Fairness is an argument for idiots and children.

 Fairness isn’t an objective quality of the universe.

(I stole this from another guy on a website I frequent. I found it interesting.)


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One of the things that doesn't work very well is trying to shame me into something.

It doesn''t really matter what it is. I don't shame very well. Part of it is I will admit to just about anything...or even something that is worse than what you are using to try amd shame me with.

A while ago someone tried to shame me into helping out with some woman's club. They needed a pickup. I was slick and offered to loan it to the woman and she seemed not to be as pleased as she should have. It wasn't enough. She wanted me not only to drive it but to load it.

I saw how that was going when she said she couldn't drive a stick.

So she asked me what I was doing that evening that was more important. This was a feeble attempt to shame me into helping her out. It was also a mistake.

I pointed to the minister sticker on the pickup and explained that my ministry helped feed the small children of single mothers.

"Oh, I didn't know that," she said. 

That's when I went in for the kill. "If the men of my congregation don't get to the club tonight and put our dollar bills into those poor single mother's G-strings, their babies will go hungry," I said.

It took a few seconds for it to sink in but when it did she blushed and snapped, "Those women are a third of your age!" 

"Yeah," I replied, dryly. "They are getting a little too old for my tastes."

She stormed off in an outraged huff.

So feeling good about myself, I poured myself a pretty good snort of Jim Beam and sat on the retaining wall.

It wasn't long before my cell phone went off and one of the neighbors asked me what I had said to the woman and I told her everything. She's known me for years and has a pretty good sense of humor.

"So she tried to shame you into helping her out?" she asked.

'Yup," I answered.

"That wasn't a smart move on her part, now, was it?" she asked, rhetorically.

"Nope," I answered. "C'mon over and I'll buy you a drink."

I looked down the street and saw her come up the street and got a cold beer out of the garage fridge. When she arrived I handed it to her.

She laughed when she saw me and took the proffered brew and opened it. She's a good neighbor and a no frills type. She shook her head and laughed. "So, going to the club tonight?" she asked.

"No money for lap dances and I owe the coke dealers too much money," I replied. 

She laughed. She knew I was talking trash. She also knows I hate strip clubs because I had worked in one once. She also knows I do not do drugs and that my line of work give me drug tests randomly.

Her husband came driving by. He had gotten out of work late. He stopped and I hooked my thumb to the garage fridge. He parked, got out and grabbed a beer.

His wife told him the woman up the street had tried to shame me into helping her out and told her what I had said to her. He laughed outright and popped open the beer.

A friendly cop drove by and waved. We waved back.

I looked at the two of them. "He'll never pin the convenience store robbery on me," I said. "Because I was robbing the bank a block away when it happened."

They both laughed. 

Trying to shame me into doing something I don't want to do is a waste of time. I don't see why people even bother trying.




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I have just heard where the NAACP

 has just said that a black man that is a cop isn't a real black man.

Truth of the matter is that an Old School sailor like me that sails with anyone knows that Dr. king was right. There's just one race and that's the human race.

But I guess some people think that color makes some sort of difference. It doesn't.

Anyway, I used to have a lot of respect for the NAACP. They used to do wonderful things. Not these days.

These days the NAACP seems to be sticking up for thuggery. Part of the proof positive is that they have said that black policemen are not real black men.

If you are an honest, decent policeman of ANY color that is doing his job than as far as I am concerned you can claim the human race as yours and carry it with pride. I'm a part of the human race and I'll be glad to have you looking out for me.

Furthermore, I have your back.

You can have a swig out of my beer bottle any time you want. I'll gladly share it with you.



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Because I have been semi-civilized

 and have a permanent address I have not seen this in decades. My mail comes to my house. It's as simple as that.

Back in the day, though it was interesting how my mail would eventually catch up with me.

For a while I would use my parents address and they would forward stuff to me in care of 'General delivery, Kodiak AK 99615'. I'd pick it up at the post office.

A friend of mine eventually gave me a key to his post office box and I started using that. 

However, when I left Kodiak and started sailing I wrote the Kodiak post office and gave them a forwarding address. 

My first stop was Sitka and I sent Kodiak my address as Sitka General delivery.

From there I would check into the post offices in the Alaskan towns I arrived in and leave the General delivery address of the next town I was headed to so they could forward things there.

When I stopped in Wrangell for a few days a couple of things caught up with me which was surprising. 

On it went until I got to Ketchikan and spent enough time there for another couple of things to catch up to me. I remember one thing was a reciept of clearance from the Kodiak harbormaster. I actually had the harbormaster write a note that I had officially 'cleared the harbor' and had no incurred debts left behind. I left with a handwritten note from the harbormaster's office to serve until something more official arrived.

One of the woman harbor cops commented she had never seen anyone request such a thing but I explained that it was 'cruiser protocol' of sorts. It in effect gave me a clean bill of health and a sort of proof I paid my bills. More on this later.

When I left Ketchikan I knew that I was going to be in Canada and away from the USPS for a while so I wrote the Friday Harbor, WA post office and told them when I was likely to arrive and to please hold anything they got for me. I also left Friday Harbor as my forwarding address to the Ketchikan PO.

One of the first things I did when I got to Friday Harbor was to call at the post office and there were several things waiting for me there, including a check from the Kodiak Electrical Association refunding my deposit for electricity in Kodiak. It came at the right time. I was short on funds.

The envelope the KPU check came in was plastered with stickers to forward it on to the next place. It was somewhat of a log of my entire voyage save the part through Canada. I wish I had kept it. It must have had a dozen stickers on it.

Oh, yeah. Back to the certificate of clearance. 

Every time I tied up in a town pier I'd be charged a couple bucks dockage. I would pay, of course, and when I was ready to leave I would get a reciept to prove I had paid along with a note saying I didn't owe anything.

When I got to Friday Harbor the harbormaster looked at me somewhat suspiciously and asked me for a deposit to insure I would not skip out. 

Looking back in it I suppose it was a reasonable request but I really wasshort on cash. I went back to my boat and brought my stack of reciepts and the logbook.

He looked at the reciepts and immediately agreed to permit me to pay as I went so to speak and only asked me for a couple of days worth in advance. Fair enough.

Then out of curiosity more than anything else he started looking at the reciepts and comparing them to the logbook entries. He just wanted to see where I had been and seemed pretty impressed.

"Hey, why no reciept from Wrangell?" he asked.

"They didn't charge me anything because I got in a brawl in Petersburg and Wrangell and Petersburg don't get along."

"Yeah, I know about that," he grinned.

"And Petersburg? No reciept?" he asked.

"We were in Petersburg only long enough to get into a brawl and had to skip fast," I replied. "No charge for under 12 hours."

He laughed at that one. "I fished Southeast years ago. I understand completely," he said. "I'll bet when you got to Wrangell there was a brass band waiting for you on the docks."

"I didn't have to sleep on the boat the whole time I was there," I grinned. He laughed outright.

"I'll bet you didn't," he replied. "OK, here's the deal. I presume you're staying here for about a week. Pay it now and if you leave early I'll refund that is left over. If you are staying longer the monthly rate is three times the weekly rate. Pay for three and I'll let you stay the fourth week for free, even if you pay weekly. I'll fix it for you."

I was glad I had kept the port clearance papers. They saved me some grief and s little money when I had little money.

An hour later I landed a construction job and drank a few beers that night and went to work the following morning. Life was good in Friday Harbor.





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#Cluelesslives(don't)matter

One of my relatives said that when another of my relatives mentioned that some woman told her to get out of a certain parking space because she had reserved it for her husband.

It was in a basic, open, first come-first served parking lot. My relative beat the unarrived husband and that was that.

Of course, there was a row of sorts.

I'm fairly sure that the woman that was bellyaching had not been polite to my relative because had she been polite my relative would have probably obliged her.

A couple of months ago I had somewhat of a similar situaution but with a different kind of person. He was polite.

"Sir, could you please back into the space across the aisle? I'd like my wife to be able to park here. It would make things easier for us because we have a lot of stuff to unload."

I stuck the pickup into reverse and backed into the empty space across the aisle. No problem. Why not? The request was not unreasonable and it made life easier for someone. Most importantly, the man asked politely. He didn't demand.

On the other hand had he tried to force me there would have been a row. Some people do not think the rules (like first come, first served) apply to them. They are clueless.

They think the whole world revolves around them. 

Lst year around Christmastime I pulled into a parking spot simply because it was there. Someone coming in the opposite direction stopped and acted all pissy because he wanted the space and apparently had spotted it from the next aisle. He arrived to find me in it. I didn't know, and truthfully I didn't care.

While he was bitching I took his picture and a picture of his license plate. When he asked why I told him I needed a new paint job and he was going to pay for it if my pickup got keyed. His jaw dropped and he  fled.

One of my relatives in Florida tells me that there are a bunch of beach chairs at some resort somewhere and people stake them out with towels.

They throw a towel over them at 0700 and eat a leisurely breakfast etc and arrive at 1030 expecting the chair to be theirs.

Sorry 'bout that, Cuz.

First COME, first served. It doesn't say first to mark your chair with a towel gets to arrive at their leisure. Learn to read, Oh Clueless One. A basic education is free in this country.

Of course, when you get up to pee one of these people is apt to sit right down and try playing that game. It doesn't work because I can play the game, too. It is really fairly easy.

You simply tell the dolt that when HE has to pee like a racehorse you'll get your spot back. Inside of five minutes the power of suggestion will take over and he'll really have to go.

I would imagine that management has to settle a lot of pissing matches over seats. I suppose they could post a 'no reserved seating' sign. It would likely not end the 'reserve it with a towel' habit but would serve to settle disputes instigated by clueless people.

The rules apply to everyone equally...at least they are supposed to.

A couple of years ago I was perched on a barstool and some pompous ass walked in and told me I was sitting in his seat. I suppose had he asked if he could have his regular seat back I would have cheerfully obliged him. There were plenty of empty seats.

But he was clueless. He didn't understand manners and protocol so I balked. I did notie the bartender smirked a bit when I refused to move.

He grumbled and called the bartender who came over and politely told me he'd buy me another beer if I'd move. I said I would for him. 

When he served me the beer he bought he agreed with me that the guy is a jerk but explained he was a regular that tipped well and that he had a couple of kids to feed. I know the drill. Still, I did it as a favor for the bartender and not the clueless jerk.

If you do not have manners and civility you are clueless and as far as I am concerned, your life does NOT matter to me one bit.

If you are clueless and decide that rioting is the way to go then your life does not man a thing to me.

I have noticed one common denominator that seems to appear at the bottom of every one of our recent BLM riots and that is the victim of the shooting was clueless had no couth to begin with.

While that in itself is no reason to justify shooting anyone, the truth remains that had any of these clueless jerks that got shot had a few manners they would still be alive now.

I'm not going to waste my time grieving for the lives of the clueless. Their lives don't matter to me.

Get a clue.


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One of the things that is kicking the dogsnot

 out of the media is the internet.

The other day I learned of a U2 aircraft crash before it hit the mainstream media and even saw a couple of pictures of the smoke plume. The plane crashed near one of the members of an internet board I frequent. He went outside, shot a few pictures and posted them on the board.

The media is rapidly losing their credibility because of the web. There are too many people out there that see what is going on first hand and are willing to share it.

If Hillary wets her pants on stage and the mainstream media chooses to cover for her by photographing her from the waist up then someone is apt to snap a cell picture and post it on line. It's getting harder and harder to cover things up.

You don't have to have a journalism degree and a camera crew to report the news anymore. Just about anyone with a basic ability to write understandably thathas a laptop can be a reporter.

The raid that killed Osama bin Laden by the Navy SEALS a while back was reported as it happened by a Pakistani on either a blog or Twitter in real time. I believe it was Twitter. While the Pakistani did not know what was actually happening, he did know that SOMETHING was happening nearby and posted it.  

The truth is that as time passes anyone paying attention is rapidly finding out that the meinstream media is basically corrupt and is losing credibility at an incredible rate. It becomes obvious that they have an agenda.

I would imagine that a few years back they could have gotten away with it. However, since we have entered the information age where anyone is now a reporter things have changed.

I have learned an awful lot off of the web over the past several years. Most of whet I have learned is just how corrupt the system really is. The mainstream media is covering up the very corruption they used to take a lot of pride in exposing.

Then again, maybe it was always that way and we are now becoming more aware of things.



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The fire extinguisher is past

the replacement date and needs replacing. Time to go to the store and snag a replacement for the one in the kitchen.

The kitchen extinguisher will go below and replace or augment the other one in the basement as a spare. It still 'gauges' correctly and is probably useful. The liklihood of needing one in the basement is a lot lower than needing one in the kitchen.

I'll replace the unit in the basemsnt, but the one from the kitchen will still be available under the heading, 'if all else fails'.

The fire extinguisher is in the same category as the duty firearm. It is simply there and available in case it is needed.

Hopefully they will never be needed but they are there in case they are, much like car insurance. You buy it hoping you never need it.




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Summer is pretty much over and the Grandfather's Club

 has made a couple of runs but this year we're adding another one.

The crisp evening fall run.

The Grandfather's Club has dwindled to two members from four. Two of us are now gone. One gave us warning, the other suddenly left without warning. There are now only two of us or three if you count the oldest teenager.

The Grandfather's Club is an entirely criminal organization that knowingly, willingly and recklessly endangers the life of young people. We do this by taking youngsters for a ride through farm country on sultry evenings unsecured in the back of an open pickup truck.

I became offered a membership even though I have no children and hence no grandchildren. I was invited because I own a pickup truck and none of them did.

The gig is fairly simple. the kids are taken north of Portersville in ordinary cars safely strapped in. We meet and transfer the kids to the open bed of my pickup and haul them through farm country at the dizzying speed of about thirty miles an hour.

They get to take in the sights, sounds and scents of farm country for an hour or two and then return to the cars and get taken home. The Grandfathers meet to strike a blow for liberty over a bottle of bourbon and then the meeting is over.

It started as three families of grandchildren and continues as such. What is interesting is that even though the kids have grown into teenagers they look forward to it. 

They also know that this is illegal and it was funny listening to a ten year old say that they'd never take him alive.

The oldest of the grandkids got his license a while back and had the duty of being the designated driver for the three grandfathers. Now he has only one grandfather to take home. It is not his.

Still, he pitches in and looks forward to it. I guess this upcoming summer he will be replaced by the next in line because one of the girls has her license. I hear murmurings of the young man heading into the Navy come next summer.

It gladdens my heart to take these young people out and callously and recklessly endanger their lives. They truly enjoy it.

What's more important is that I am helping not to create a future generation of criminals, but of outlaws.

These kids will remember the rides through the farmlands and they will also remember that it is illegal. They will grow up knowing the difference between doing something illegal and being a criminal and that is always a good thing. It's always good to know there's a future generation of outlaws coming along.



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Hey, Kid! I'll take ya down to the club and introduce you to Bubbles!

"Cool!" said the kid. " I want to check her out." He instinctively knew I was talkin' trash. He's about 14.

His mother looked shocked for a second and recovered quickly. She gave me a sort of embarrassed and slightly annoyed look.

Good old Bubbles. Every guy knows who she is. To some she is tall and curvy, to others short and cute but to everyone she is busty, has big hair and most important of all doesn't have a brain in her head. She believes what you tell her. She thinks I am a professor of Asian languages because I told her I was.

"What time are you free?" I asked the kid.

"I get off of practice at eight tonight," he said.

"I'll pick you up," I said. I turned to his mother. "You got the night off. We'll be home by about nine."

"Thank you," she said. She knew I wasn't taking the kid out to some dive. We'd likely stop off and grab a chocolate milk or something and just go for a drive. It was a sultry evening and perfect for a ride in a convertible.

"When we get to Thunder Alley," I said to the kid. "You'll hop out with the flashlight and you'll start the race. I don't want you in the car when I hang it out on Dead Man's Curve."

"Thank you," said his mother, dryly.

It's interesting how young guys intuitively pick up on when an older guy is being sarcastic. 

One day I saw him in the yard with his mom and stopped. The city was putting in concrete sidewalks and I commented that there was not a concrete crew that could keep my initials off of fresh concrete back in the day. He grinned.

I explained to him that I never used MY initials or name on fresh concrete. I always wrote 'Louie' so I didn't get in trouble. Louie wound up getting the ass chewing instead of me. That one drew a look. It was a couple of years ago and the kid looked a bit shocked.

The mother gave me a dirty look the time I told him that if he got himself a white T-shirt I'd teach him to roll a pack of Luckies into his sleeve. Then she recovered and shook her head. "Hmm." said the kid, amused.

Then I told him to grow his hair a couple of inches longer and I'd teach him to comb it into a duck's ass and jellyroll.

"Like the Fonz?" asked his mom, rolling here eyes.

"More like John Travolta," I said. "The Fonz didn't have a jellyroll on top," I turned to the kid. "Ya need Dixie Peach pomade for a haircut like that. You can go 120 mph in a '57 Chevy convertible with the top down and not a hair out of place!"

"Oh, God," said his mother. The kid laughed. Then I think she pictured her son looking like an Old School Rexall Ranger and cringed.

Seperation is rough on kids and even though his dad has done the best he can to stay in his children's life things are limited. While his dad is a friend of mine, so is his mom. I refuse to take side in matters like this unless it is to prevent violence which is not the case here.

It's funny watching the kid smirk when I say things like that. He's sharp enough to know I'm in sarcasm mode and he's starting to pick up on it a little. When I started doing stuff like this a couple of years ago he'd look horrified. Now he smirks. He perks up when he hears me address him as 'Hey, Kid,' because he knows I'm going to hit him with something off the wall. 

"Hey, Kid! Swing by the next time you see me in the yard and I'll teach you how to catch a smoke in the boy's room without getting caught!" 

He laughed at that one and his mother shook her head. He's an athlete and is smart enough not to fall into that trap.

"Hey, Kid! Whatcha drinkin' these days? Next time I stick up a liquor store I'll snag you a bottle!"

His mother wasn't in earshot when I said that and he laughed like hell.

It's fun watching him pick up on things because even two years ago my sarcasm would go over his head. His eyes would open wide and his jaw would drop.

Time is passing and he is growing more confident in himself and it won't be long before he starts the banter in full swing.

I once told him I'd teach him to drive a stick when he got his learner's permit and he thanked me.

"Kid, don't thank me," I said. "I'm just tryna help you wit college tuition. Ya can take two, maybe three 'vettes outta them strip club parking lots a night on Fridays and Saturdays. The chop shop'll give ya too, maybe tree grand apiece for 'em. You could get a PhD with no college debt that way. Ya gotta know how to drive a stick, though. Anything to help a young guy get an education. I'll have a word wit da boys when the time comes."

"Gee, thanks!" he said, snickering. I knew what his interpretation was. Piccolo will teach him to drive a stick when he gets his learner's permit. Nothing more, nothing less.

He's actually a fairly serious minded kid and 100% honest which is why I am comfortable teasing him this way. He's already saving every dime he can for college. He's a science kinda kid and I think that my teasing him that way keeps him from becoming a bit too nerdy.

If he wasn't a damned good kid I wouldn't waste my time on him. 

I might grab him for another evening ride in the Mazda when the weather gets a little crisper. He'd like that.


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"What? You're from the State Police and you want to know about who?"

"Oh, Mike Adorvitch. Yeah. He told me a while ago he was using me as a reference. He's eactly the kind of guy I would like to see on the State Police. Why he would choose me as a reference is beyond me, though."

I gave the man the information about Mike that he wanted to know. I told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Truth is I think he'd make a pretty good trooper. For one thing he wasn't a kid fresh out of school and had some life behind him. He was nearly 30 and fairly well seasoned in life. The questioning went along well and I knew I was being helpful.

There were the usual to be expected questions as to the solidity of his marriage, questions about debt, drinking, gambling and narcotics use. He's as clean as a whistle.

 Mike fit the bill for service as a Trooper. I said so, too. I pointed out that I really think that at his age he would have better judgement than younger men.

Then I asked the interviewer if the Pennsylvania Troopers had a sense of humor. He assured me they did. I asked the interviewer if he was going to see Mike again and he said he was.

"When you see him, tell him Piccolo said you're a great guy because every time we go to Vegas you always know where to get the best coke and the hottest hookers. Better yet, ask to come along with us. Watch his jaw drop."

"You know, we do throw a few curves at the candidates to see their reactions," he chuckled. "I'll do that."

Mike Adorvitch is presently a Pennsylvania State Trooper now and seems to be doing one hell of a good job.




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She is...The most interesting woman in the world!

She has owned six sports cars...and wrecked nine. 

She bowls overhand.

She speaks fluent French...in Russian. 

She is the most interesting woman in the world.

OK, she's not really that interesting but she is interesting. Besides, I don't think she'd really do a good job of selling beer on TV. For that she'd have to look a bit more Spanish looking and be a little older. 

I got a new neighbor and hope she will accept an  invitation to come over with her daughter for dinner with a couple of my friends. We met on the street the other day and she simply seems to have the makings of a pretty good friend. A couple of comments she made let me know she's pretty damned squared away. She seems to have a good attitude and I want to pick her brain a bit.

She seems to be a straight shooter and doesn't mince words like most people do in this day and age. When I heard her say she didn't need someone else's money because she had her own I knew she was independent. If she needs a neighborhood favor it will be because she can't do it herself as opposed to being too lazy to do it herself. 

She also made a comment about soccer moms that sit around drinking wine all afternoon and I knew that meant she has a good work ethic. If she does need a favor it will likely be repaid somehow. 

Good brains are hard to find in this day and age. There is quite a big shortage of intelligent conversation out there. Someone with a brain in their head is someone certainly worth getting to know. 

Most people seem to want to take the easy way out and it seems this woman knows better. She had a problem of sorts years ago and faced them head on by getting an education and a skill. That gets my respect. No gubmint handouts for her.

Another thing is that because she is in health care she's probably a good person to get to know. My neighbor, the RN that has lived next to me since Day One is on my speed dial. As I get older it is a good thing to have a couple of handy health care professionals I can call if there's an emergency.

Besides, every so often I like to cook and it is nice to have a few people to cook for every once in a while. I'll likely have her over to meet a few people.

**********************

Oh yeah. You know who you are. You're the jerk that gave me 'the look' when  mentioned having what is probably going to be a pretty cool neighbor. You seem to forget that I am married and want to keep it that way. On top of that, guys that date women half their age generally have ego problems. I don't. What's your problem, jerk?

***********************

One of the things I like to ask nurses is if they are the Official Clean Underwear Checker.

I did that once when I drove cab in a small Alaskan town. The nurse picked up on it instantly and laughed like hell.

The following day I took her to work again and her nametag had her name on it and underneath it said 'RN and clean underwear checker'. Ya gotta love small Alaskan towns.

Another time I busted a foot and limped into the hospital. At the check-in desk was a dour incompassionate humorless frump with about an inch of makeup on. I took one look at her and decided to crack her makeup.

After the preliminary paperwork I asked her if he clean underwear checker was going to inspect my drawers for cleanliness. Instantly I saw her makup crack in a bunch of places.

"The what?" she asked.

I put on my best small town rube act. "My momma always told me to wear clean underwear in case I got in an accident and had to go to the hospital. She said if the doctor saw it was clean he'd know you came from a good family and try harder to save you. I just was wondering when the clean underwear checker was going to inspect my shorts."

The cracks in her makeup turned into huge fissures and a small Filipina nurse that overheard it started to giggle and ducked in back somewhere.

A few seconds later the biggest Swedish nurse I have ever seen came out. She had shoulders like a linebacker. She was well over six feet tall in her stocking feet.

She walked up behind me an gave me the biggest wedgee I have ever had and lifted me a full foot off the floor by my shorts.

When she dropped me she said "They're clean. I'll tell the doctor you come from a good family" and walked off with a pretty self-satisfied grin on her face.

I later told the doctor he ought to buy that moose a set of antlers and he laughed like hell.

None of this made the pain in my foot go away but the laughter made it a little more bearable.




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I have made an enemy for life but he worked hard at it.

Some clown started off running his mouth about Melania Trump, calling her a few unsavory names refering to her modeling career. I grew tired of it and truth to be known I didn't like this guy to begin with.

"Want to talk about someone else's wife? Let's talk about mine first," I said. University of Oregon, Elementary education, teaching certificate, her Spanish and French are rusty but they'll come back with a little use. One hundred and twenty five pounds, my height, great figure for a teenager and she's  64. She knows how to run a salmon troller, too. She doesn't need my money because she has her own."

"Now let's talk about Melania Trump," I went on. "Excellent college education, speaks 4 languages fluently, had a modeling career, has her own money, doesn't need his. Has a figure like a goddess, a lot of charm is a real brain and is quite polished."

He stood there cringing at what he feared was coming. 

"So tell me, did your wife finish high school?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, cringing. He figured that her weight, close to 300 pounds was next and I saw him die inside.

"Outstanding!"  Maybe she can get a job at Walmart," I said, in a condescending tone. "Let's quit right now. You've been humiliated enough for one day," I walked off leaving a lot of people smirking.

Sometimes you don't have to go in for the kill. It's already been made and cruelty for cruelty's sake serves no purpose.




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Sometimes we're responsible for letting ourselves become victims.

One of the classic situations is the idiot that walks down a dark alley counting a big wad of cash. Of course he gets boinked on the head and loses his cash. It's fair enough to hold the thief responsible.  The thief stole the cash and the victim was committing no crime.

Still, not many of us have a whole lot of sympathy for the victim because he was stupid enough to make it too easy for the criminal to resist.

Some people never seem to get it. They never pay attention or look around at hte rest of the world and learn from what they see.

Let's take a look at Europe and the recent wave of Middle East immigration. 

Germany has started telling the women there to wear sneakers and to try and outrun rapists.Sweden is having one hell of a time with Middle East immigrants and the Mayor of London is telling the Muslims there that they do not have to assimilate.

Of course, Hillary Clinton wants to bring a few million people like this into the United States. These poeple likely have no desire whatsoever to assimilate. They want to turn this country into a world where women are nothing more than toys. They have no rights. The wife burned dinner? Throw acid on her face. She's only a woman. That'll teach her!

These people want to destroy Western civilization and turn it into the big pile of failure that the Middle East has been for centuries. It doeasn't sound to me that Hillary Clinton has a whole lot of respect for American womanhood to me.

If Hillary Clinton wins and allows thousands adn thousands of Syrians to enter the country do not come complaining to me.

If your daughter ends up hospitalized form a torn vagina caused by some Middle Eastern immigrant gang rapists I want to be there when you get the news. I want to sit there and explain to you that you brought this on yourself by voting for the woman that allowed these people into the country. I want to see your tears.

If your son gets inviserated by an IED and winds up crippled for the rest of your life I want to be there when you get the news. I want to explain to you just how stupid you are for helping to allow these people into the country.

The truth is that I will have no sympathy for you whatsoever. None. You have brought this on yourself and your loved ones and have only yourself to blame. You did it to yourself. Your actions have helped destroy a nation and turn it into a hellhole of a place to live in. 

You did it, now sleep with it.

Incidentally if you don't like Donald Trump there is always Gary Johnson or Jill Stein. 


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My wife and I live seperate lives in a way

 and often do not share the same domicile. It works and neither of us have any plans to split up. Neither of us want to split up. Both of us are content with things the way they are.

She often occupies the house I live in while I am gone.

When she moved out of the house a matchmaker took one look at the situation and started offering to fix me up. I said 'No thanks.' Of course, she persisted. Dumbasses like that generally do not know how to take no as an answer. She could simply not comprehend the fact that Mrs. Pic and I were not splitting up just because we opted for seperate living arrangements.

I later had a word with her husband and got her off my back. 

I always get a boot out of these matchmakers and the people that they pull out of their pocket.

"She's had a few problems with men." Read: divorced six times.

"She's had a problem with drugs/alcohol." Read: she just got out of rehab for the 8th time.

Even if Mrs. Pic and I did decide to split up the last thing I would want is any of the matchmaker's matches. I'm not that stupid.

I ran it by the couple across the street. They both have a great sense of humor. She's a tall, busty woman that has the ability to pull anything off. she's as comfortable dolled up in someplace fancy as she is sitting on the tailgate of a pickup with a beer watching an illegal street race down on Thunder Alley.

I confess to having an off the wall sense of humor and there are few women that truly appreciate it. Strangely enough, most of the few that do have been married for decades.

"Hey, Lois," I said. "Ever since Mrs. Pic and I started living apart Suzie the matchmaker has been trying to fix me up. I can't seem to get it in her head that I am married and want to stay that way."

Lois smirked. Tom looked at me and shook his head.

"Lois," I asked. "You got a Dolly Parton wig and a good push-up bra?"

Tom looked and smiled. He knew I was up to something. "OK, Pic. What's the plan?"

"We doll up Lois and we put the two of us in the Miata with the top down and drive by Suzie's place when she's gardening and I wave. She'll add two plus two, get seven and assume I have some foxy chick in my life and leave me the hell alone," I replied.

They both laughed.

"Lois, you still have that wig you wore to the costume party years ago?" asked Tom.

"Got rid of that a couple of years ago," she replied. "Now I wish I'd kept it... Hey, Suzie would know it was me if we drove by."

"That's what four pounds of trashy-looking makeup is for," I answered with a smug look. "Besides you can just kinda look around and not give her a good look at your face. It's all about illusion. Hell, I'm not necessarily even looking for a real woman. A decent drag queen would do nicely. Hell, if it really was a guy we could have a beer afterwards and talk about hunting and fishing."

All three of us laughed for a few minutes envisioning some guy in drag sitting next to me in the Miata...or sitting on the back porch drinking beer and talking about next deer season.

"Hey, George, sit like a lady! I'm tired of staring at your junk," I said. We were envisioning a drag queen and I sitting on the porch sharing beers.

We all laughed and Lois blushed a bit.

"Well, off to Craigslist," I said. 

"I wanna read THAT ad," said Tom.

"Me, too," added Lois.

What's funny about this entire conversation is that we all knew it to be semi-wishful thinking. The truth is I could never do something like this because it would get back to Mrs. Pic and her feelings would be hurt. There are simply just too many cruel people out there.

Instead, I chased down Suzie's husband and had a quiet word with him and he went home and squelched the entire issue, thank God. It was starting to get old fast. I was pretty damned close to putting on my old army boots and jumping all over Suzie with both feet.


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I see where as usual the black community for the most part tends to vote straight Democrat.

I also see where a man named Gianno Caldwell said recently, "Black lives don't matter to Hillary Clinton. Black votes matter to Hillary Clinton."

It is likely the truth because Hillary doesn't like little people to begin with. You can see it in her. However I am not going to blame Hillary for the attitude because Democratic candidates have felt that way for generations.

FDR actually started it with the welfare programs of the 30s. I suppose with the nation on its ass he felt he had to do something. What he failed to do is to put a sunset on it. 

The LBJ war on poverty really put things in gear. While the Civil rights bill needed signing, he didn't do it as a friend of the black community. He did it entirely for votes. He was quoted as saying "When I sign this bill, we'll have those ni&&ers voting Democratic for the next 200 years."

Some friend of the black community he was. His War on Poverty programs destroyed an awful lot of American families and hit the black community the hardest.

It was done for votes and has plagued us since.

The problem with democracies is that the government starts bribing people with their own money. We see this a lot these days. 

A classic example is the Obamaphone. It is a 'free' cell phone given out to just about anyone that is on any kind of relief or government subsidy, including Social Security.

"Hey! President Jug Ears gave me a FREE PHONE! I'm voting for him next time!"

First of all it is not free. It is being paid for by the collapsing middle class in the form of increased taxes. 

Of course that sounds all well and good until you see what the person accepting the freebie has done to themselves. They have in effect sold their birthright for a cheap government freebie. It has cost them their vote for fear the freebie will go away. It has cost them their independence, their dignity and their self worth.

For what? For a cheap telephone they could have bought for themselves for under $20. Now they are in effect slaves to the Donor party.

Sounds like a pretty cheap sell-off to me.

When you couple the welfare system that encouraged unmarried pregnancies and a system that leaves men off the hook, Section 8 housing, low or no cost health insurance then the recipients become instantly dependent on the government because it leaves the individual responsible for nothing except for maybe wiping his own butt...if that. 

This has, of course, hit the black community a lot harder than the white community, at least percentage wise. Still, there are no shortage of whites in this boat.

The next step, of course, is to divide us. With the White House inviting the BLM people and AL Sharpton into it and carrying on about how they are doing a wonderful job. This certainly increased the divisiveness between the races.

In the past eight years of the Obama reign race relations have gone to pot. We have been set back decades and a lot of the work done by Dr. King and others is on the verge of completely unraveling.

There is a sharp decrease in the 'There's one race and that's the human race' attitude. Some blacks are demanding self-segregation. It's kind of a Jim Crow in reverse. No. No way in hell! Sorry, you're stuck with us...that is unless you are willing to forego government assistance. Then if you can afford it you do what you want.



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American journalism is dying off

at an incredible rate since Donald Trump threw his hat into the ring.

It has been dying since long before that but recently it has slid down the tubes a lot faster.

Fair and unbiased is going down the tube faster and faster each day and right now I have no faith in any of the newspapers or radio and TV stations.

The New York Times should change its motto from 'All the news that is fit to print' to 'All the news that is fit to tint.'

It has gotten out and out patently dishonest and seems to be serving the left.

The time when the news was reported dispassionately with no political bent is long over with. It's to the point where a report of someone's grandmother baking cookies for a church rummage sale is a vehicle for politics, generally leftist.

It wasn't always that way. There was once a time when the news media reported straight facts and let the reader draw his own conclusions. The Op-Ed page was the newspaper's forum where issues of the day were discussed. Not anymore.

There is a reason that they are not getting away with this as much as they would have been able to a decade ago and that is the internet.

I think that the mainstream media as we know it now is dying. It is likely going to be a slow death but it is dying.

Fewer and fewer people are believing them anymore. More and more people are turning to the computer now to get the inside scoop on just about everything.

Of course that opens up yet another set of problems. You have to dig to find out what is a crock and what isn't and piece things together.

Truth is the Fourth Estate has become the mouthpiece of the Left. It really is as simple as that.




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I have a pretty good collection of fedora

s and am seldom seen out of the house without one on. All of them are old school with a 2 1/2 inch brim. I despise the thin brimmed fedoras the hipsters wear.

Someone the other day asked me about them. They said that they never saw me without one and casually asked me about how many I have. I have about twenty.

The one I was wearing at the time is Kelly Green and instead of felt it is made of layers of wool sewn together. It is the nicest of the lot. I had it made for me in Poland and the price was right. 

The woman was a banker I was doing business with and she asked me if there was any special significance in colors and styles.

I told her the mint green was for quiet times, the camel colored one was for dress-up with my camel overcoat.

I explained that the fuschia hat went with my zoot suit and that the hats that were part of the Godfather collection were for just about anything where I wanted to look somewhat Italian.

I have a brown one for the Indiana Jones look which is generally used for swashbuckling.

Then I told her that I had a grey and a brown one from the James Cagney/Humpfrey Bogart collection. The brown one is worn to bump someone off and the grey one is supposed to be used for robbing banks, according to the old black and white movie guide.

She laughed and said she'd keep an eye out for the grey one. I told her not to worry as it makes no sense to rob a bank you keep your own money in and she grinned.

Truth is it's all a crock but relly not too bad for coming off of the top of my head.





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Sometimes God calms the storm.

Sometimes God calms his child and lets the storm rage.

God has been very good to me by letting the storms rage and calming me. 

It has helped make me what I am today.






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A Five Easy Pieces day.

https://youtu.be/hdIXrF34Bz0

I was grub shopping at a local Wally World and when I had the order rung up I simply told the clerk to take all of the stuff and place it in an empty cart without bagging any of it. He said he wasn’t really supposed to but I assured him it would be OK and he did what I wanted him to.

I did this because I didn’t want to unbag the stuff out in the parking lot. I had a couple of plastic Rubbermaid totes in the bed of my truck which make it a lot easier than carrying a bunch of bags.

I got stopped by the security lady at the door and showed her my receipt. She said the stuff should be bagged. She said the clerk was supposed to bag my order and asked why the clerk didn’t.

I live by a code that says when someone does me a favor I am obligated to cover for the favor doer. It is my responsibility, not his. If I drop a sputtering grenade, it is my responsibility and my job to jump on it.

I looked at the woman. “He didn’t bag the groceries because I told him that if he did I would knock him out.”

She looked shocked. “Why would you knock him out?” she asked.

“Because it is easier than breaking both of his legs,” I replied.

“Why would you harm him at all?” She asked.

“I didn’t have to because he didn’t put my groceries in bags like I told him to,” I replied.

“Why don’t you want your groceries in bags?” she asked.

“Because of the code I live by,” I answered.

“What code is that?” she asked.

“The one I learned in prison after I murdered some woman that asked me too many inane questions,” I replied. “You do know that the recidivism rate for people that murder people that ask too many questions is pretty high. Stop me asking questions before I kill again!”

The guy behind me laughed like hell.

“You, sir, are a true professional,” he said. “I have the day off. Could I follow you around?” 

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Left to my own devices

 I am generally a rough, crude, primitive kind of cook.

People that watch me cook go one of either two ways.

They either grin and salivate in anticipation of a simple, tasty meal or they cringe in fear of what’s going to come out of the mess they see on the stove. I seldom if ever get complaints.

I am not fancy and look at a kitchen a lot differently than most women do. A kitchen is nothing more or less than a workshop for food to be prepared. It should be fairly clean and utile.

Food is nourishment and should be wholesome and tasty.

However, I think that people play with it too much during preparation or try and make something into something that it isn’t.

To me, for example, a steak is a steak and it is as simple as that. I like mine burned on the outside and blood rare on the inside. Cooking one is a simple process. Trying to do too much to it and play with it detracts from the primitive beauty and taste of meat that has had fire applied to it. 

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Ever since the government stopped letting hardware stores

 sell dynamite I have had to start doing really, really stupid things to keep up with my compulsion to play with dynamite.

When hardware stores stopped selling dynamite I took to buying it out of old barns and sheds. Some of it was old and crystalized and was pretty unstable but I survived.

With most of the available dynamite gone I had to find something volatile to play with and I have discovered old women. Old ladies are loose cannons and are pretty damned unpredictable, much like crystalized dynamite.

One will get upset at hearing someone say, “Aw, shucks!” and get indignant over what she perceives as profanity. The next one will rip loose with a string of profanity that would make an Old School drill instructor blush. You never know.

Over the past couple of years my favorite trick is to see a bikini clad lovely on a tabloid and look at it and then back at the old woman behind me with a look of confusion. I then point to the tabloid and ask her, “Is that really you?”

The first time I did this the old girl blushed, tittered and gave me a sheepish look and leaned over to me and said quietly, “The picture was taken some time ago.” We both laughed.

The second time the old woman looked, scowled and called me an asshole.

The third time the old woman took one look at the tabloid picture and asked me, “Why? Ya gonna come down to the dance hall and put a couple bucks in my G-string?”

I gotta admit I blushed a bit and laughed like hell.

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One of the things I am going to do today is write a long letter to

someone because I think it will communicate things better.

Sometimes handing someone one's thoughts on paper is a good idea because the reader can go over things again and recheck things. WHen you speak the words are gone as soon as they leave your mouth.

I'm trying to let someone know how I think.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

I ran into a guy I see regularly and he told me that he is not a shooter but is thinking of getting a firearm for the house. I told him he needs two.

More importantly than that he needs a plan. My plan is fairly simple. I simply retreat to my bedroom, call the United States Cavalry and hope they are not too late.

While never in the entire history of the motion picture has the United States Cavalry been too late, this isn't the motion picture business and the Cavalry is a basic suburban police force.

I am very disciplined with things before I turn in. I punch 911 onto my cell and park it. The purpose is threefold. All I have to do in the middle of the night is punch the button and unlock the phone, swipe the screen and hit send. The local 911 will cover a police, fire or medical emergency.

The duty gun in the bedroom is for a last ditch scenario.

Although Pennsylvania has castle doctrine, shooting anyone under any circumstance means a trip to jail for at least until after an investigation.

The truth is an intruder is free in my house to wander through the kitchen and make himself a snack. If he has to go to the bathroom he's free to. He doesn't even have to put the seat up.

Want to check out the stuff in the dining room? Feel free. 

Head into the living room and watch a little TV if you want. Maybe grab a beer and catch up on N.C.I.S. and see how Abby is going to track you down.

However, walking into the bedroom is going to be a mistake. It will likely be a painless mistake, however because you are very likely going to be dead before you hit the floor. I WILL fire on you. 

It really is that simple.

The truth is that a lot of people think that simply getting some firepower is the solution to a threat, the truth of the matter is that a firearm is simply another tool to work with. It is only a part of a security and safety plan.

I knew an interesting man that used to have an interesting setup.

It was kind of an emergency center that had a fire extinguisher, a first aid kit and a 12 gauge coach gun mounted on it. He said he was ready for fire, intruders or a health emergency.

Looking back on it, it made a point. 

If you think that being prepared simply means getting a gun, guess again. 






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I am an old man because most of my younger friends have grown up on me.

Yesterday Rennie saw me in the yard, stopped and we chatted. He was visiting his parents.

He was one of the baseball players that helped hide me out when I hit the home run through the old grouch's window. He must be 30 something now with a wife and kids.

When I meet my maker and need a character reference to get in I'm going to point out to St. Peter that the kids in the neighborhood refused to rat me out after I hit that homer that broke the grouch's window. That's gotta be good for something.

It was good seeing Rennie and I asked about Dave. Last he heard, Dave was living in Michigan somewhere and working in some kind of a forestry/game management kind of guy. 

Dave was the one I bailed out. When the kids didn't rat me out, Dave's dad got all worked up about it and tried to punish him severely. My neighbor and I paid his dad a little visit and got him off the hook. 

None of the kids ever said anything until the old grouch passed and when he was gone a few of us had a good laugh about the bottom of the ninth the bases were loaded winning homer.

Another kid I used to play with is grown up. 

One time I was talking to a group of people and as I was finishing, the kid came up to me in front of everyone and said, "Hey, Dad! Can we go to that place we went to again? All of those naked ladies were real nice to me."

I miss him. We used to bounce off of each other. His real father once said he knew he should have pulled us apart but didn't because he wanted to see what was going to happen next.

I recently told a kid in his very early teens that there really isn't a whole lot of difference between a young man and an old one. We still like to have fun. I took him for an evening ride through the twisties in the Miata the other night and we grabbed a doughnut together at Dunkin'.

I treat young men like that as equals because as I age I have found there really isn't much difference between a guy of twelve and a guy of sixty-four. Once they hit their twenties we're ALL the same age.

When I was a kid sometimes a dad with a day off would join our baseball games. The dads would sometimes teach us a few things. I was lucky in that I got to be able to do this a few years back. It was just plain fun.

In this day and age I suppose that's pretty much out of the question. Times have changed for the worse. For one thing you don't see kids playing ball in the vacant lot anymore. For another thing, an older man playing ball with them would draw all kinds of unwanted attention. People would want to know what was wrong with him instead of approving of a guy doing what he is supposed to do.

I am an old man now and don't have anyone to play with except for a couple of old grouchy guys that drink too much.

It's kind of a waste because I feel I have something to contribute but there really isn't any way I can.

It's sad.
















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Where to begin…

I am sitting here and I don’t know what to write about save to say I am planning a Piccolo dinner for tomorrow night. I’m having a couple of people over.

When I do something along these lines I generally cook seafood which isn’t really common here in Pittsburgh. Pittsburghers are not real seafood eaters although most will eat it.

Truly good seafood is hard to find here so I make do with what I can get. Generally the cod that gets here isn’t too bad. I’m planning on sweet and sour cod which is an old recipe of mine from way back.

Right now I am looking at a spot for an old National Lampoon poster to go. It’s a WW2 spoof poster and I think I’ll hide it in between a couple of other WW2 era pictures I have in the man cave. If someone spots it between the 2 other posters it will cause a WTF moment.

What will be interesting is how long it takes my wife to spot it.

I have seen a number of the old WW2 posters re captioned and many of them are downright hilarious.

http://cdn.acidcow.com/pics/20121024/pinup_girls_05.jpg 

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