid of the Filthy Bitch Before She Cleans Out Your Bank Account," or the many inverse versions of all of them. Drop them in a recycle center nearby -- and sleep easy tonight. You may not look like Anna Nicole or Nicole Richie or Richie Cunningham, but hey, you gave meaning to life for the tree-huggers out there.

An ordinary uppity female with better things to do

2009-01-14T11:17:00.003-06:00

Just a note to let those of you who read this blog know that I'm suspending publication of the blog for a number of reasons. Primarily:

Lately I've had a flurry of malicious comments that seem to arise as quickly as I can delete them, and really (trust me on this) the effort I've invested here isn't worth the hassle of fighting it. Satire is fun, but there are any number of more entertaining (not to mention profitable) pursuits I can pour myself into.

It's irritating that I can see the IP address of the idiot who's orchestrating this nonsense and know as well that some poor schmuck is paying a person to do this on billable time ... and it's extremely, deliriously (and trust me on this even more so!) liberating to know that it's not my problem. No matter your religion or lack thereof, there's a spiritual law about investing yourself in negativity. Karma, reaping what you sow, or the plain old golden rule of elementary school good citizenship: behaving badly diminishes you as a human being .... and generally just bites you in the ass.

Thanks to those of you who enjoyed reading the blog. If there are old posts you're looking for, feel free to ask me for them. I'm archiving and deleting all of them today. I own this domain and will find better uses for it.

And for everyone, on a more positive note: Reality truly is your own creation. Enjoy the reality you're creating for yourself!

Live like you are living

2008-11-17T19:36:00.010-06:00

Not a dress rehearsal, folks -- someday's here and you're living it

Sunday night I was headed home from the hospital, where I'd visited my very sick mother. It was brisk, but the sky was ablaze with a red sunset, I was in a sweater, and the top was down on my car.

I needed to feel alive.

A couple of young guys noticed me as I walked to my car. They got into another car and pulled out in front of me, one of them betraying his youth by staring backward at me. It amused me and deeply appealed to that need to feel alive. But as we moved onto the highway, I noticed the driver's careful, responsible signals and turns and worried for him as a mother would.

As I left them behind and headed southward out of the country and into the suburbs, a motorcycle came out of nowhere behind me -- moving so fast, I didn't see him approach, and I barely saw him as he passed. He wove quickly through the cars up ahead.

I'm guessing he had to be going over 100 mph. Anyone who's ever seen me drive will back me up on this -- my calculations are generous. To have passed me that fast, he had to have been moving.

I've come to fear that fast driving really may be the death of me. If so, I hope it's quick, which logically it would almost have to be. Dr. Oz and his people at RealAge,who I am pleased to say I liked a long time before the Big O discovered them, say I'm about seven years younger than my calendar age of 50 ... but they really hate my greed for speed. Along with having cell phone conversations while you're driving, driving over the speed limit decreases your life expectancy.

In otherwise safe surroundings, there's not much I love more than fast, flirty driving. The Miata that I drive isn't exactly a Ferrari, but the little rubber band on that toy is wound up pretty tight. And frankly, my driving is a hell of a lot safer than those matter-of-fact drink-and-drivers I've dated. (RealAge counts off for riding with drinkers, also.)

But as the sun sank behind the yellow-crimson horizon, the unhurried tenor of the Sunday evening dinner traffic outside Dallas was more like 6:15 a.m. rush hour. Heavy but fast, with cars spaced about two car lengths apart. Another three or four miles passed and my patience dropped as the traffic thickened and phantom stops began. (Really, that "zoom-zoom" thing gets inside you.) People changing lanes and stopping for no intelligent reason. Really, I blame cell phones.

Bad drivers don't bother me so much, but phantom slow-downs and idiots on cell phones just not paying attention DO. Some bozo in a tank-size truck who can't be bothered to look out his side mirror nearly runs me over almost every time I'm on any freeway. (Small wonder I cherish my current job, 2.5 miles from my house.)

Suddenly, traffic came to an abrupt halt.

I was in the left lane. The southbound HOV lane is closed indefinitely, and two drivers that were two SUVs ahead of me steered awkwardly into the HOV lane -- as if to avoid colliding with another car. Really, it was a sea of SUVs around me.

Then I saw the mangled metal just beside those two cars. It looked like the bumper off of a huge truck, blocking the left lane. The SUV in front of me was at a dead stop, the guy jumping out and flipping open his cell phone. I couldn't yet see the cars that had been involved in the accident.

I wasn't sure what to do. All four lanes of southbound traffic were stopped. Instinctively, I knew that that the right thing was to get the hell out of the way. As crass and self-interested as it would seem, I dutifully crept around the SUV, making sure I wasn't endangering anyone.

And then I saw him -- lying in the street, motionless, still wearing his helmet. The kid on the motorcycle. My top was down, so I couldn't miss the hysterical crying of a woman who stood there -- had she hit him? Had she only seen it? Had she been on her phone gossiping with her sister when he inconveniently moved into her blind spot?

I was there no more than a few seconds, and I was absolutely the only car moving. As I left the traffic behind, I could see that no other cars went through -- at least at first. As I drove away -- a surreal scene, the wall of headlights parked behind me on a highway that was empty for at least two miles in front of me -- it occurred to me why the traffic ahead had seemed so chaotic, peppered with drivers hitting their brakes. The kid on the motorcycle, weaving in and out of traffic, was disrupting the flow. At some point, an inattentive driver had probably simply turned into him, where he hadn't been a moment before.

There's a song by one of country music's Tims or Tripps or Traces or Billys. They really all look and sound alike to me, hat acts with shaved chests, living in the Hollywood Hills instead of Butcher Hollow. They've replaced the grit and hard living of old-style country and western music with enough cheese to keep Papa John's in business in perpetuity.

The song is called "Live Like You Were Dying." The story is of a guy who gets a new lease on life when he has a false alarm over a medical exam.

He goes out and lives, he says -- by skydiving and mountain-climbing and bull-riding, none of which actually rhyme very well but all of which actually seem to feature a "screw life!" mentality.

It's a dumbass song.

My mother, on the other end of life's journey's from the young motorcyclist, has lived her entire life in fear. Not until I was in my 30s did I begin to do some of the things I had ached to do since I was a child, and even then it was despite a barrage of warnings about the risk involved. I don't blame her; this was her definition of love given her limited experiences.

There's a difference between living your life in fear and thinking that real living is all about cheating death by risking your life. Most folks are somewhere in the middle, zoning out on American Idol all night (the song makes more sense if Tim McGraw's target was the folks who watch American Idol). If the message is "gee, I'm ready to get started on that list of stuff to do before I die," I guess OK.

But living doesn't mean a thrill a minute, it doesn't mean to get as close to dying as you can without actually doing it.

Life is about being present in every moment, whether it's the crisp tap of a laptop's keys while my dog's fur tickles along my arm, or the chill from the open window and the hum of a jet full of people flying somewhere -- some of those people terrified to fly, some of them experiencing the thrill of a lifetime.

TOP SECRET CONFIDENTIAL: Reporting the obvious for the government operatives among us

2007-11-12T19:01:00.000-06:00

Satire supposedly "All made up"

Readers of this blog should be alerted to the news flash that this is satire. This includes Washington, D.C., where bureaucrats spend our tax dollars trolling the Internet for newsworthy tidbits about their employers. No, wait. They spend the tax dollars trolling the Internet for other people who spend the tax dollars.

In the immortal words of Alan Shore, all the same.

This we know because this blog received one of those strongly-worded letters ordering the immediate end to attributing falsified quotes to one of our fine public "servants." Apparently it reached Washington that I was making stuff up about the menu on Capitol Hill.

Let the record show:

All of this stuff is made up.

Any quotes directly attributed to public figures, particularly the fine double-speaking gentlemen and women employed by U.S. taxpayers, are all made up.

Any quotes attributed to actors, politicians, or actors playing politicians, are all made up.

Any quotes directly attributed to corporate figures are all made up.

Any quotes attributed to lawn mower service owners or their neighbors; blonde, large-breasted singers famous for their wit and political acumen; football players if you can believe that (and you can't); hot French leaders; or Iranian heads of state with unpronounceable names, sane or insane, are all, every last one of them, made up.

And for all I know, Senator Clinton might have paid off the university police who tased that guy at Senator Kerry's speaking engagement. (I am making this up.)

All of the people written about on this blog, except the ones that you know personally, are all made up, perhaps tragically so.

Suzy Smart—not real. She never worked for Hillary Clinton, but she would have been proud to have served her country doing so. (She'd get Clinton out of those pantsuits that make look like she inspired the lyrical hip-hop ballad "I Like Big Butts.")

Jill Q. Public—not real, although I could introduce you to lots of Dallas girls just like her.

John Q. Public—this guy is real, but I changed my ex-husband's name to protect the maker-up of stuff.

Content or quotes obtained by linking to the mainstream media are purported to be true. That is, of course, unless you're reading Jayson Blair, Dan Rather, or winners of Pulitzers at the New York Times. Then all bets are off.

The Meaning of Life, Secrets to Happiness, and How to Lose 10 Ugly Pounds and Enjoy Doing It

2007-08-04T13:16:00.001-05:00

Editor's note ... I originally wrote and saved this in late July, 2007 -- but never published it. (Too long, too obscure, not vaguely funny ... a whole laundry list of reasons I reject my own stuff.) With minor irony, I ran across the "Secrets to Happiness" page I referenced below, while I was cleaning my house recently.

Maybe it's a sign that some of us still wonder. What's this happiness business all about, anyway? So here ya go, unedited and rambling, showing I really haven't changed much since the summer of 2007. I'll leave it up for a couple of days before I delete it.
*****

What's the Google keyword for "meaning of life"?

If you google "happiness," you get at least 67 million hits.

If you google some version of "meaning of life," you get 128 million. (Taking out at least a few million of us yakking about Monty Python, it's still got to be close to double the happiness vote.)

Keep asking the Philosophy 101 questions, and the answers get harder to take.

Try "fear." You get at least 160 million.

For "suicide," 77 million.

It seems that as much as we claim to seek happiness and the meaning of life, we are seduced by pondering the utterly forbidden, the complete and final rejection of our entire existence.

It took more than a third of the time we're allocated on this earth for me to figure out why I was even here. And, just like that idiotic twit who was handed power and almighty protection in a pair of ruby-studded pumps, we couldn't have understood it even if the Dalai Lama had scribbled it in our palm. We had to learn it for ourselves. (Anybody wonder why women love our Manolo Blahniks? Try walking around in a shoe made of semi-precious stone.)

(I'll pull out my fake beard and let you in on it, but you, too, probably won't get it until you work through it out on your own. The meaning of life is ... in living. True presence in its astonishing reality. The clarity you occasionally get on a sunny, brisk fall morning when you see yourself as if you were watching from an altitude of 30,000 feet. You're truly alive in that moment. Living in that way is the meaning of life.)

Between 1987 and 1997, people being treated for depression rose by more than 300%, from 0.7 percent to 2.3 percent. And this was a pre-9/11 world. It'd be easy to blame it on terrorism (and, in a phrase, admit that the 10-year goals of terrorists hit a happy milestone) had the answers been published last year. But this time period included some of our most prosperous modern years, when we discovered an embarrassment of riches and excitement in our lives. The more stuff we had, the harder we worked at fun, the less fulfillment we found.

While asking Google Man about life, I went ahead and asked him about other things. They were rhetorical questions, I have to admit. I had a theory, just from looking around at my life and those of my closest friends.

If you google "gratitude," you get 24 million.

Now "thanksgiving" brings up 35 million hits, but let's face it. Probably at least 20 million are argumentative recipes for Grandmother's Best Pumpkin pie. (Seriously. Look at our asses if you don't believe me.)

Try an almost laughably archaic word that some of us remember: Forgiveness. Sorry does seem to be the hardest word. It's also the loneliest in this bunch, at about 18 million hits.

Churches are great for some things -- weddings, funerals, rummage sales. But they're not so great at keeping out the riff-raff. Hence, I belong to a very patient church who still sends me mail because they have no sophisticated marketing database to inform them that I haven't ordered anything in several years.

So I still get their catalogues and reports, all put together and mailed by senior citizens finding meaning in their lives on a Tuesday morning. On the back of one of them, several months ago, usually reserved for quaint but very poorly executed clever sayings that wind up coming out like "Having feelings of worthlessness? Meet with the Empty Nesters on Tuesday mornings to get rid of them."

Here's what it said, and I didn't laugh once. I put them on my refrigerator.

Secrets to Happiness

1. Forget

2. Apologize

3. Admit errors.

4. Avoid mistakes.

5. Listen to advice.

6. Keep your temper.

7. Shoulder the blame.

8. Make the best of things.

9. Maintain high standards.

10. Think first and act secondly.

11. Put the needs of others first.

12. Forgive.

A major omission is of giving thanks, although #8 is sort of a left-handed version. But giving thanks isn't just saying, "well, at least I have ..." it's acknowledging that you truly are blessed. Some of the most inspirational speakers are also those with the most tragic circumstances -- their gratitude is astonishing. Even modern psychotherapists encourage their patients to have "thankfulness journals."

America, the richest land in the world, also happens to be the least grateful. We're constantly on the lookout for the elusive THAT to give our lives meaning, to assuage our seeking -- rather than pondering the miraculous life we have.

Oh -- that "How to lose 10 ugly pounds ..." If you're here for weight loss advice, I'm really sorry. But while you're thinking about that, take those weight loss magazines, those stacks of lies full of articles like "10 Things You Must Know Now to Keep Your Man," or even "How to Get Rid of the Filthy Bitch Before She Cleans Out Your Bank Account," or the many inverse versions of all of them. Drop them in a recycle center nearby -- and sleep easy tonight. You may not look like Anna Nicole or Nicole Richie or Richie Cunningham, but hey, you gave meaning to life for the tree-huggers out there.

Sheehan Holds Whole Damned Country Hostage: WILL Run if Demands Aren't Met

2007-07-09T12:54:00.000-05:00

"San Francisco much more temperate for someone with my need for attention," media jack-in-the-box announces

Cindy Sheehan has sold Camp Crawford to Bree Walker, a web-footed hottie from Sheehan's home state of Loonywood. Walker, a high-visibility talking head from the left, plans to convert the land to a peace and memorial garden which she is dedicating to the relevance of liberal talk radio. [Ed. Note: See "Videos."]

Sheehan, who told us "goodbye forever!" a mere six weeks ago, has decided that she couldn't screw up the country any worse than the President and the Democrats. Plus all that darned Texas rain was just driving her nuts. So she's decided to run against Nancy Pelosi in 2008.

"Really, San Francisco is much more suited to my single-minded litmus-test government style," she said. "I figure, that whole city hates Bush anyhow. So we've halfway won the war for the mind!"

Sheehan has promised that if Pelosi doesn't file impeachment proceedings against President Bush before July 23, she will blow herself up or run against Pelosi, whichever is more painful to the American public.

In response, the American public called for a petition like the one they have in the UK to save Harry Potter.

Leaders of free world entertain U.S. during American Idol hiatus

2007-07-05T21:31:00.000-05:00

Former "Seinfeld" writers brought in to ghost-write The "Ho-Ho-Ho-Aren't-We-Funny!" Executive Office About Nothing

Former President Bill Clinton finally gave into basic instinct and observed the obvious that yes, of course, George Bush was an unethical clod and political imbecile for commuting the obstruction of justice sentence against Scooter "Dear God Where Did He Get That Nickname" Libby. This the President did when his popularity index is in the negative double-digits, and Republicans have taken to wearing burkas to avoid being stoned in their home districts.

President George W. Bush didn't dignify that with a response. Instead he got his "Guy Who Pronounces Words Properly For Him" Tony Snow to do it for him. Tony just laughed, as great conservative speakers do these days, and responded to Clinton, "I know you are, but what was Marc Rich?"

Former Vice-President Al Gore couldn't effectively participate in the dialogue because he was in California, bailing his son out of jail. But he did chime in that as long as Scooter Libby was living a carbon-positive lifestyle, he shouldn't be allowed to walk the streets.

Legal experts are still looking at the practical aspects of the commutation. After all, commuting a sentence legally implies that time has been served. "Well, we're sort of just pretending he's served the minimum time." [Ed. note: This was a happy-go-lucky paraphrase of the funny guy. The actual quote is shown below.]

Associated Press, Terence Hunt

"Snow also tried to clear up confusion about Libby's probation. While commuting Libby's sentence in terms of prison time, Bush left in place his two years of supervised release. But supervised release - a form of probation - is only available to people who have served prison time. Without prison, it's unclear what happens next.

"Snow said the White House view was this: 'You treat it as if he has already served the 30 months, and probation kicks in. Obviously, the sentencing judge will figure out precisely how that works."

While the Clintons publically dismiss the pardon of Marc Rich as just another day in the 2001 Oval Office, insiders say they privately pray each night for a full pardon of Scooter Libby. "After all," his spokesperson said, "A vote for the pardon of Scooter Libby is a vote for a Democratic president."

Scooter "Mouth is Moving, Must Be Obstructing" Libby said, "Who do I make the quarter-million check out to? Boy, this is really gonna play hell with my petty cash account." He went on to remark, "Hell, I don't know what the big deal is about Marc Rich. He didn't do anything wrong to start with, and that whole business about Iran and oil brokering ... waaaal, what's a little crude between friends?"

The notion that Libby, who has been disbarred in Washington D.C. on the grounds of "moral turpitude and the failure to outgrow a heinously Texas-sounding sophomoric nickname," will suffer from his punishment made politicians on both sides of the aisle laugh even more. Ha ha ha. Isn't our government funny. Who needs laws! Sell another book! Pardon another liar! Wheee! It's enough to make a person die laughing.

Speaking of laughing, apparently the whole thing was foreseen, or perhaps even orchestrated, back in March when Dennis "Hell, if They Can Commentate, I Might as Well" Miller predicted Libby's pardon.

Sources close to the comedian said, "Well, duh. It's one of those things that's so obvious, he can get away with saying it. If you or I tried it, we'd look like lunatics."

In unrelated news, the years between 1998 and 2004 saw increases in high school students choosing careers in engineering, business, education, biological sciences, psychology, and health professions. This continues a trend reflected at the height of the Clinton presidency.

Parents of baby-boomers idealized the ultimate dream for an American child: You can grow up to be President. Or, for parents of girls, "Before you die, you may actually see a female vice-president."

Today's youth are clear on the concept. Simply put, you couldn't pay them to be President.

U.S. pilots escape strapped to Apache helicopter "like that dog on the station wagon"

2007-07-04T21:56:00.000-05:00

Dashing rescue inspired by Romney family vacations

Two Army pilots shot down in Iraq Monday eluded attackers and escaped to safety, one of them strapped to the helicopter's fuselage.

The pilots were shot down by insurgent fire and slipped into an irrigation canal near their crashed plane. The insurgents continued to fire on the pilots.

The Apache, an attack helicopter that usually carries lots of rockets, is not designed to rescue troops, just missiles. Fortunately, they had to unload many of those rockets in dislodging the insurgents so they could touch down, so they had some extra room. Not a lot, though.

"We were stumped," one of the rescuers said. "Then I remembered that story about Mitt Romney going on vacation and strapping the dog on the top of his station wagon. I figured if it worked for old Mitt, it might work for us."

He shrugged. "People forget there's a fun, madcap side to war, too."

When asked if the officer strapped to the wing stub of the Apache had experienced the same physical distress as the dog strapped to the station wagon roof, he declined to respond.

"I'd rather not say. It sure stirred up some trouble with PETA for Romney." After a moment, he added, "Course, that was an Irish setter. These are only soldiers."

Watch out for that Nazi in the mirror

2007-07-03T12:37:00.000-05:00

Recognizing the ring of hatred in our own voice

Some topics defy satire.

Such is the death of David Ritcheson, an 18-year-old who died Sunday morning because he happened to have "Mexican" blood in his veins. He jumped from a Carnival cruise ship while vacationing with friends after struggling for over a year to recover from a brutal assault against him in April 2006.

(I've discovered I'm disinclined to paraphrase the story delicately, because darned if it can't be done. Read the story and see if you can get through it without gagging, crying, or wanting to punch something. If you can, I would recommend you get in touch right away with the Journal of the American Medical Association to report your having survived life so far without a heart.)

I read the story with dismay at my own recent bombast on the topic of illegal immigration. I am frustrated by the issue of the lawbreakers for reasons I have articulated elsewhere. While I am not of a mind to censor myself or others, in the future I intend to shoot for a little less thrust-and-parry and a little more circumspection.

One of my least favorite persons in the world is that Washington blonde who's so fond of whoring the Cross -- and then reheating her paperback leftovers and selling it all over again, stirring up controversy in the process, all for free air time. She and her fans constantly cry "oh, poor me! Taken out of context! If you listen to my remarks ... " Exactly. She can't make a clear point without forcing you to listen to her for two hours along with at least two or three commercials along the way. No thanks. An ordinary guy I know called her the Paris Hilton of politics, but I would disagree. Paris may be useless and out of touch with those who live outside her insulated world, but at least she's no whore on top of that.

I don't respect the Washington lawyer as a person who makes her living off her books simply because she is a poor writer. She relies on an entire web of subtext, cheap jokes, and her own history to deliver one convoluted sentence. I don't like her as a person because she's peddling the cross for cash, and doing so in a context of hatred. She is popular because she spews hatred in a way that some envy because they could never get away with it -- as much as they want to. She is a verbal assault on intelligent sensibilities, and she coarsens our society when we least need it.

What bothers me about this story about this tragic young man is that I recognize the same careless rhetoric I hate in others, in myself of late. I don't plan to stop speaking out -- even one little bit -- against events, activities, and behavior that are wrong. I would never expect others to do so, either.

But I hope I don't ever lose sight of the fact that words are powerful weapons. They tutored David Henry Tuck and Keith Robert Turner in the hatred that fueled an unspeakably violent and horrific crime against a boy. Those who can't communicate without the lurid pornography of hate rhetoric are as guilty as those skinheads of the crime against David Richeson.

Stay alive to celebrate a great country: Don't be a gooberhead

2007-07-03T00:58:00.000-05:00

Don't drink and drive!!
How many times must we say it?

Well, I scrapped the blog I was writing in favor of my annual Grim Reaper reminder ...

Today is one of the most dangerous days of the year to drive. Tomorrow is the other. Interestingly, two others are my son's birthday and the day before. (Who knew so many people were celebrating my son's birthday?)

As the story says, there's no coincidence that these are days people are drinking. What's troubling is that you can stay as sober as a judge (and you'd better, if you're driving home afterward) and you still have to look out for the horse's ass who doesn't see drinking half a bottle of booze and then climbing in behind the wheel as perhaps not a real bright idea.

Stay sober if you're driving, if for no other reason than that you can look out for those who aren't. And don't be one of those that the rest of us have to look out for.

Good rule of thumb: if you find yourself thinking after a drink or two or three, "Oh, I'm fine. I'm not drunk," the truth is, you are. You know why?

The first thing to go is the judgment.

Don't be a twit. You can't enjoy life if you're too numb to feel it.

Deadliest Days of the Year to Drive
(based on 25 years of research)

July 4
July 3
December 23
December 24
December 22
August 3
January 1
September 1
September 2
August 4

Courts agree we're too boneheaded to run our lives

2007-07-01T20:56:00.001-05:00

Man gets warning label, woman gets mind blown, poor lover gets really bad self-esteem

An Ontario judge ordered 24-year-old Steven Cranley not to have a girlfriend for three years after Cranley pleaded guilty to charges related to assaulting his girlfriend.

After his girlfriend broke up with him, Cranley sealed the deal by assaulting her.

In the understatement of the month, physicians were paid big money to figure out that Cranley "has difficulty coping with rejection." They also diagnosed him with a dependent personality disorder, which in laymen's terms means arrogant, creepy scumbag.

Women around the world are cheering the decision, saying, "It's about damned time men came with warning labels."

Rumor has it that a court-appointed busybody is going to follow Cranley around and be on the lookout for signs of romantic restlessness from Cranley, like daydreaming, humming, or cleaning his apartment.

In an unrelated story just a little farther south, a Queens man who claims he suffered emotional abuse at the hands of an ex-girlfriend has sued her for $1 million. According to court papers filed by Quoc Pham, Neli Petkova only wanted a sperm donor, not the relationship he had been led to believe she wanted. She dumped Pham at Thanksgiving, citing numerous reasons. Pham came to believe otherwise.

"[Petkova] returned from a 10-day guided bicycle trip [in 2003] and told [Pham] that she had met someone else that could make her cervix orgasmic just by thinking and that [Pham] was sexually inadequate," the lawsuit charged. "Previously, she told[Pham] that he was a 'remarkable' lover."

Rains God's Punishment to Texas for Bush

2007-06-29T00:47:00.000-05:00

"Next Time You'll Just Wish it Were a Terrorist Attack," Coulter chimes in, apropos of nothing

(somewhere outside) TELLURIDE—Southern theologians are wringing their hands and admitting that, yes, it could be President George W. Bush who brought down God's wrath upon their fair, dry state. Meeting at an undisclosed location in Colorado, where they've got plenty of gopher wood stockpiled "just in case," they spoke off the record this afternoon.

"I voted for President Bush twice," said a skittish spokesman for the group, who asked not to be identified. "He's like the Dallas Cowboys of presidents, by God, God's President, unlike those heathens with their purty haircuts and their dead sons and dying wives who go around trying to stir up our pretty little skirts."

After a moment's hesitation, he pulled his white bedsheet a little closer around him, and through the eye-holes, his disapproval showed. "But I don't mind telling you, he's done some backsliding lately. I haven't looked at the Justice Department's roster in at least three weeks, and he's all but stopped taking my calls. Now how am I going to get a job for that worthless brother-in-law of mine?"

"And whose idea was it to send all them people from Katrina down to Houston and driving the Houston crime rate through the roof? Bush's."

When it was pointed out that the Federal government had been criticized for not responding more quickly, the man said, "Oh. Well, hell, he can't be accountable for screwing up everything."

"I don't think the war has anything to do with it, though," added another attendee at the prayer meeting. "That Iraq war, it's a holy war, against infidels who just need to be bombed back into the stone age -- which ain't far, in that part of the world. That war, that's a good thing. I don't think the rain's on account of that. Maybe the interest rates, but not the rain."

When asked whether it was true that Dallas temperatures in the Great Heat Wave of 1980 were over 100 degrees for the entire summer, the men were forced to admit that, yes, lots of people had died back then because there wasn't a lot of rain, and George Bush was nowhere near the White House at that time.

"Wait a second," said another slowly. "I think Dubya was in the oil business back in Midland back then. Golly dang."

The group exchanged glances and shook their heads. "Waa-al, we're just going to have to start prayin' against him."

Meanwhile, Gov. Rick Perry is currently checking the batteries on all the buses in the barns in Houston. "We're ready to roll," he said. "Course, you can't really drive through the rain in these, much. Well, if the rain lets up, we're going to send these buses down to Nuevo Leon to get us a mess of farm workers."

So THAT'S why life in Dallas has gotten so crappy...

2007-06-26T20:24:00.000-05:00

Some interesting numbers...

Population booms in U.S. history
The great wave of immigration from 1900 to 1910: 16.3 million
Peak of baby boom, 1950-1960: 28.4 million
1990 - 2000: 32.7 million

It was almost impossible to keep from writing about Elizabeth Edwards attempting to engage a conservative bimbo lawyer on Hardball. After all, when Chris Matthews has to step in to ask someone to let the caller get a freaking word in edgewise, that's gotta be one rude guest. Of course I've always thought Sainted Sister Ann was just a pretty-good sized Rabbit in a pair of Manolo Blahniks, anyway. The same trite message buzzing, every night, to a willing and panting audience. Everything men always wanted to be, but were too addled to know where to start.

But that's another topic.

The real issue today is the issue that's pretty much dominated my poor blog for the entire month of June: Immigration. I blame my obsession on those idiots in Washington, plus a string of "poor little criminal" stories* so transparently out-there as to make Mother Teresa roll her eyes jadedly.

Tonight I ran across a link that I feel is actually useful. You can forward hundreds of e-mails a day to seven friends within seven minutes and make seven wishes, and this problem isn't going to go away, it's only going to get worse. Unless we do something about it.

There's a grass-roots movement made up of people who are tired of the real effects of criminals continuing to pour across the borders and idiots in Washington welcoming them with open arms. (Well. The rest of that sentence doesn't really describe the people who make up NumbersUSA. I just got wound up.)

It's an educational site as well as a lobbying group, and I'm promoting it if for no other reason than that reading it makes you care. Want to know some of the reasons that I care?

- When I moved into this neighborhood almost 10 years ago, it was one of the few middle-class neighborhoods in Dallas. Now, the streets are slowly being taken over by rentals, the people moving in have Mexican license plates (yes, as in "Coahuila"), and if all that isn't bad enough, my messy yard is no longer the messiest on the street! That, my friends, is appalling. (Sadly, this is not satire, this is true.)

- One of these neighbors of mine has kids. During the school year, the son, perhaps eight or nine years old (who may indeed have some special need that isn't readily apparent when he plays in the street in the afternoon), is picked up every afternoon right from his door by one of those small Dallas-county buses (they hold maybe 12 kids). Do they speak English? Well, not that I've heard. Perhaps they do it when they're inside the house. What bothers me about this is that there are four cars sitting in their freaking driveway, two of them fairly new. And tonight I came home to see that their land-cruiser is back. I say land-cruiser, I mean land-boat. It's the size of the entire driveway, the sort of thing you see going down the highway in the left lane at 45 mph with an old guy wearing a visor driving the thing. Now, considering that border agents are all the time arresting vans full of a dozen people crammed in the back, I'm guessing this RV could hold about 7,450 people. The van isn't there all the time, of course. From time to time it disappears for a few weeks, then it comes back, the guy who lives there tunes it up, and off it goes again. His family must really be seeing the USA.

- Has anyone noticed the ton of crap in the roadways in the past 10 years? Lumber ... debris ... washing machines? Do you think that all of a sudden, due to global warming, it just started falling out of the sky? Do you think it has no relationship to those pickup trucks toting around tons of carpet, furniture, general crap that would make the Beverly Hillbillies look like Paris & Nicky & Mom & Pop Hilton instead?

- Have you had a wreck in Dallas lately? I have. Within a year of moving to Dallas, I'd been hit-and-run twice. Since I wasn't able to verify any home addresses, I can't fairly say they were illegal aliens (especially since noting their Hispanic race would label me a racist). But they certainly had the lawless Mexican culture down pat. My son was rear-ended on Woodall Rodgers last October -- no idea who did it, because once again, they had that "keep the hell going" mentality that must make it so much fun to drive in Mexico.

Who pays for that, in higher insurance rates?

- And what about the money YOU and I spend supporting illegals: 70% of births in Parkland Hospital are to illegal aliens. Why the HELL does the offspring of a foreign criminal become a U.S. citizen??? If an American citizen can lose his right to vote by committing a crime, how can a foreigner guarantee his offspring full citizenship by doing so?

I could go on about how shoddy the quality of life in Dallas has gotten -- so much so that now, I'm just wondering how far north I need to move for it to improve. Montreal may not do the trick. But the damnedest thing about this issue is that if you raise your voice to decry this stuff, you're branded a racist.

The truth is, I'm not. I was born in Dallas, not that that insulates a person from stupidity (there are some who say it's almost a guarantee) -- but I never thought of "Hispanic" people as ... well, anything! Hey, God bless the Martinezes and their Wednesday Enchilada special at El Fenix. The whole "racist" thing is ludicrous. Not until the noticeable decline in overall quality of life, until parts of Dallas started looking like border town slums, did I begin to put it together. I'm kinda slow that way.

One of the most moving stories I've read recently is of Araceli "Sally" Lopez, a young woman whose parents are legal U.S. residents and who's a border agent in South Texas. She once was a social worker in Texas but says she became an agent because of the abuse she saw by illegals. She risks her life every day to guard the border.

And here, again, is that one last sobering statistic, courtesy of NumbersUSA:

Population booms in U.S. history:

The great wave of immigration from 1900 to 1910: 16.3 million
Peak of baby book, 1950-1960: 28.4 million
1990 - 2000: 32.7 million

And most of that last bunch, again, ladies and gentlemen, not only aren't pulling their weight ... we're pulling theirs.

If you care about making a difference, about law being enforced (and it ain't going to be pretty), get involved. If the daughter of legal immigrants can risk her life to do it, can't we make a phone call or write a letter?

* The spin:

Headlines too bizarre to be believed: Age of Irony officially over

2007-06-24T21:11:00.000-05:00

"Satire Stuff Really Hard!" whines local writer

The Age of Irony, which perhaps originated in 1938 with Abbott and Costello's "Who's On First?" skit, peaked this week when the "certificate" officials (you know who they are) blocked a New Zealand couple's attempts to name their son 4Real.

A Dallas writer, in the throes of attempting to find a news leadline realistic enough to spoof, was found huddled in the corner near her computer, sucking her thumb and rocking.

"How's a person supposed to make jokes about stuff this effing ridiculous?!" she screamed. "Reading CNN's like reading National Lampoon!"

In April, a lawyer in Little Rock, Arkansas, encountered a similar problem. While trying very hard to be taken seriously, Connie Meskiman wrote a tongue-in-cheek Letter-to-the-Editor about daylight savings time and global warming.

Unfortunately, Mr. Merriman's irony was of a quality so high and pure that it could only be heard by certain dogs, and it caused an uproar. His letter made the e-mail rounds across the country, and satire that would have given Mark Twain and Lewis Carroll a merry old chortle, instead gave some readers enough heartburn to pull out their rarely-used pens.

Speaking of Carroll ...

"Tonight's lead stories on the Mad Hatter Network include ...

"The King of Diamonds wants more gold to enforce laws that he is sweeping off the books to let off the current criminals and let in more . . .

"A sheriff of the land in Ohio fathers six children by three different women, leads King's men to body of girlfriend ...

"Millions of destititute illiterates tune into magic idiot tube to watch hotel heiress talk about her suffering and sacrifice ..."

"Even more millions refuse to obey law, have better health care as indigents than King's soldiers -- or King's soldiers' survivors."

The Dallas writer's whimpers grow softer.

This just in ... Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead.

New sub-species of homo sapiens discovered at horrific crime scene

2007-06-21T12:35:00.000-05:00

"But they were Southerners!" city leaders wail

The tiny community of Portage, Wisconsin awakened to the sort of scenario no self-respecting pulp fiction writer could come up with when police went searching for a 2-year-old who had been abducted from a Florida foster home by her mother. They found instead a woman buried in the backyard, her son tied up and tortured in a closet, and "lots of other icky stuff."

The creepy band of identity thieves whose collective age of 83 still beat out the average IQ of the group, included the 15-year-old daughter of the dead woman who, with the dead woman's former lesbian lover, allegedly killed her mother with their bare hands in the bathroom.

The Wisconsin town that bills itself as Where the North Begins is still reeling from the discovery.

"These folks hadn't acted very neighborly," said a city spokesman, who asked that he not be identified. "And it seems they'd done this sort of thing all through the South and Colorado, and even up in Maine. Now you expect that sort of thing in the South, of course. And Maine, well they're a bunch of oddballs anyway. But Portage?! Who do they think we are, Fargo? I don't mind telling you, we're none too happy that this fella rented out his house to those folks."

The owner of the home where the atrocities took place blames it on a sweet-talking Southern female with an accent that dripped honey. "Good golly," he said. "The woman actually used the phrase 'little ol' larceny.' No man could help but be taken in by that kind of charm, no matter where he's from. Course, she was kinda ugly, but -- well, now that I think it through, I'm not sure what I was thinking at the time. Did she have big boobs?"

The city spokesman, however, was the first to distance the community from such silly talk. "We're no-nonsense folk up here, meant to farm and fish and shovel the snow off the driveway, don't ya know? Now you take this story," he said, jabbing his finger at the morning paper. "This is my kind of story about monsters and identity theft. We're peace-loving folks, but not the smartest criminals. Here in Wisconsin it's just too derned cold!"

Pope Forgets Papers, Accidentally Deported

2007-06-21T00:34:00.000-05:00

INS "Knows Not What They Do," said Il Papa.

On a recent tour of the United States, Pope Benedict XVI was collected by the Immigration and Naturalization Service, bound, and shoved in the back of a moving van full of illegal U.S. residents that the INS was rumored to be sending into the remotest desert to be left to die, all alone and broken-hearted.

Only the latest innocent victim in a string of highly publicized, brutal mistakes that enforcement groups have continued to insist on making by following the law, the Pontiff was shaken but forgave the INS. "It was an honest mistake. Some people claim I'm mentally retarded, too, but their memory usually improves by the time they get to court."

"Apparently what some people call mentally retarded just means dumb as a box of old Cosmos," he concluded. This is a condition that has been scientifically proven to be inherited from one's mother -- a fact largely unknown because major media outlets have little interest in it.

In an unrelated story, the American public has been temporarily distracted by the cause of Yaderlin Jimenez, an illegal U.S. resident from the Dominican Republic and the wife of Army Spec. Alex Jimenez who has been missing in Iraq since his unit was attacked by insurgents in May.

Observers note that the passion Americans feel for this cause can be directly attributed to the dearth of pop-tarts in the news, busy as they are in rehab, jail, or trying to grow out their shaved heads.

Because Jimenez's rights to do what the hell she wants without repercussion have clearly been violated, there is now pending a class-action lawsuit by a group of veterans from the last four wars for they and their families to be granted immunity from, well, anything bad they ever did. They are seeking immediate compensation from the government for all outstanding traffic tickets, and hope to get some free pizza coupons as well.

In even less related news, LULAC was uncharacteristically silent on the rumor that a grassroots movement by conscientious Americans was afoot to right the racist misdeeds of history by offering immediate and complete amnesty to any illegal who volunteered for active duty to go help find Jimenez.

Hamas Dominates Gaza Strip in Retaliation for Sopranos Finale

2007-06-17T20:15:00.000-05:00

"Palestinian viewers deserve better," say thugs

Outraged over the senseless finale to The Sopranos, the bloody terrorist machine Hamas last week took over most of the Gaza strip. Speaking directly from the office of President Abbas, their leader spoke out.

"What is this you HBO Little Satans call drama? Innuendo, glancing askance, eating the onion rings at the cheap ice cream parlor? You show enough shifty characters to suicide bomb every bus in Jerusalem, and then ... it look like my silly cable went dead!"

Culminating endless bloodshed between warring Palestinian factions Hamas and Fatah, Hamas wrestled control of the Gaza strip away from Fatah. The insensible logic of ending the most violent television drama with a fade-to-black was apparently more than the wealthy and well-funded Hamas could take.

The Hamas leader gazed through his black, beekeeper-style bonnet and shook his head at the tragedy. "This Tony Soprano, he and his friends the most decent and courageous Americans we can imagine. He lived by the sword -- he deserved to die by the sword, not by the -- 'What? What?' Is commercial? While we slap side of TV, crying, 'Where he go? Where he go???' He deserved better. Palestinian people deserve better, better than this ... this innuendo and symbolism. We need closure. We need answers. How you expect us to go on with our lives when you serve up such vague story structure? We need clean whack."

In symbolic protest of the president of HBO and his allowing such an ending to be aired, gunmen took over the office of President Abbas of Fatah. In a rare display of juvenilia, they filmed a creative protest to The Sopranos finale, showing that true romantic violent heroes go out in a blaze of glory. Then, as young terrorists do, they had their playful moments, pretending to call Condoleeza Rice and making bunny ears behind each other's heads.

Immigration Reform Act II: the sequel! Live Free of Charge or Die Hard

2007-06-14T21:06:00.000-05:00

"Die already, damned bill," all say

Washington's top ass-kicking policymaker returns next week in his latest tongue-tripping crowd-pleaser, The Return of Immigration Reform. This time out, the Bruce Willis character has changed his name ("John McClane was just too close during election season," he said) to Neato Bandito -- the feel-good felon. He's hard-working, mysterious, a fugitive from justice -- and you can fit him and his 12 brothers in the back of an '87 Aerostar van.

The Uppity Female had a chance to speak with the star (we'll call him "W") as he scurried about Capitol Hill promoting the act that's "guaranteed to kill and thrill and still leave you with a bigger tax bill than ever." Here's what he had to say.

"It's been a while since the original Irrigation Reform Act in 1689," said W. "There were 3 million illegals in the country then. There are 12 million now, and I think we need a comprehensive reform now. Some of my detractors say we don't need a reprehensive reform now. But I say we do need a Condoleeza reform now, and do you know why? Because it's a big word, and I like sayin' 'em. And I say that if we really get after it and mix it up with the language even more, there could be double that many by my next great stunt. Just think ... uh, let's see here ... five times two, carry the three -- 18 and a half million!"

"And we've added $4 billion for guarding the border to the big budget we already had, to do the stuff we were already supposed to be doing, with money we didn't have before. Of course, we're opening the border up really wide, but why quibble? People may say we're going in the wrong direction, but I say at least we're going!"

W has mobilized his supporters into a strike force of linguistics experts, disarming the language and investigating every method unknown to man to use lots of words while saying very little at all.

"I was looking at this immigration business and borders, and different languages and such, and I thought, now what about that Apartheld stuff they used to have? So I asked my people to look into how they fixed that, and I came across some language in the South African constitution that's as purty as a poem. 'Discrimination is unfair unless it is established that the discrimination is fair.'"

W brushed the back of his hand against his eyes. "Don't that just beat all? It reminded me of that line in Animal House, you know, where Belushi says, 'All Delts are equal, but some Delts are more equal than others.' And that's what gave me the idea. In this immigration thing, we let all the real-world Neato Banditos be legal just like you and me, just like the Delts and the Nerds. You know, equal but not equal? And when people say it'll make the problem worse, I say it'll make the problem worse, but not as worse as it could be if I try even harder."

"I've always believed in the golden rule, that you should treat foreigners, especially the ones outside your country, just like Americans. Now aren't we all basically alike, with the Methodist church on Sunday morning, the $400 barber on Tuesday afternoon, the driver and the chef ? Like my granddaddy used to say, an enemy's just a friend you haven't Americanized yet. You say live and let live. I say, live free or die hard!"

"Yippie ki-yay, muzzle-loader!"

Meanwhile, as W stunt-kicked his way into the sunset, lines are already stretching for miles in Dallas, Los Angeles, San Diego, Chicago, New York, and elsewhere, with the best and brightest illegals demanding their "muy fine $10,000! ¡Sí! Muy fine!"

Mexico's Tax Collectors to Reduce Country's Deficit with Visit to Dallas

2007-06-13T14:08:00.000-05:00

Calderon Instructs Right-Hand Man to Swing by Neiman's On Way Home

According to Bloomberg, the Mexican congress is likely to revise Mexico's tax code, strengthen compliance and boost collections.

To that end, President Felipe Calderon has ordered a delegation of emissaries to visit Dallas' Parkland Hospital to collect from Mexican citizens illegally residing in the United States.

"We have seen in the past week a muy terrible death to my immigration bill in Washington," Calderon said, "that place I like to think of as my home away from home for all my people. Still, no es nada. The next version I am drafting will allow for our guest workers to vote after six months in the U.S., but only if they pay off the public official. We expect to have all Mexican citizens voting in time for the election for el presidente."

Calderon displayed initial surprise and disappointment on reading that 70% of the children born at Parkland Hospital are born to illegal immigrants. "I would have believed, my friend, that we were closer to an 85% occupancy level, but we see this as a challenge we will rise to."

"In the meantime, we are in a building phase. We will become even greater, possibly make English the third national language, as the e-mail joke goes. If the foolish wealthy U.S. taxpayer and the foolish wealthy Medicaid spends $50 million a year bringing our people into your world, we feel it is only fair that we recoup those costs. Our good citizens, we know where they are. They know what to expect out of us. They will have the small unmarked bills when we get to the, oh what is the word for the mama, yes, the leetle-beety-baby ward, if they know what is good for them. Oh, and this is only one tiny city, my friend. Imagine the revenue we can generate in other stupid cities all across our territory north of the border!"

President Calderon's eyes then twinkled and he snapped his fingers in sudden inspiration. "Oh, I need to remind them to stop by and pick up some Hugo Boss ties for me at NorthPark."

Fred Thompson Wins By Rumored Landslide

2007-06-06T20:21:00.000-05:00

Jessica Simpson to serve as guerrilla president

In one of the most stylishly understated campaigns in history, Fred Thompson came from an undisclosed location, possibly behind, today to win the U.S. presidential election. While other candidates chose a more traditional route of debating, hemming, hawing, and showing up, Thompson credits his win to a guerrilla war strategy that originated with Scheherazade, an ancient yarn-spinning Persian whose father was an advisor to the King of Persia. Thompson claims "I figured if it worked 1001 Arabian Nights for that Persian Queen, I could string folks along at least till the primaries." He admits that the technique has also come in handy on storylines in Law & Order.

Thompson admitted this week that the U.S. faces challenges. While he would not explicitly state that the foremost challenge would be to pin him down on whether he's running or not, he showed a glimmer of that famous Fred Thompson wit by admitting with a smile, "We'll have a chance to get into all that when I start telling everybody what a wonderful person I am. But we're not quite at that stage."

The race hit its zenith when, in a stroke of true strategic genius, Thompson placed Jessica Simpson on the ticket by proxy in order to distract a broadly bipartisan and disparately desparate conservative and centrist base into voting for any guy who looked like that. Unconfirmed sources have said that Simpson is already hard at work being Fred Thompson, shopping for sheets for the Lincoln bedroom.

When pressed to confirm whether she was, in fact, serving on Thompson's behalf, Presidential Representative Simpson enthusiastically echoed her support of Thompson -- if he does indeed choose to serve. "It's, like, a perfect time for me, you know, with me and John Mayer, like, breaking up and, well, you know I'm getting in touch with my darker roots, so I really couldn't say no when his handlers asked me. Oh, no, of course I haven't spoken to him. I'm just his PR. Oh, by the way, that thing about me and John Mayer breaking up, it's, like, totally untrue."

Meanwhile, Thompson is moving full-steam ahead to put his administration in order. His first order of business is to review the Sunday night fall lineup. He's looking at a major overhaul of the current system. "I get the Dateline lead-in. But to follow us up with that Medium lady and her 'I see dead people' stuff ... well, I'm going to have to hear from some people on both sides of the aisle before I'll support that."

The latest buzz is that Thompson's next move is to reveal Sam Waterston as his Vice President. That is, if rumors are true.

"Well," he chuckled in that signature voice, his steely glint focused on the distant horizon. "I've been telling Dick Wolf for a long time that there ought to be Law & Order in DC, and I could make that happen."

His smile then fell away and he jabbed a finger into the air. "But I'll be damned if I put up with any more little pantywaists like Jack McCoy."

Slop Springs Eternal in this Blooming Mess

2007-06-05T07:35:00.000-05:00

Will there ever be a time when we run out of fodder on government incompetence? Not as long as we keep electing such jewels.

I'm a little fascinated with the current abject arrogance of one so-called honorable William Jefferson, D-La. and his refusal to do what one might call the honorable thing. Even after being indicted for more criminal string-pulling than the guys at Enron, he clamps his hands over his ears, yelling, "La-la-la-la-la! I can't HEAR YOU!!" and refuses to step down.

You would think he'd do it. If not for the state who idiotically re-elected him even as the investigation was breaking (if only by 30% of the vote and in a runoff, it's only fair to point out, and before anybody starts blathering about creepy Louisiana politicians, take a look north at Massachusetts), if not for the country he serves, if not for the office that he represents, if not for his party, then maybe, just maybe, for his family.

But, no, he declines to see any sense in that. I mean, let's face it, Not-so-Slick Billy. That gal who's supposed to be herding you cats who hand down our laws is out instead hobnobbing with Syrian dictators. And she's calling for your head on a platter. What on earth does that say about your table manners?

Speaking of Nancy Pelosi, I ran across the yesterday's-news story about Nancy Pelosi pushing for her expanded use of military aircraft. This was annoying -- I'm guessing none of her constituents can commandeer government aircraft for personal use -- but lots of the realities of today's politics annoy me, the primary one being that public servants are no longer public servants. They are wealthy, privileged members of society not subject to the same financial laws as those who elect them. Those on the right spend as freely as the rest, and call themselves conservative. We the people guarantee the wealth of those wealthy whom we elect.

For example, Bill Clinton has made about $40 million in speaking engagements since leaving office. This doesn't bother me -- he's an entertaining guy, and, being a lawyer by profession, he's trained to speak. I mean, really. At least he's entertaining.

What irritates me is that he still gets a juicy pension along with other perks, for the rest of his life. The Former Presidents Act was created because former President Harry S. Truman couldn't fund an office staff. I think that if a guy who used to run the Western World can't figure out his finances well enough to fund an office staff, the country's got bigger problems -- then again, that's already established.

All modern former presidents have received these benefits. Ronald Reagan, Gerald Ford, George Bush the Elder, and so on. With characteristic brilliance, we give a lifetime pension to the jobs where you practically have to be a millionaire to get elected in the first place. And that's not counting money for staff, secret service, travel, telephone (oh, we know how those darned cell phone minutes add up), and whatever the hell equipment is that they can't pay for in the rest of their budget. Bill Clinton's allowance for FY 2007 is $1,160,000. Not bad pocket change for a guy bringing in $40m every few years.

Oh, sure, we tell our kids that anyone can grow up to be president, but it's a lie. You have to be a smooth-talker, hooked up to the media machine, and have good hair. Those are, pretty much, the basic requirements. If you have good hair, we'll forgive a multitude of sins. If not, we won't forgive much.

Oh and speaking of pensions and bad hair, this brings us back to our original topic, the ornery-bull Bill Jefferson. The guy who's starred in the Bill's Excellently Profitable Adventure in Ghana, co-starring half his family collecting various sums for these deals will be, if he eventually is found guilty and serves time in prison, the Capitol Hill equivalent of one of those stupid criminals you hear about on the radio. You know, the guys who leave their wallets behind after a robbery. (Oopsie-doodle!) In a pretty narrow swath of laws that, if broken, will cost you your pension, the indictment alludes to his having broken at least one.

It seems that in this grand ethics cleanup in January, being convicted for any one of three crimes can take away a lawmaker's pension: fraud, bribery, and conspiracy -- as long as it's related to his or her job. If it isn't one of those, say you drop a secretary in the river but you're too drunk to figure it out and, oh, say, she dies, you still get your pension.

Which is good for all those destitute lawmakers in Massachusetts.

Never Before Revealed! Real Killer of Princess Di

2007-05-31T00:57:00.000-05:00

As much as my flesh creeps over tabloid headlines, I'm going to have to bring up the topic of Princess Diana twice in one week. It's that year, you know. The year we re-hash the mysterious death of the "People's Princess" (which, I always thought, referred to People magazine -errrr ... there goes my creepy flesh).

Turns out there are more conspiracy theories than Tom Clancy could cook up. Here are some:

1. The Elvis Defense. She faked her death to escape the men on the little motorcycles constantly plaguing her.

2. In Her Majesty's Secret Service. The MI6 bumped Diana off because she was seen as a threat to the throne. Hey, if QEII couldn't get rid of her when she was right there in the palace, how could she have pulled it off in France?

3. What Kind of a Name is That For a Grown Man? People severely disturbed by the high-profile Dodi, a hairy man with a name like a Japanese cartoon character, did the deed. Poor Di was just a red herring.

And on and ON.

Then there are the investigations into the truth behind the car crash:

The French investigation blamed Henri Paul, the drunk chauffeur, for the crash that caused Diana's death.

The British investigation blamed Henri Paul, the drunk chauffeur, for the crash that caused her death.

Later this year, there is to be a British inquest that will conclude that Henry Paul, the drunk chauffeur, caused the car crash.

Dodi Al Fayed's father has had a keen interest in all this because he's certain this was no accident. (Also because all the other investigations have indicated that Henri Paul, the drunk chauffeur who caused the car crash, was an employee of Mr. Al Fayed.)

But the identity of the person to be blamed for Diana's death was revealed early on -- yet rarely mentioned since. Of course, it's the last person you'd guess.

Diana.

One person survived that car crash: Trevor Rees-Jones, the bodyguard who sat in the front seat. One person was wearing a seatbelt: Trevor Rees-Jones.

Anyone who's taken defensive driving knows the odds of injury in a car crash are far higher to those sitting in the front seat. Had either Diana or Dodi worn a seat belt, it's very likely they would have survived.

Think about that next time you go out on a secret mission. It may just keep the bad guys from killing you.

Seeing “Hunter’s Blind” from a Whole New Viewpoint

2007-05-30T12:53:00.000-05:00

It’s one of those “Nowhar but Texas” stories, although I think I first got wind of it in The Week’s “Only in America” column – a column reserved for “Unbelievable – what madness!” stories like outrageous lawsuits and cabbies giving back left-behind briefcases full of cash. Either way, it’s implied that the acts defy logic, and most commonly not in a positive way.

The Texas State legislature has passed House Bill 308 (As tempting as it was to link to the NRA’s article anticipating the end of “discrimination in hunting,” I resist; I’d like to think that the NRA is capable of pulling off such Twain-level satire, but I know better.). Sponsored by State Representative Edmund Kuempel, the bill enables blind folks to hunt. Actually, it seems they could always hunt as long as a friend came along to tell them where to point and shoot.

There just isn’t enough time in the world to adequately answer such a well-served straight line.

Overheard from sight-impaired (oops! did I write that?) hunter Jim and his friend Billy Bob:

“A little to the right, Jim. No, no, that ain’t my wife you hear! She’s at home, buddy – you’re …uh, you’re hearin’ her on my cell phone over here, wanting to know why Billy Bob Junior’s pointing his water pistol at her. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ain’t kids and their guns funny. OK, now shoot already, before that bit – I mean, buck gets away.”

But now, I guess legally blind guys (and gals – no discrimination, you know!) can use lights – laser pointers, headlights, what-have-you, to illuminate the animal. And you know what they say about deer in headlights.

To tell you the truth, I think once we started “roughing it” in luxurious motor home mansions that are better outfitted than what some of us call home, we sort of agreed that hunting, for some, is less about sport than size.

You’d think they could create some sort of “closed course” for hunters where they could go play-hunt – like that Gilligan’s Island episode where big game hunter Jonathan Kincaid (played by Rory Calhoun) came to the island for the ultimate thrill – to hunt man. Of course, the best he could find was Gilligan, who somehow managed to outsmart the smarter yet again. And, although Kincaid had promised to take the castaways back to civilization, in a surprise twist worthy of O. Henry, they were left behind. What would the world think of the great hunter if the truth got back? (What, an unsporting sportsman?!) Poor Gilligan.

But they could do something similar with blind hunters, just let them loose on an island with a couple of deer, and let them hunt themselves silly. I’m guessing you’d need to leave lots of ammunition. Oh, and the remote and extra juice for the TV. And LOTS of beer.

Or you could do it the way the joke goes about blind golfers playing at night. Take the blind hunters to the zoo, and round up all the old animals that need to be euthanized. (Cruel? I mean, really. See “deer in headlights” reference, above.)

Or – now here’s an idea. You could let them loose in the State Capitol. It might not be particularly sporting, but they could bring along a friend to explain to them the expressions on the faces of the squealing legislators.

The Chamber Echo of the Righteous Party

2007-05-29T15:32:00.000-05:00

Cindy Sheehan has come to some “heartbreaking conclusions” – that politicians are heartless bastards.

What planet had she been living on, to see one stripe as moral, the other as immoral?

I refuse to take potshots at such a tragic target (albeit a willing one). Knowing my own life and goofy tendencies, I definitely have the capacity to have pulled off the sort of thing she has. What would, for me, amount to losing the dearest thing in my life would shatter my sanity.

The bloodless war has yet to be invented, although the “Persian Gulf” war certainly sent that illusion. And that shedding of blood is precisely what empowers, ennobles, allows the rest of us to set up our tents, or Photoshop up our protest signs – or whatever else we might do to rage against the machine.

But to truly have put one’s faith in – no, wait. Not just a politician, but a much broader entity, political party, with all its creepy moving parts, is absolutely hilarious.

Which is why I tend to hack off so many of my more conservative friends these days.

(Of which they all like to say they are -- which usually means, "well, conservative except for those silly Puritanical sex laws." Or "Conservative except for legalizing marijuana." Or "Conservative except for letting Congress write blank checks out the wazoo, at least as long as it's for guns." Or "Conservative except for freedom of worship." Which I can only guess means racist.)

I don’t have a problem with differing opinions. There’s little I love more than a spirited and respectful discourse of ideas with those who have actually examined ideas and expressed their conclusions outside the cloud of rhetoric. You get extra points if you’re plain-spoken about it.

The problem with thinking people on both sides is that we're all deeply frustrated with the extraordinary events of our world these days, and with the astounding capacity of human beings for hatred and evil. As a result, many of us find a lascivious pleasure in the political rhetoric of pundits. It’s an intellectual pornography of philosophical values. It’s Debbie Does Plato's Republic.

So I actually have great sympathy with this frustration about the weirdness of the world (having lots of that myself), and I like to hear thoughtfully expressed opinions that differ from mine. What I have a big problem with is people who exhibit confidence of philosophy, combined with faulty and lazy thought processes, and deliver it in arrogance of virtue.

On any side of any issue.

Do we believe all Republicans are moral, upright, heterosexual, white, educated, courageous, virtuous, budget-balancing, world-fixing, God-fearing right-thinkers? Or are they all backward, closeted, hypocritical, racist, ignorant, money-grubbing, gun-toting, baby-killing rich bastards?

Do we believe all Democrats (dare I use the godless “L” word?!) are soul-searching, world-changing, inclusive, brave, caring, giving, visionary, progressive, philanthropic Berkeley graduates? Or are they all lazy, shiftless, financially reckless, cowardly, New York Times-reading, affirmative action-loving, murderer-defending, fetus-killing rich bastards?

Do I believe all politicians are dissembling, power-hungry, self-interest-serving professional actors who, without getting on the space shuttle, couldn’t have shot off farther from the purpose laid out by the Founding Fathers? Well, you can bet your ass on that one. We all are to some degree.

And since we all are, also, from time to time a little bit brave, philanthropic, caring, visionary, and even occasionally virtuous, we have to assume that three or four politicians may have those same seeds of sporadic goodness in them. I mean, God gave Lot better odds in the city of Sodom. (Then again, we know how that worked out.)

Cindy Sheehan rightly stated that “blind party loyalty is dangerous whichever side it occurs on.” She stupendously stumbles immediately after by attributing blame to the two-party system.

We could have enough parties to shut down a frat house and still not change a thing about the character of a politician. My good friend Joe says that the work of politicians is to keep their jobs. If they all decided instead to do what they were elected to do rather than spending 75% of their time getting re-elected, lots of them would soon be out of business.

Like all the brave, noble young men and women who have given their lives in this war, Spc. Casey Sheehan died for a cause far greater than any one human being -- and better than the whole mess of politics. That’s something that will endure regardless of the politicians or their spin doctors – and thank God for that.

It would be a little scary to leave the future in the hands of a city full of lawyers.

The Queen and Her Poodle

2007-05-27T02:25:00.000-05:00

Here’s a confession: five years ago, I thought Tony Blair was hot.

No, I didn’t just like him the way good Texas girls like Brits who take up for their Texas boys. I thought he was as sexy as they came. At the time, the company I worked for had just been acquired by an English company, and I jokingly dropped this confession on one of my colleagues across the pond – somehow apparently thinking this was a good career move. This would have been some time in 2002.

“Well, good for you!” my transatlantic colleague retorted. “You can have him!”

I soon discovered this was a common sentiment in England. But it wasn’t always so.

Brought into office in a landslide, Blair’s was the administration which was to “modernize” English government, pull it out of its dusty, cobwebbed corner of archaic tradition and back to a position of power and leadership.

According to Stephen Frears’ Oscar-nominated The Queen, in 1997 the brand-new Prime Minister sat across from Queen Elizabeth on the same settee where once sat “her first” Prime Minister (of which she had 10) – Winston Churchill. Within mere weeks of being elected to 10 Downing Street, the story suggests, Tony Blair came close to single-handedly saving the monarchy when he diplomatically coached a frosty QEII on how to comfort her subjects over the death of their Diana, the erstwhile Princess of Wales. While the country wailed hysterically and piled flowers in front of every nearby palace, the Queen tromped through the Scottish mud with her country dogs (you have never seen such a dog lover) and wept over the death of a 14-point stag. One she presumably identified with, surrounded as she was by the comically inept geldings in her family.

Each morning of the week after Diana’s death, the Queen awakened to increasingly hostile tabloid headlines. “You stupid cow! Get down here from that damned Scottish farm, switch the galoshes for those clunky pumps, turn out the labs for the corgis, and comfort your bloody subjects!”

It took a solid hour of the film for Blair to come from a position of slack-jawed shock at the Queen’s refusal to consider a public funeral for Diana (“Won’t someone save these people from themselves?”), to coax her along the quivering tightrope to returning from Balmoral to Buckingham Palace, circulating among her people for the first time in decades – and then to make a public statement of mourning for Diana. By the end of the film, in a growling roar that startled his staff, he barked out a ferocious defense of his Queen.

Ah, he wasn’t always a poodle.

One wonders, 10 years later, how the Queen might offer a proper farewell to the Prime Minister in the form of returning similar advice. The Queen being a big-time dog-lover – a simple raised hand set her dogs in place – some must wonder how she might have trained him, had she only gotten him early enough.

The phone rings at 10 Downing Street and Blair answers.

HM: “Mr. Blair, I assume you’ve seen the morning papers. They want to know when you’re going. You’ve rather overstayed.”

PM: “Ah. Similar to what Prince Charles has been saying for 20 years.”

HM: “There was that tawdry thing with the scientist about weapons in Iraq… did away with himself. Dreadful. Did he know the truth about the weapons?”

PM: “Your highness, it was no secret that Saddam had weapons of mass destruction. We and the U.S. have the receipt.”

HM: “Well, it’s quite unseemly, how you curtsy to that colonial cowboy.”

PM: “It’s fairly well-established that he’s carrying out plans I made.”

HM: “While he was still president of Texas.”

PM: “Governor, your majesty.”

HM: “President, governor, your majesty, he thinks those words all mean the same thing.”

The Prime Minister waits, sensing the Queen has one last shell to fire.

HM: “Mr. Blair. Have you looked at your own photographs? Your hair has gone quite gray, you know. I think it’s those holidays you spend in these hot places. Barbados? Florida? It’s not in an Englishman’s blood, and it’s bad press. Spend your summer in Scotland. A 34-degree July day is good for the constitution.”

Too much. The Prime Minister can’t quite believe that this clog-wearing fashion plate would presume to offer him suggestions about media spin. Rupert Murdoch was #2 on his cell phone speed-dial.

PM: “How dare you? When a woman who wears a straw flowerpot on her royal pate suggests I spend my summers traipsing through mud after wild boar, I must clear the record.”

HM: “Mr. Blair – ”

PM: “No. Accusations of murderous coverups and illegal wars may be unethical, even criminal – but Saddam is dead, and the bulk of the bill goes to Washington. And now, in matters closer to home – Northern Ireland is no longer a war zone. That was once a cliché the likes of Palestine. Waiting your turn on a British operating table is no longer a deadly endeavor. Great Britain can hold her head up once again for one reason: because of the last 10 years of economic growth the likes of which haven’t been experienced in this country since Lord Nelson. And these spineless mewling complainers do so merely because of some misguided national pride. ‘If we can’t have an empire, no one can!’

[Once an English bulldog, always an English bulldog.]

PM: “And finally, if you feel my tenure was such an utter failure, I have two parting words for you.”

HM: “Mr. Blair?”

The Prime Minister arches one graying brow over his healthily tanned face.

PM: “John Major.”

HM: “Really, Mr. Blair. There’s no reason to traffic in inanities.”