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Lust Affairs Don’t Matter

October 25, 2017 Leave a comment

When a brilliant man or woman in public life has an affair with another person, it has nothing to do with the ability of the man or woman to perform their professional duties.

The ridiculous grandstanding done by Ken Starr against Bill Clinton is unforgivable. He subjected this great man of genius IQ and wonderful diplomatic powers to enormous humiliation and stress over a simple blow job. Both Clinton and Monica were fully dressed as shown by the President’s DNA on Monica’s clothes.

In less childish societies, such as France and Italy, it would almost go unnoticed. In the United States of America it is reason to defile the presidency. Starr and the assholes behind him knew very well that it didn’t matter to his professional performance except for the fuss his enemies made about it. I’m damn sure they were all doing the same thing, one way or another. Starr looked to me like a guy who’d happily present his behind to any man that would like to enter it.

Then it’s Petraeus. He’s a war hero and a man who has served his country heroically. Now he’s ruined ‘cause he screwed his biographer. I wonder what she is going to win for having blown the whistle on him herself – she the ‘other woman’ and all. A more sensible society would put that where it belongs – nowhere that matters. If he shared any secrets with her, he needs to suffer the problems. BUT, if he just enjoyed sex with her, it’s no fucking business of anyone in his professional life.

People are people, and one lover in life is almost unnatural for men and women. We have to deny our natural animal instincts as much as we possibly can to have a civilized society. But when a man or a woman changes lovers, or takes more than one or two lovers, it’s nobody’s business but the participants. It should not reflect on their professional acumen.

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Two People are Questioned…

June 27, 2017 3 comments

First to face the inquisitors is a mature person, basically intelligent and well educated in top quality schools. The inquisitors lay out a conundrum for the wise, mature, intelligent person to consider for one calm, thoughtful hour.

The conundrum is this: The leader of a nation lies steadily and obviously, while the truth is evident to all. The leader fails to deliver, or attempt to deliver the promised needs of the general population. He tramples the nation’s laws, rules, and constitution and steers wealth to oligarchs while wreaking hardship and health hazards on the average citizens.

The question to the intelligent person is this; can you find reason and justification to believe in and support such a national leader? Consider carefully for one hour.

The hour passes quietly as the educated person analyses the conundrum. At the hour’s end, the person admits that there is no way to not hate and reject that leader.

The second person to be faced with the conundrum is a handyman that lives in government subsidized housing. He said he didn’t “need no stinkin’ hour. It’s obviously Trump, and Trump is the best, straightest president ever, and the media is all lies and fake news.”

And so falls the hard-earned dominance of the USA. They’ve got it coming to them.

Dr. Huxtable, Please Stop!

June 17, 2017 Leave a comment

I assume the Bill Cosby hung jury is because some jurists just didn’t want to tarnish the ‘America’s Dad’ image. I sympathize with that. I loved Cosby’s stand up acts, when he was just out of college. I guess I saw him on late night talk shows in those days.

Later, he was co-staring with Robert Culp in a mock cop show. I think it was called ‘I Spy’. I liked the show and the actors, and it hurts to think that Bill Cosby was drugging and raping women during those years. Why would he? Perhaps his personal kink is that the woman has to be inert. It’s abnormal, but it’s been heard of.

I was expecting, and hoping, that the prosecution would not retry Cosby. He’s guilty, and he’s old and somewhat blind, so what would the law do to him? If they would elect not to retry, the kids that loved the Fat Albert cartoons and other comedy things that Bill Cosby created, could continue to be cool with Dr. Huxtable.

If I Had Power

June 2, 2017 Leave a comment

There are some things I would do with power. Some rules would be made about television commercials. Some rules about society in general would be made, too.

Television commercials for automobiles, directed at adults, must stop showing the vehicles in dangerous, high performance attitudes. Four-wheel-drifting on the salt flats is not how you should sell your van. It is not a performance vehicle, and there should not be scenes that make it appear macho to dangerously abuse the family car.

Television commercials for children’s toys and treats must stop making the crappy little plastic palaces and whatever, appear to be magical. Mnemonic devises, like clowns, dragons, and superheroes must not advocate for a toy or a treat. It is abuse of the little person’s mind, and when Mom gets the crappy toy, and it comes out of the box and does whatever it does, it is very little like the example in the commercial.

Television commercials for household products must stop making  everything look impossibly perfect. Sellers of cutters, choppers, and dicers must admit that the blades do not last forever. Perhaps they don’t last very long at all. And when a product is offered for $29.99…  “But wait! We’ll include a second gimmick at no extra charge! What’s more, at no extra charge we’ll include attachments to spin, curl, and cook with your gimmick.”

Go to hell, you TV hustlers. Nobody needs two tub scrubbers or two waffle irons. Just offer the damn things for $15.00 each, and see how it works out for you.

If only we had the television opportunity that they have in England. They can buy an annual license that gets them entertainment, news, and sports, commercial free.

Don’t Complain to the Police

April 26, 2017 Leave a comment

The neighbour to the north of the sociopath has been suffering the aggravation for more than 20 years. His way of dealing with the sociopath is to yell and shake fists at him over the fence. He’s an idiot, and that’s why there’s been no improvement in 20 years.

The sociopath has a large diesel tractor. He spends his days on the tractor, dragging a steel beam around, eliminating any chance of grass coming up. The dragging on dry dirt adds clouds of dust to the stench of diesel exhaust. The man is not a farmer. His property is 60 feet by 200 feet, although he regularly transgresses onto neighbouring properties. His property is largely covered with crude sheds and an old school bus. The village is so small and insignificant, there are no bylaws to protect it. The area of the village is considered to be part of the surrounding farmland.

The guy with the tractor is a sociopath. He feels nothing toward the neighbours for whom he makes the days unpleasant. He breaks fences and denies it. He sweeps his dog’s droppings under the fence, onto the neighbour’s property. He pushes all the snow from surrounding areas onto the property to the south of his. This is because it’s the easiest way to get his area cleared, and the neighbours’ areas are of no consequence.

After a few years of trying to get some help from the city manager, the county counsel and even the mayor, the neighbours got a response from the provincial police. They had a couple of interviews at the police station, and one time they were told that the offending neighbour was in the building. Pressure was applied by the police to have the neighbours shake hands with the offender, and the good neighbour was blamed by the police for being unreasonable. The psycho agreed to stop putting snow on the neighbour’s property. That was strictly against the law, so of course he had to stop.

What the police overlooked, was the years of criminal harassment. He redirected rain runoff onto the neighbour’ garden. He used an old oil tank as an amateur incinerator, and burnt garbage in it. Often, he burned plastics and foam rubber, sending clouds of toxic chemicals over the neighbourhood.

The police felt that they had done a good job, blaming the complainant and ignoring the many infractions by the psycho. So don’t go to the police. They’ll blame you, because you make them work.

Treasure Lake – Like a deer in the headlights

March 19, 2017 Leave a comment

The canoes split the water silently as they glided across the small lake seeking cover. With great care, all four paddlers dipped their paddles into the still water with almost complete silence. Whatever sounds their might have been – whispered words or a paddle lightly touching a gunnel – were drowned out by the mating songs of a million insects and amphibians.

Suddenly the lake was alight. The airplane had turned on its landing lights for a last look around, and there they were – two canoes and four young people. They couldn’t see anything when they looked back at the plane because the intense light blinded them. Especially after the complete darkness. The sound of a small outboard motor came across the water.

“Shit!” Solly Cohen said. “They have a motorboat!”

“Paddle like hell for the weeds,” Rob Snitzer ordered.

“The weeds will slow us down!” Phyllis Snitzer said. “It harder to paddle, pushing through the weeds.”

canoe

“Shouldn’t we be looking for the swiftest way to go?” Caroline Rich said.

“The weeds will slow us down,” Rob said, “and if the motorboat guy doesn’t know better and follows us into the weeds, he’s gonna be stopped dead.”

“Why?” Caroline said.

“Those weeds will be caught by his propeller, and it will wrap around and around until the pressure pulls it in through the space between the propeller and its housing. It will stop the engine with sheer pressure, preventing the propeller from spinning,” Rob said.

“How do you know?” Caroline said.

“I’ve done it myself. Motored through a weed patch and took fifteen minutes to cut and pull the weeds out of the propeller shaft,” Rob said.

“What if he has a weedless propeller?” Solly said.

“We’re fucked,” Rob said.

“Well, what are we going to do, Rob?” Phyllis cried.

“We’re gonna paddle like our lives depend on it… because they do!”

With that, Rob plunged his paddle into the water and pushed. The others fell into his rhythm and the canoes cut through the tall weeds and soon they escaped the light from the plane in an area of dense foliage. Rob asked everyone to stop for a moment and listen. The motorboat was approaching. The engine began to sound strained, like it was labouring under an excessive load. At last, it stopped completely, and just in time.

Caroline could see it through the brush. The boat was illuminated by the plane’s lights, and two men were arguing. They tipped up the engine and began reaching back to grasp at the weeds that were tightly wound around the propeller shaft, as hoped.

The way to safety was clearer now, and they paddled steadily and without strain. They discussed the next problem they would have to face.

“If we tell the cops about the dead guy,” Solly said, “they’ll soon know about the gold, too.”

“If we don’t tell the cops,” Phyllis said, “and we keep the gold, what do we do with it?”

“I think I know what the perfect answer should be,” Caroline said.

“So do I,” said Rob. “We tell the authorities about the dead guy, and we turn the Krugerrands in wherever stuff like that goes. They will probably know who owns it, and are probably looking for it as we speak.”

They told the authorities about the corpse and gave them the gold. They expected the corpse to be killed, and the theft had been fairly recent. They solved the murder and the grateful Bank of South Africa gave each of the young canoeists one hundred thousand dollars. Everybody is happy.

10. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

May 26, 2015 Leave a comment

I assumed Bianca’s inappropriate offer of sex for favours was because she was an illegal immigrant. She must be in this country without a visa or other documentation. I believe her when she says she was pretending to change a front tire as she was instructed by her employer, Kimberly Rashid-Monterrain. I don’t think she knew that it was a setup as Beryl and I now believe it was. Rashid-Monterrain was putting Bianca’s life in danger because it was a murder plot.

We spent a week looking for the truck as described by Bianca. Of course, it’s understandable that she would have only vague information to give us because it was night, and the truck’s headlights would have blinded her until it passed. She could only tell us it was white, the kind with the flat front and a frame on the back that would normally haul an eighteen wheeler type trailer. So we searched for a white cab-over tractor type in body shops. We assumed that the truck would require repairs after wiping out an Alpha Romeo and a man’s life.

We split up so we could cover more ground in less time. I didn’t find the rig in any of the twelve shops I checked out but Beryl spotted it parked among trees behind a rural body shop. I rushed to meet her when she called to tell me. She waited for me before going into the shop to ask questions because she feared a killer might be there. I question her wisdom. What did she think I could do about it? I have nothing but a camera. ”If I take his picture, it ain’t gonna help.”

The shop was labelled “Mighty Rite coachwork repairs” by a sign in cracked and faded red, white and blue paint. Looking at the broken stucco that covered the exterior, I thought the owner must have a sense of humour. He boasted an elegant phrase like ‘coachwork repairs’ on a dump called ‘Mighty Rite’. I gathered my guts and led Beryl through a dented metal pedestrian door beside the huge, truck-sized overhead doors.

The interior was like a gigantic, dark cavern. It was crude, with greasy work benches along a wall and the obligatory calendars presenting naked girls pinned above the benches. On the left was a crudely fashioned cubicle of unpainted, oil stained plywood. Inside the enclosure was meant to be an office of some kind. I peered over the edge of the cubicle and saw a young man in greasy coveralls, sleeping in an old office chair with his workboot-shod feet on an ancient oak desk.

“Excuse me,” I said rather loudly. His eyes popped open and his first act after taking his feet off the desk was to pop a greasy cap onto his head. Through the grease I could see the logo ‘Carruthers’ on the cap.

“What! What?” he stammered. Beryl pushed me aside.

“Who brought that white truck in?” she said.

“What white truck?” he said.

“The one hidden in the trees,” Beryl said.

“Oh, that’s the one that little lady brought in,” the kid said.

“Lady?” Beryl and I said in unison.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What’s her name?” I said.

“She didn’t leave no name. All she said was that if we can fix it, we can have it.”

“Isn’t that a little odd,” I said.

“Damn straight it’s odd, but the boss ain’t gonna sweat too much over getting’ a free rig like that.”

“Describe the lady,” Beryl said. The kid looks at the ceiling and muses.

“First off, she was a really lush piece, y’know. A bit older, but still, really hot,” said the kid. “I figure she’s rich, not just ‘cause she gave away a valuable truck, but she was wearing spotless suede pants, jacket and boots that all matched. I don’t usually notice that stuff, but this babe was really sweet.”

“Anything else?” I said.

“A Volvo was waiting out front for her when she left, and it looked like another dish was driving it.”