A Lie

You can count me as one of the estimated 106.5 million that watched the Saints break themselves some Colts. I was almost afraid to root for the Saints. It is an almost-ironclad, engraved-in-granite guarantee the team I cheer for will be beaten to a quivering, begging, weeping mass. It is all but inevitable - sort of like night follows day and then day shows up again. It pretty much works the same way with TV shows. If I like it, it is doomed.

It just shows. Every now and then, a blind hog finds an acorn. I was the blind hog and I did enjoy the hell out of that acorn. The second half kickoff was an absolutely brilliant gambit. A knee to the collective nads would have taken less out of them.

Enough said on that subject.

The Stolen Valor Act is a federal law that makes it illegal for someone to falsely claim they were awarded a U.S. military medal. The crime can net them a year in the can, even if they aren’t trying to make money from their lie. The case is now in the hands of the Supreme Court.

At first read, I all but stuck my fist in the air and shouted, “Right effin’ on!” Those damned little pieces of metal and ribbon mean something. You’re not given a medal; you earn it. If you didn’t earn it, you have no business claiming it. There isn’t a whole hell of a lot of difference between that and stealing.

That was my first thought. My second thought was that I needed to spend some time thinking about my first thought; at least the part that didn’t entail making money off the medal. I have a personal problem, and it is always personal when it comes to my reactions, with anyone that uses medals to profit. It strikes me as being gauche. That doesn’t mean a chest full of medals doesn’t have meaning in the job market. It can well be a legitimate part of a resume. It tells who you are and what you’ve done.

As far as I am aware, I’ve only known one person who laid claim to medals he hadn’t earned and I don’t know if he should be counted. I served with a little squirrel of a guy that made the mistake of trying to stiff a guy that had loaned him money. He ended up with a severely busted jaw and a trip to a hospital in Japan to have it put back together.

One bright and sunny day, although I don’t know if it was, the MPs picked him up for some little misdeed. I don’t have a clue what it was. It may have been something as bullshit as having his hat on the back of his head or his shirt cuffs turned up. The military can be damned Mickey Mouse.

The problem was, the boy was wearing a chest full of medals – including the Congressional Medal of Honor. The only two medals he was entitled to were the National Defense and a Vietnam Service. Everyone in the service gets a N.D.

The long and short of him, he was booted on a Section 8. It was merited and warranted. He was a bunch of cards shy of a full deck.

I do know a guy who claims he is a Nam Vet. As a matter of fact, the guy is a friend. The thing is, while he was in the service, he wasn’t sent to Nam. It wasn’t of his choosing. It wasn’t because of a misdeed. They simply didn’t send him. Sounds to me like a whole lot of good luck.

He desperately wants to have been there. It shames him that he wasn’t. It bothers him immensely to be running with a bunch of guys that are in-country vets. He feels less of a man.

So he lied and that is a lead pipe fact. He laid claim to no medals; no acts of heroism. He didn’t tell any tall tales. The long and short of it, he did no harm. Laying claim to a service not performed isn’t laying claim to a medal unearned, but the difference is minute.

Should someone be prosecuted for laying claim to an unearned medal? I think not.

What do you think?

Life is sweet – because a lie doesn’t make you a bigger person.

Stupid isn't Age Specific

Had I been able to notice anything through my squinched-up, sleep-sealed eyes when nature’s unremitting summons pulled me involuntarily from my nightly state of dormancy, I would have noticed it is Friday, February 05, 2010. That said, it is within the realm of possibility I would have first noticed the sun was valiantly, though futilely, trying to shine through the clouds. Had the necessary been situated outside, I would have noticed the temperature was on the climb. Shortly after that, I would have undoubtedly noticed the RCMP there to haul me off for offending public decorum by exposing my, uh, charms to public view.

In case you’re interested, which may well not be the case, my laptop is back up and functioning like the champ it has been. I did find a just-short-of-ancient cache of addresses, so I didn’t lose as much as I stressing over. That little discovery seemed to thrill the hell out of Kat. I’m not sure if it was because she was happy for me or if she was overjoyed she wouldn’t have to listen to me cry, piss, and moan about it.

I’m thinking some people are so piss-ass stupid, they should write their weight on the wall before they take a set-down. That way they’d know how much to put back in so they would be able to move about.

In New York, they arrested a 12 year old girl for the egregious offense of writing on her school desk with a freakin’ erasable marker. We’re talking leading the kid out in handcuffs. Who in the hell would think that to be either appropriate or a good thing? In my absolutely biased opinion, a person with that sense of propriety has no business teaching school, running a school, or policing the streets. (Hope I covered everyone involved.

Speaking of who in the hell could think THAT was a good idea. In Michigan, a 62 year old man strapped a homemade rocket to his back. The idea was to get his sled going a little faster. The damn thing blew up. He burned the hell out of his face and may have injured his eyes. It goes to show that wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age and there ain’t no fool like an old fool.

I really wonder about Darwin’s survival of the fittest.

Life is sweet – especially if New Orleans wins the game!

Woe Is Me

In that my computer was displaying actions, or inactions, that were far and beyond anything that is acceptable it became necessary to refer it to Kat for discipline. The offences were so egregious Kat had no choice other than re-formatting the hard drive.

Life is sweet - but not when you screw the pooch and forget to backup your freakin' bookmarks.

Savory

The thermometer reads 11(f) above; at least, it did when we came back from picking up a ‘script for Kat’s mom. When that insidiously damp breeze from out of the south hit me in my, what proved to be inadequately clothed, arse, the thermometer became an instrument and purveyor of lies. I suppose, since that stupid rodent saw his shadow yesterday, we are in for another long stretch.

I almost forgot, though I don’t know how, we ordered pizza the other night; something we next to never do. Kat’s homemade pizza is better than any pizza I’ve had west of New York, and better than some I’ve had in New York, so why order – unless the hour is growing late, everyone is getting hungry, and part of the everyone is three nephews.

It is probably my fault. There is a Pizza Hut in this prairie land. Their product is consistent and I can’t say that I like it. The taste isn’t all that bad, if you like pretend pizza. It is the amount of salt they use. It leaves me feeling as though I’ve been left to cure under a mountain of the stuff. I never have cared for salt and I doubt I ever will.

There’s a joint called “Pizza Hotline.” Yeah, I know. The name alone should have warned us. If the name warning didn’t register, the prices should have set them clanging like a claxon on a warship. Hell, I’ve lived long enough to know that a bargain price is often not a bargain.

The pizza arrived later than promised. In itself, the tardy arrival was insignificant. The streets and highways were skating rinks and the delivery dude was unfamiliar with the area.

The pizza was a degree or two from being cold. Cold pizza ain’t necessarily bad. When I lifted a slice to take a bite, I discovered the crust was several shades past being golden brown. There were more patches of black than there were of tan. The meat was shriveled up little lumps of …. words fail me. There was a spot or two of almost-red where sauce may have been applied – with a lightly dipped, fine bristled brush.

The taste. Ah, the taste. Although I’ve never tried it, the taste brought to mind thinly sliced, scorched, shoe leather. I’d like to say it was the worst damn pizza I’ve ever tried to eat. I can’t say that, though. This stuff was to pizza what a cow patty is to a pancake.

I did write them a letter to complement their product. Just the facts, ma’am. Just the facts. I left out the drama. I left out the heart-felt, descriptive expletives.

I do have to wonder. In order to keep the doors open, a business such as this has to depend on repeat customers. Who in the hell would order this … stuff a second time?

Life is sweet – even when the “food” isn’t savory.

Good Book

From across a couple of rooms and down the hall, I can hear Kat’s mom scolding her. As near as I can gather, Kat walked across the back porch in her bare feet to toss a small plastic bag of potato leavings into the trash can. I find it a little amusing. When Kat’s mom is chilly, everyone is supposed to put on a sweater.

We’re just back from grocery shopping. One of the supermarkets knocks 10% off the tab on the first Tuesday of every month, so the store was jam-packed with cost-conscious canucks. No wonder. Grocery prices up here stagger my imagination. With all the hog and chicken farms around here, I would think they would be running buy one, get two free sales. Not all of the prices are higher than comparable prices in the States, but enough are to make one wonder.

Kat’s limping around like a crippled-up bronc buster. Sunday night we went out in the 26 below deep freeze to jump start the sister-in-law's van. The melt and freeze of yo-yoing temperatures made it slicker than greased goose … goo. One wrong movement and she was one Kat that didn’t land on her feet. I’ll give the girl credit, not one expressive expletive crossed her lips.

You know, right now I don’t have a single thing worth saying or anyone hearing. Rather than tax my feeble brain, and bore you even more than I’ve already bored you, I bid you a good night and a good morrow.

Life is sweet – because I’m going to go climb into a good book.

Ripped and Torn

“God bless you,” were the first words out of mom’s mouth when I sneezed. It was never “gesundheit.” When I was a kid, the blessing was followed with, “Cover your mouth. No one wants your germs.”

A quick sneeze following the first one was likewise blessed. Instead of “cover your mouth,” more often than not it was followed with “Don’t wipe your hands on your pants.

There was no blessing for a third sneeze. All it received was a terse, “Blow your nose.”

No, sharing this tidbit doesn’t carry with it any particular motive. It isn’t a lead-in for some deep, philosophical thought. Hell, if I were a stream, you’d barely get your toes wet when you walked across me. I thought it might be something you wanted to know. If it wasn’t, well, forget I said anything. I’ll move along.

It is a good thing I was blessed with the unerring ability to sift through news reports on such things as Haiti, Afghanistan, Iraq, the proposed national health care plan, the recession that could have been a lot worse and stands a better than good chance of being a lot worse, the swine flu pandemic that wasn’t quite a pandemic by a country mile, and Tiger Wood making a hole in one – or in several as the case may be. If I didn’t have that aforementioned ability it is unlikely I would have known the Tonight Show is changing hands and that there was a bit of an uproar over the change.

To tell the truth, I didn’t figure anyone could fill Johnny Carson’s shoes. He entertained me a whole lot more than he bored me. I decided to give Leno a chance. I was correct – he couldn’t fill Johnny’s shoes. But then, he didn’t try to. He wore his own shoes and he was funny and he was entertaining.

I wasn’t particularly happy when contracts dictated that O’Brian takes over the Tonight Show. I was familiar with his work and his style. Humor is another one of those subjective things in life. I found Conan to be annoying, not funny. I added the show to my no-watch list.

I’m fairly sure that no one other than the suits at NBC expected the Jay Leno Show to be a hit. NBC needs to hire someone to smack these programming geniuses in the head and ask them, “What in the hell are you thinking?”

It probably wasn’t a surprise to anyone, other than those same NBC suits and a few dyed-in-the-wool Conan fans, when The Tonight Show started tanking. It follows that the suits would want to move Jay’s show to a later hour. I was a bit surprised when they decided to cut it to a half hour. And it certainly wasn’t a surprise when Conan declined their glaringly-apparent plans.

What does surprise the devil out of me is the amount of people screaming that Jay is a bad guy and that he stole Conan’s dream.

Say what? He stole a dream? How in the hell did he “steal” a dream? Although the facts say otherwise, and I realize facts can be manipulated to fit the desired scenario, I say “so what?” Have we become so socialistic and politically correct that we should eschew a job offer simply because someone else is filling the chair and considers it their dream job?

If an employer offers someone a job, and they take it, are they stealing the job? I’m thinking the person being replaced lost the job for one reason or another. That’s pretty much the consequence of the “Peter Principle” in action. That’s the way that cookie crumbles.

As you can tell, I have been over-laden with weighty thoughts and issues. It is good to get rid of this bit of it. Now I can spend some time fretting about Rip Torn being arrested for breaking into a bank.

Life is sweet – because the I’m not out in the sub-zero weather.

Boobs and Boobies

It is tea time in Friendly, Frozen Manitoba. In truth, it is a bit past tea time, at least our tea time. We had to run a couple of errands this afternoon. Crowded aisles and slow clerks delayed our appointed rounds. To continue to follow this tiny vein of truth that runs amidst the potential for hyperbole and balderdash, I must confess that I’m drinking coffee rather than tea.

You probably aren’t interested in knowing, but I’m going to tell you anyway. My right knee is hurting like a proverbial supply-your-own-expletive that goes well with mother. My knees are considerate that way. They take turns hurting. Even better, every now and then they give me a few days respite; usually just enough of a respite for my easily deceived brain to think they’re in factory original shape. At least, I think that until I go to spring to my feet and discover the spring has done either sprung or rusted up.

For those of you that think I’m whining, I’d have to counter by stating that wouldn’t be exactly accurate. It is more about marveling how relatively insignificant events from my youth can take me to task at a much later date. Okay, maybe there is a little grousing, but I’m not going to own whining. Whining would be showing a remarkable amount of ingratitude. Now try to figure out what in the hell I meant by that.

Kat, the wondrous yin to my yang, sent me a little tidbit out of the land down under. I’m not talking the center of the earth thing that starred Doug McClure. We’re talking Australia. Kat know me extremely well, so well I’ll never be able to say she doesn’t understand me, so she knew it would tweak me a dab.

According to the article, the powers that be have banned small breasted women from anything they, (they being the self same powers that be), deem to be pornography. They claim small breasted women appeal mainly to the letch of pedophiles, thus their images shouldn’t be seen.

As a general rule, I’m not overly concerned about what happens in Australia or Great Britain. The problem is, bad ideas have a tendency to spread – especially bad ideas that are ostensively to protect the kiddies. From things I’ve read lately, both aforementioned countries have come up with a plethora of varied laws designed to protect the freakin’ kiddies and most of them are flat jaw-dropping.

In spite of the fact that several of my exes have been what I will euphuistically deem well endowed, I have never been partial to large breasts. Smaller breasts hold more appeal for me, although it is legs and derrieres that ring my chimes.

You, meaning I, have to wonder how far they will go in their zeal to do whatever in the hell they think they are doing. Perhaps it would be wise to ban male actors that shave their body hair or are perhaps a little less well endowed. After all, aren’t pedophiles attracted to prepubescent boys?

This, meaning my rant, isn’t about pornography. In my opinion, porn is difficult to define. One person’s filth can be another person’s “ho hum so what.” Neither is it about so-called "kiddie" porn, which isn't porn but the assault of victims truly not able to defend themselves.

It is about censorship. Censorship in any form, other that self-censorship, is wrong. Hell, censorship is evil. No one should have the right to decide what is right, proper, or moral for anyone other than themselves and their minor children. Censorship is the height of arrogance and it is one of the games played by totalitarian governments to stifle freedom and enslave the citizenry.

Life is sweet – even though freedom is never free.