Junior G-Man

There is a fellow in the neighborhood, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who really seems to want to be the inspiration for all Woodbridge. Cloyce seems particularly concerned with criminal activity, although he chimes in on the Woodbridge Facebook page on any and all problems (real or imagined) in the area. What can be done? Can we write a letter to someone? What are the details? Have you called the police? How about updates? You should write out a short report of your own so as not to forget details, and share it on the community page. And, perhaps most tellingly, why haven't I heard?

He reminds me of the naive but eager teenager is the old movies: "We can make things work if we all pull together!" Yet Cloyce comes across more as the guy at the edge of the crowd, leaping and pleading with everyone to let him in. You know, the water boy quarterback wannabe generally ignored by the rest of the football team.

I suppose his heart's in the right place. And, yes, we should be vigilant in watching out for the folks in our community. Yet he comes off as more annoying than helpful. It's made worse by the fact that he seems to have all the answers. As a neighborhood friend of mine remarked, "Cloyce ain't gonna be happy until he earns his Junior G-Man badge."

He'll never get it the way he's going.

Yellow Powder Explosion

I like ramen noodles. I never had a problem with that until recently, when my clumsiness caused a minor catastastroke.

As any fan of ramen knows, you boil the noodles and then add a packet of seasoning, typically chicken, beef, or shrimp, although as with so many things there are many (far too many) other flavors available. The chicken seasoning is yellow, essentially a bright yellow and heavily salted power.

Last Wednesday I went to stir in chicken seasoning from the ramen noodles I had just boiled. Opening the little foil packet, which is at best an inch and a half by two inch rectangular pouch, it slipped out of my hands and towards the floor, bouncing off my left pant leg and stove door as it fell.

You've seen the short videos of glitter bombs exploding on You Tube, perhaps? Glitter rushes everywhere and impacts everything. I felt as though there was yellow powder over the entire kitchen. Except, of course, for the shadow outline of me across the cabinets behind where I stood. That yellow powder went everywhere.

I had never imagined so much color coming from something so small.

Lookit This

Well, see here: my book  Michael's Story , the second book of the Infinity series, is now available as an ebook for just $2.99. 

Thanks to my son Charlie and daughter in law Tarina for their help in getting it up and running. I hope to have book three of the series, with the working title The Interim Generation, available soon. Book Four is also manuscript ready, but I haven't come up with a title for it yet. Book Four just doesn't seem imaginative enough.

If I may say, your holiday excess shopping would be incomplete without the purchase of Michael's Story in paperback or ebook form. And don't forget A Subtle Armageddon , the first Infinity series book (available in paperback and Kindle) or David Gideon , a stand alone novel. 

Thank you.

Religious Hockey

It's supposed to be true. But if not, truth should never get in the way of a good story, right?

Years ago, when I believe Gump Worsley was the goaltender of the Minnesota North Stars, a Minneapolis bar ran a contest where first prize was dinner for two with Worsley. A local guy won, and he took his teenage son with him for the supper.

The day after, a sportswriter claimed he had had a religious experience. He said that he walked into a restaurant the evening before and saw the Father, the Son, and the Goalie Host.

Not bad. Some people do treat hockey like a religion too.

Following Mom's Orders

Last week as I dressed in the morning preparing to go for my colonoscopy, I remembered the order of moms everywhere to their kids before they'd leave the house: put on clean underwear! Especially as I was having a medical procedure, I dutifully found and put on absolutely clean underwear. Freshly laundered in fact.

Half way to the hospital it occurred to me: no one, not the doctors, not the nurses, not the techs or anyone, was going to see my underwear that day. They could not have cared less. I would be placed behind a curtain to remove my clothes and don a hospital gown. Nothing I was wearing mattered. Not one bit.

I still get points for doing what Mama wanted though, don't I?

Raw Power

Many of my liberal friends live in fear of greedy big businessmen. They supposedly have unimaginable power, and they can't wait to milk every red cent they can out of the little guy. It makes me wonder, if it's all about who has the money and power, why aren't they more afraid of the government?

Say what you will about the businessmen - many of whom may indeed be greedy and powerful - it's the government who has the most money and the most power. 

You can elect - ha, ha - not to spend your money at a business. Yes, you can. What's more, you will not be tossed into the pokey for it. You can control, in a direct, no nonsense manner, how much to give big business. Try doing that when the government sends you a tax bill to pay for their projects, many of which you may rightly oppose. You'll find you must pay government no matter what. No other option exists for you. 

Well, except fines and prison.

Keep in mind I'm only talking about your taxes so far. I haven't touched on the hundreds of other areas where government can tell you what and what not to do, or face fines and imprisonment for daring to thumb your nose at them. All that lies beyond the power of any given private company.

Yet greedy big business is a greater threat to our person and property. Go figure. 

Washington on Thanksgiving

Whereas it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor; and Whereas both Houses of Congress have, by their joint committee, requested me to "recommend to the people of the United States a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God, especially by affording them an opportunity peaceably to establish a form of government for their safety and happiness:"

Now, therefore, I do recommend and assign Thursday, the 26th day of November next, to be devoted by the people of these States to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be; that we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for His kind care and protection of the people of this country previous to their becoming a nation; for the signal and manifold mercies and the favorable interpositions of His providence in the course and conclusion of the late war; for the great degree of tranquility, union, and plenty which we have since enjoyed; for the peaceable and rational manner in which we have been enable to establish constitutions of government for our safety and happiness, and particularly the national one now lately instituted for the civil and religious liberty with which we are blessed, and the means we have of acquiring and diffusing useful knowledge; and, in general, for all the great and various favors which He has been pleased to confer upon us.

And also that we may then unite in most humbly offering our prayers and supplications to the great Lord and Ruler of Nations and beseech Him to pardon our national and other transgressions; to enable us all, whether in public or private stations, to perform our several and relative duties properly and punctually; to render our National Government a blessing to all the people by constantly being a Government of wise, just, and constitutional laws, discreetly and faithfully executed and obeyed; to protect and guide all sovereigns and nations (especially such as have shown kindness to us), and to bless them with good governments, peace, and concord; to promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science among them and us; and, generally to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as He alone knows to be best.

George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation, 1789

Anyone who claims that we weren't founded on Christian principles, read these words well and carefully. And have a wonderful and happy Thanksgiving in that light.

Rushing Yards

There's this plumber who regularly comes into the old barn, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who is a nice guy who generally doesn't rush us. Generally.

He brought in a machine last Wednesday for a relatively major repair. I told him to allow about a week. "That's fine, Cosgriff, no rush at all," he said as he left the Shop. "After Thanksgiving is fine even, I ain't going to rush you."

Cloyce came in last Thursday around One O'clock. "I was just passing by, Cosgriff, so I thought I'd stop in. I ain't going to rush you."

He called Friday morning. "How's it look? I ain't rushing you, only touching base." I advised him that it would be Tuesday.

Monday morning he stopped by. "Just in the neighborhood, Cosgriff. I ain't rushing ya." 

I reminded him about Tuesday and he was on his way. As soon as the door hit Cloyce on the way out me brother Phil groused, "I'd hate to see what it's like for him to rush us."

He picked up his machine yesterday, arriving at the Shop within a half hour of my call (and paying cash), so there's that. Still, yes, I do wonder what his idea of rushing us would be.

Tolerance and Inclusion in Qatar

So. Those in favor of the alphabet soup of rights, the LBGTQ groups and what not, are upset at the Muslim nation of Qatar for hosting the FIFA World Cup while not supporting the LBGTQ cause. Qatar for example won't allow rainbow flags. Indeed, homosexual activity is illegal there.

I see two ways around this.

The first is for the alphabet soup folks to become accepting and tolerant of the diversity of viewpoint which that Muslim nation offers. They can make their tent big enough to include Islam even if that world is diametrically opposed to their lifestyles. If, that is, their core philosophy is really all about diversity et cetera.

Or, second, the LBGTQ supporters can admit that it's not about tolerance and diversity and inclusion at all but about basic right and wrong. While I would still disagree with their conclusions, I would have greater respect for them.

The thing is, they won't do either. They can't. 

They can't do the first because it would expose their inherent hypocrisy: they don't actually believe in acceptance and tolerance and diversity of others, but only of them. And they can't do the second because making the discussion about right and wrong, moral and immoral, quickly becomes problematic. It would necessarily lead to questions they don't wish to entertain: namely, that they would have to examine their own premises and consider that they could be wrong about themselves.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

Numbers Game

Have you ever noticed that when checking your voicemail on your cell phone, the disembodied voice asks for your password? But then you punch in numbers, not words.

Either the joke's on them or us. Or both, because numbers aren't words, are they? Or am I thinking too much?

Nah, that's never happened.

Finding a Career

Before I begin, I want to say that I deeply appreciate those in the medical profession. They do work I can't do, and indeed wouldn't do, for all kinds of reasons. But I can't help but wonder what inspired the doctors and nurses and techs to enter certain fields.

Take the colonoscopy team I was blessed to have last week. They did great all the way around: professional, courteous, good at what they do. The procedure took barely a half hour, and maybe not that. I simply wonder what caused them to want to do it.

I don't remember career day at high school covering it, nor the similar career days we attended when our kids were in school. There were many options out there, but I apparently missed the poster which asked, "Do you have what it takes to make it in the world of colonoscopy?"

I'm glad those folks made that choice. I thank them very much. I just don't get it.

Old Curling Injury

I've been complaining about pain in my left ankle for several months now. Sure, I've complained about other things. But the ankle is nearest and dearest to me.

Yesterday I went to my orthopedist for the results of my CAT scan from this past Wednesday. There is what amounts to a divot or pothole towards the top side of my talus bone. It has filled with heavy liquid, forming a cyst. When I irritate the cyst - pow - ankle pain. Bad ankle pain sometimes.

For the time being we're going to employ pain management strategies; the Doc says surgically removing the cyst and filling in the pothole/divot should only come when and if the injury begins to interfere with everyday life. It may require an ankle replacement (I didn't know that was a thing) but that's a long way off if needed at all. He did give me a light brace to wear between the ankle and my shoe when the pain is bad enough to warrant it.

So the news isn't terrible. I can make do with that treatment plan, at least for the foreseeable future. 

I asked him if the injury was always there but undiscovered until lately, or if I had done something to cause it. He explained that most such injuries occur due to a fairly constant, repetitive motion over a long period of time, "Yet I can't imagine what that could have been," he finished.

I could. I curl.

Without going into a lot of detail, as a right handed curler I put a lot of pressure on my left foot when delivering a curling stone, and I played for around 35 years. When telling the doctor that he replied, "That might well have caused it, yes, although we can't really know for sure."

Well, I'm running with it anyway. My bum ankle is the result of an old curling injury. Prove me wrong.

And Toto Too

While waiting in the reception area to be whisked off to my CAT scan Wednesday, I was pleased that the music being played over the speakers was decent. A song I hadn't heard in awhile, Hold The Line by the rock band Toto, came up. It was a hit when I was a senior in High School, and I always liked it. It's a great, hard driving, almost arena rock staple.

Then it becomes your ear worm.

All I heard all day after my scan was,

Hold the line!

Love isn't always on time, no, no, no,

Hold the li-i-i-ine!

Love isn't always on time whoa whoa wo-oh

I don't care how great of a song it might be, when something gets planted in your ear and you cannot shut it off, it gets old.

I had not heard Hold The Line in several years. Right this minute, I hope it's several more.

And there it goes again.

One Down

Three days, three medical appointments. Do I know how to live or what?

Yesterday I was in for a CAT scan of my troublesome left ankle. Today, my first colonoscopy. Oh joy, oh rapture. Thankfully it's simply for preventative purposes, another of those 'at your age' things to do. "At your age, Mr. Cosgriff, you really ought to have a colonoscopy," my doctor told me seriously this past September. I suppose he's got my best interests in mind. And I do get to moon people without repercussions.

So I honestly don't expect bad news from that. I don't expect particularly bad news about my ankle either for that matter, except that I may need minor surgery. The ankle worries me more only because when it hurts, it hurts. I'm talking about 8 on a scale of 10. It's woken me up at night. But the damn pain comes and goes out of nowhere, sometimes lasting days, other times not even 10 minutes. Even that doesn't appear to be life threatening in and of itself. It's when it comes out of nowhere, say, when I'm going down steps, that worries me. Falling down a flight of stairs can be life threatening.

I don't want to die that way. I mean, I want to get to Heaven. I pray every day that I do, but eventually. And there are enough dicey questions already that St. Peter, I'm sure, will be asking me. I don't want "Why are you here early?" to be among them.

Which leads to appointment Roman Numeral III. Friday I see the orthopedist to find out the results on my ankle. I wish I hadn't put my foot in my mouth so often over the years...

Inventing the Obvious

My breakfast yesterday was quite enjoyable: all the foods my doctors want me to excise from my diet, or at least cut back on significantly. The latter may one day happen. Yes, it could. The former? I'm somewhere between uproarious laughter and positive scorn at the idea.

That bit of drollery aside, this past Tuesday morning my first meal of the day featured hash browns, scrambled eggs, and Vermont maple sausages, all home made in the sense that the foods were purchased at the local supermarket and brought home essentially just to heat up. While eating the last tasty links of maple infused sausage it occurred to me: while I bought them frozen courtesy of Banquet Brown and Serve, where did they get the idea of mixing maple syrup with sausage?

I was doing that literally decades ago, allowing the syrup from my pancakes to blend with pork sausages on my plate when I was a young lad. I have to imagine many other folks did too. It's a great taste combination, likely melded in many a common household kitchen. How does Banquet get the credit for making them a breakfast staple?

This has all the markings of a class action suit my friends. But where can we ever find lawyers who will sue for millions of dollars, keep the bulk for legal fees, and give the rest of us ten bucks each?

Beefy's Thanksgiving

I believe I've established that my old buddy Beefy liked to take a pull or two at the bottle of the demon rum. Now we all know what that can do a man's thinking. Here's what it did to him one fine day.

Beef was still living at home with mom and dad when in his early 20s. Yet he wasn't like so many youngsters that he mooched off his folks. He contributed to the household, helping with the bills up to and including food for the holidays. Yeah, by his own admittance he drank too much in them days. But he did his part just the same.

He was sitting at a bar one night a day or two before Thanksgiving while a friend of his expounded on the value of fresh turkey. You buy it live, then dress and cook it yourself. It was much better than the frozen birds from your local market. The bar friend even told Beefy where he could buy live turkeys, even at that late date and that close to the holiday.

Sliding off his stool the next minute, Beefy resolved, even in his altered state, to treat his family to a fresh turkey dinner that very Thanksgiving. He went out and bought a fresh, and remember live, bird.

Now on his way home it occurred to Beef that if one fresh turkey was good, two oughta be a whole lot better. They really should. So when he arrived at home he took the one he had, opened the back door by the kitchen, and tossed a rather upset wild fowl inside, yelling, "Get that one ready Ma, I'm gonna get another!" 

I can't imagine what it was like chasing a live turkey all over a house. But I'm sure Beefy's mother described it to him adequately.

Spice Cake

At the end of my walk yesterday morning I stepped into the nearby gas station party store to buy a Sunday paper. I like to do the crossword puzzles as well as the Sudoku and such, typically only about half succeeding with any of the games. But it's become a habit. I need my Sunday newspaper fix. The withdrawal when I miss it is ugly.

As is it only fitting to counteract the benefits of exercise with sugary treats, I examined the snack aisle, selecting carrot cake. Arriving back home, I ate it with black coffee as I read the comics, and it was good. But it wasn't what I wanted. I wanted spice cake.

Me Pops used to buy spice cake all the time. He loved it. The ones he bought were triple tiered, which if I remember rightly had cream cheese icing on top and between layers. I'm not sure why it was called spice cake, because it wasn't spicy in the sense of, say, chili, or other hot foods where you would normally expect spice. Dad's spice cake was more tangy. It had something of a bite which cakes normally don't have.

I used to see it all the time in the stores. Now, I can't remember when. To be sure, there are recipes for it online. Yet would they be like me Pop's old treat?

Maybe I'll actually try baking one one day. 

Nah, who am I fooling? I'll just double down on finding one in a store as I shop over the coming weeks. It's probably just sentimental that I want one at all. But nothing wrong with that, right?

No, Seriously

I do not take soccer seriously. If you like it, fine. I'll even admit to things I like about it. Only the referee controls the clock, for one. And you have to be in outstanding physical shape to play it. It's also a cheap, easy sport for youngsters and their parents. It even deserves the name football more than the American brand. But I can't take it seriously so long as championships, such as the World Cup currently happening, are decided by what they call penalty kicks.

Basically, they place the ball in front of the goalie and one guy kicks it towards the net. If the goalie guesses right, he stops it. If not, easy goal. This is repeated until one team, after an equal number of tries, scores more than the other.

That's absurd, sports fans. I realize that in a tournament you need a winner. But widen the net. Remove the goalie. Take players off the field every few minutes of overtime to create more room to run, make plays, and score. Get rid of the offsides penalty in extra time. Something. Do something so that the game is decided on the field and not somewhat randomly as it is now.

Until some kind of adjustment is made, I can't take events such as the World Cup seriously. It would be like the World Series decided with a home run hitting contest, or a Super Bowl with a punt, pass, and kick display. Figure out ways to win during the ebb and flow of actual play or forget it. 

Beefy Don't Get Rattled

I introduced you to my old friend Beefy yesterday. He was a great guy, and in a quiet, unruffled way. While our old buddy Cloyce would indeed upset him (see here: Cloyce attracts deer), by and large Beef was happy watching the world go by.

Beefy liked his drink. He had purchased a bottle of vodka on his way home from work one day, and then stopped at a favored watering hole for a couple beers. By his own admission, he was feeling it a bit as he left the bar an hour or two later.

He was driving down the freeway when he noticed the smell of something burning. That's when he saw tiny flames licking up around the edges of the hood of his car. It turns out a pair of frayed wires had caused a fire. Beefy steered the car well onto a fortunately wide shoulder which happened to be at that spot of the highway. When he had stopped, he jumped out of the car, not forgetting his precious bottle of liquor. 

Beefy climbed up the berm at the roadside and sat far enough away from the car, by then engulfed in flames, to be safe, and began to ease his pain by uncorking the vodka and taking a nip. Soon enough he took another draw at the bottle and then a third, morosely watching his car incinerate itself.

Naturally enough, the fire drew the attention of a Michigan state trooper. The officer pulled up (well behind the flaming hulk of metal of course) and climbed up to where Beefy sat. "That your car?' the cop demanded.

"Yep," Beefy affirmed, with another shot of vodka.

"Well, would you like me to call the fire department?" the trooper asked, sarcastically.

After another drink Beefy simply answered, "If you want to."

That's it. That's the story. Beefy lost a car yet saved his vodka.

Attracting Deer

All right, I've been enough of a curmudgeon this week. Let's get back to fun stories.

There was this fella who came in the Shop all the time who we called Beefy because, uh, well, it fit his stature. Like so many Michiganders, he looked forward to deer season. It begins November 15 every year, so as that's coming up soon I found myself thinking of him.

Beefy managed a plumbing company. There was one particular employee whom Beefy didn't like at all, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was an old friend of the company owner. Beefy didn't care for the guy because he was a slacker. Yet he couldn't do anything but deal with Cloyce because of the guy's friendship with the boss. That didn't keep Beefy from complaining about Cloyce every time he was in the old barn though.

One November years ago Beefy walked into the Shop with a couple small repairs. While tending to one I eventually asked a rather obvious question, just making conversation, "So you going out hunting next week Beef?"

"Yep," he kind of drawled. "Taking Cloyce with me too."

"What? You hate Cloyce, and you're going to spend a couple weeks with him in deer camp?" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Oh yeah, I even bought Cloyce some clothes for it. Nice brown suits. I'm going to tell him his job is to run out into the woods and scare up the deer for the rest of us," Beefy explained.

I don't think I stopped laughing for a half an hour.

Honestly Bronner's?

I've complained about politics all week. I'm going to complain about something else today.

Recently while on the end of a sales trip, the work done and no particular reason to rush home, I stopped by Bronner's, a huge Christmas store in Frankenmuth, Michigan. I was feeling nostalgic and wanted to get my Christmas on, because I really do like Christmas and the feel of Christmas. I simply want it to stay in its lane.

Bronner's advertises widely that we need to keep Christ in Christmas, a sentiment which I agree with wholeheartedly. The store does not hide its Christian roots. Still, I was disappointed to see them selling 'Holiday Countdown Calendars', whatever they are, alongside traditional Advent calendars. Advent calendars are popular for counting down the 25 days till Christmas once December rules the year.

Really, Bronner's? Keep Christ in Christmas but offer generic Holiday Countdown memorabilia? Have you sold out that much to secular consumerism? Have you actually bought into the don't offend anyone mantra? How do you justify that? "Nothing says keep CHRIST in CHRISTmas like our handy dandy Holiday Countdown Calendar!"

I'm disappointed. I truly am.

Disembark From the Trump Train

I'm going to risk hacking off many of my friends and relatives here, but it must be said. Donald Trump needs to ride off into the sunset, and we need to see that he does.

Let's be bluntly honest with ourselves here: we were lucky, very lucky, extraordinarily lucky, to get what we got from him. He won in 2016 only because people hated Hillary more; almost any other Democrat would have beaten him that year. Such fateful lightning isn't going to strike twice.

Nearly all his candidates performed abysmally in this past Tuesday's elections. Democrats took advantage of that chance, openly funding a Trump backed candidate in the New Hampshire Republican primary to insure their sitting Senator, Maggie Hassan, would have a cakewalk reelection. Guess what? She did. And her seat was vulnerable. Yet Republicans not beholden to him, DeSantis and Rubio in Florida, Kemp in Georgia, and Abbott in Texas scored monstrous victories. What do they all have in common? Conservatism without the vitriol or childishness of 45.

It's time to walk away from Donald Trump. By the grace of God, because that's what must have been at work in 2016, American conservatism gained more ground than it had since Ronald Reagan. It's not going to happen again with the former Chief Executive trying to pull the strings.

I say let's get behind Governor DeSantis right now and work hard for great victories in 2024. Further, if former President Trump declares he's running again, thank him for what he did, then show him the door. He's not a winner anymore.

The Fog of Election Season

As I'm actually writing this the Tuesday evening of election day, I have no idea where we stand right now. Hopefully by the time you read this the GOP will not have burned down half the country.

I can tell you this without knowing any results: at least the Election itself is over. There are few things which I have a shorter patience for than election ads. We know that it's all show, even the ones for the folks we like. Shaddup already. 

Whatever the result, I'll be putting on my big boy pants and going to work today as I should. Someone's got to pay for the next election cycle.

The 2022 Midterm Elections

Well, since I'm a threat to democracy anyway I might as well go all out. 

If you vote for Proposition 3 in Michigan today, you are an accessory to murder, plain and simple. Direct abortion is murder, every time, no exceptions. 

I urge you to vote straight Republican, even with their flaws (and they certainly have them, with wanting to destroy America and all). That's part of the problem with the right to vote, though: you will have no angels among your choices. The world isn't perfect. Why you expect it out of politicians and politics is beyond me. Voting the best you can is the best you can do.

Feel no electoral mercy towards those who tried (through COVID) to destroy your life or try (through government controlled education) to destroy your children. Vote them out. They would do it to you. You will not be harming America by exercising your rights. You will more likely be helping her.

Damn the torpedoes, and God Bless America.

The Presidential Insult to Me

It was Biden’s party, not the Republicans, who wanted to pack the Supreme Court. It was Biden’s party, not the Republicans, who went beyond disagreeing with specific SCOTUS decisions and claimed the court itself was illegitimate. It was Biden’s party, not the Republicans, who wanted to rip apart the Senate’s century-old procedures, end the filibuster, and turn the chamber into a replica of the House.

I wasn't sure that I wanted to get political today, even though we are having an election as I speak. Politics are just too damned maddening. But I don't feel that I can any longer keep my mouth shut about Joe Biden's threats to me. Yes, me.

The above quote is from an article I ran across Monday. You can read it here: Chicken Little. The upshot is that President Joe Biden, the Great Healer, the Great Uniter (so he says), has basically called me, yes, me, a threat to democracy and the American Way simply because I will vote straight Republican a few minutes from now. This after he and his Democrat colleagues accused the GOP of stealing the 2016 Presidential Election (via the debunked Russia collusion assertion) and the 2018 Georgia Governors election (and now lie about that). 

We GOPers are against America, yet he and his cronies want to turn the Constitution upside down. Here's another bit from the article: It was Biden himself who evaded the Constitution’s fundamental directive that all expenditures must first be approved by Congress, and that those appropriation bills must begin in the House. Instead, he ordered a half-trillion dollar program of student loan forgiveness by presidential fiat, completely ignoring Congress.

That's something a dictator does. Someone who doesn't love or respect America, American principles, or the very democracy he claims to support. Then he has the gall to call me, yes, me, a threat. He's calling an awful lot of you that too. 

I can't make up my mind if I want to protect the decorum of this blog, or use the actual words behind Let's Go Brandon. So I'll walk a fine line instead. 

President Biden...and the horse you rode in on.

A Penny Earned?

For three straight trips to United Parcel Service to ship three small packages - I am not making this up - the shipping cost each time was exactly $11.92. The weights were about the same although the contents and exact size of the packages varied slightly. Still: three straight times where the charges were identical? "Maybe it's just a minimum charge," me brother Phil suggested.

I blew that theory out of the water with a fourth parcel. When the girl behind the counter told me to insert my debit card into the reader I saw - I am still not making anything up - that the charge that time was Eleven Dollars and Ninety One Cents. One. Penny. Off.

What are the chances of that, I ask?

Sterilizing God

Does God Judge? Folks often tell us, when arguing with someone over a difficult question (typically a question which violates long accepted, ahem, judgments about right and wrong) that we cannot judge. They attempt to reinforce this idea by judging - sorry, arguing - that God tells us not to judge. Indeed, they assert, a loving God would never judge. My issue at that point is that God clearly judges. Good judgments, yes, often, but doesn't He also make what are profoundly negative judgments?

Obviously He does. The Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 25, has three straight parables where the foolish or sinful are condemned, ending with Christ's explanation about the sheep and the goats being separated (on Judgment Day, as it were). He calls the Pharisees a 'Brood of Vipers'. He expels the moneychangers from the Temple. He cursed a fig tree, for crying out loud, causing it to shrivel and die. God judges, and sometimes in the negative. It's a simple as that. Why bother with any parables, or those pesky Commandments, if He wasn't meaning to hold us to a standard?

To assert that God doesn't judge is to sterilize Him. If He can't call something bad, I don't see where He might call anything good. There's no worthwhile reason to honor such an impotent being.

Figuratively Hanging Iron

As the great majority of you know, me Grandpa Joe rented welding equipment for many a year. For a lot of them years me Pops was one of his main delivery drivers. Dad used to love sitting in the office shanty on job sites before the day's work began, listening to the war stories and likely offering a few himself.

One day as he was early with a delivery most all of the weldors on hand were in the shanty drinking coffee and talking, having not yet set out to earn their daily bread. The guys were bragging about how much iron they were going to hang once they got started. It was going to be a big, productive day.

The job foreman, whom I'll call Cloyce just to give him a name, sat by silently taking in the revelry. Finally he had heard enough. Turning to Pops he said, overly loud but wanting everyone to hear, "You know, Red (they called me Pops Red when he was younger because his hair was red back then), if these fellas hung as much iron on the job as they did in the shed, we'd be a high-ballin' outfit."

Cloyce was ribbing them but to a point. They were put on notice to live up to their bragging when the work started. Pride can drive a man to a lot of things. One of them is to put up or shut up.

Talking to Myself

"Marty?"

"Yeah, Marty?"

"Is it true that you're as old as you feel?"

"Sure it is. Course."

"Care to test that theory Marty?"

"Whatcha got in mind Marty?"

"Just a little yard work, that's all"

"You're on, Marty!"

Ninety minutes later...

"Marty?"

"What, Marty?" asked testily.

"How old do you feel?"

"Shaddup, Marty. And will ya keep the leaf bag open this time?"

Tis the Season

I like Christmas. I really do. But I am one of the grumpy ones who could stand to see it back off a little.

Christmas commercials are already inundating the world. Buy! Buy! Buy! You need New Wonderful Thing! You can't live without it!

I bet you can.

The decorations are nice, and I do like seeing them. I'm still old school enough to look forward to Midnight Mass. Indeed, Midnight Mass and the quiet half hour I'll spend watching A Charlie Brown Christmas would do me fine, to be honest. Turning on the radio or listening to a CD of traditional Christmas music is quite enjoyable. I find the greatest happiness is in the small, sublime aspects of life. The commercialism I can certainly do without.

So on the whole I'll be happy enough. I'll likely even watch one Hallmark movie: flashy three piece suit city guy ought to lose the girl to red flannel shirt small town bumpkin. I do take far too much delight in that. 

All Souls Day

Jesus told St. Gertrude that the following prayer, when said with devotion, would release 1,000 souls from Purgatory each time it is said: "Eternal Father, I offer you the precious blood of your Divine Son, Jesus, in union with the Masses said today for all the souls in Purgatory, for sinners everywhere, even those in my own home and family. Amen."

Today, on All Souls Day, let's pray that prayer.

Halloween Stats

I have no way of knowing for certain, but last night may have been the best Halloween in terms of numbers that we've had. They just kept coming and coming, sometimes in waves, usually a few at a time. But we passed out candy from about 5:15 until after 8:30. Typically there's just a two hour window of, say, 6-8.

The weather was great. It was warm for a late October day here in the D, 65 in fact. Perhaps it reflects the pent up demand from the COVID years too. People can finally relax again.

On the whole, the trick or treaters were quite cordial. We complain that manners are gone by the wayside but I didn't see it last night. Lots of thank yous  and such. There was even a small marching band dressed for the occasion and going around the neighborhood. Other than some old guy's back giving out from standing so long, it wasn't a bad night at all. 

The Hatred that is Football

I want to show him the hatred that is football.

-Hank Hill, explaining the reason for taking his son Bobby to his first college football game.

Apparently there was a bit of post game dust up between Michigan and Michigan State players after last Saturday's Big Game in Ann Arbor. As of this writing, it is said that nine State players allegedly attacked two Michigan players after Michigan's 29-7 win. This comes after there were issues between Penn State and U of M in the same general area a week earlier. As both teams playing at the Big House (the nickname for Michigan's football stadium) have to exit the same tunnel to reach their locker rooms, there are calls for the school to change the way teams leave the field.

How about a few calls to train these young men, who by playing football are supposed to be changing into mature older men, to keep themselves in check? I know that's easier said than done, given that football seems hell bent on firing up emotions to the boiling point before and during games. And maybe that's the real problem. We stoke the coals of these guys to think of the other team as some kind of enemy invading their territory yet expect them to immediately chill after the final whistle.

Football isn't alone in this, although it does seem to me the main perpetrator. Overwrought celebrations after nearly ever damn play is bound to teach players egotism, an I'm better than you attitude, rather than sportsmanship.

Those are human beings on the other side of the line, guys. Show some respect. A pat on the helmet or back is enough congratulations as a rule. Running towards the sideline or the end zone looking for cameras to self comment on your awesomeness to the world is simply gauche, even mean spirited. You're being, at best, a jerk when you do that. Displays of your superiority are bound to make the other side seethe; the whole thing feeds on itself. What do we get, then?

Fights on the way to the locker room.

Yes, King of the Hill is comedy, and Hank Hill is a comic character. Yet the best humor often reflects certain truths in life. I believe Hank is onto one of them. His remark does not reflect well on reality.