Knock It Hoff

Team Spirit?

2012-01-20T19:50:00.000-08:00

There’s a clear message staring terrorists in the face these days, and it’s prominently displayed on the chests of TSA agents nationwide. Or at least in Charlotte and Pittsburgh. It’s a list of three values that stand as a promise to terrorists that they can’t possibly succeed in their nefarious plans.

Those values, stitched in bright lettering, are Integrity, Innovation and … um… Team Spirit?

Yes, Team Spirit.

I did a double take after reading the patch, because I felt for sure that no adult charged with thwarting terrorism would be wearing the words “Team Spirit” on their official uniform. Actually, the only place I’d expect to see “Team Spirit” on a grown-up’s outerwear at all would be at a drug counselor’s group picnic. But there it was, written in bold, beautiful thread.

Somewhere in Washington, DC, there’s a committee that is insufferably proud of itself for having come up with that. That committee is a greater threat to the future of civilization than all of our enemies combined. And I have definitive proof of that. Know what it is? They put the words “Team Spirit” on the uniforms of security forces charged with thwarting terrorism.

Honestly, if I’m a TSA agent, and someone hands me a uniform with a patch that says “Team Spirit” on it, that person is tasered on the spot and wakes up asking the question, “What the hell am I doing in Gitmo?”

What must the terrorists be thinking when they read those words?

Integrity: “Crap. We can’t bribe them.”
Innovation: “Crap. That could be problematical.”
Team Spirit: “OMG!!! Zac Efron’s here?!?”

The only time you see “Team Spirit” on a patch is when the 7th place cheerleading squad goes to the podium to get their award. You never see it again because they all throw their patches out once they get home. Yet here are the men and women on the front line of domestic anti-terrorism, being forced to flash this Disney-esque platitude. “Team Spirit” doesn’t covey dedication and determination to stop our potential murderers. It suggests that there’s an elaborate plan in the works that will bring together the cool kids and the geeky kids to trap Al Qaeda in a dumpster using a Bunsen burner, shoulder pads and a banana.

Maybe the world’s most dangerous committee was going for the element of surprise. “Team Spirit” is something you’d expect at Chuck E. Cheese. Its presence at the metal detectors of major airports is so astonishing that it could throw terrorists off their game.

“OK brothers, our holy act of vengeance is a go. We will be martyrs for the… whoa. Wait a sec. Team Spirit?!? What the… what’s… ABORT! ABORT!”

There are myriad other words or terms that would be more impressive than “Team Spirit.”

Vigilance.

Resolve.

Gang Tackling.

Brass Knuckles.

A Stick With A Nail In It.

I could even see “Teamwork.” It’s a little flaccid, but at least it suggests working together to thwart danger. “Team Spirit” suggests a group hug by the bonfire.

Come to think of it, that’s probably how the world’s most dangerous committee came up with it.

Ask Your Doctor About BUH-buh-buh.

2012-01-15T20:03:00.000-08:00

From ED drugs to blood thinners, a clear trend has emerged in the global pharmaceutical industry: the rise of the three-syllable brand-name prescription. Turn on your TV and you’re bombarded with advertising for Viagra, Ambien, Uloric, Lipitor, Celebrex, Nexium and a thousand other BUH-buh-buh (or buh-BUH-buh in the case of Uloric) drugs designed to fix whatever ails you.

Clearly, a three-syllable name indicates cutting-edge, can’t miss medicine. You know your doctor is giving you the very best when he prescribes BUH-buh-buh. It tells you that the doctor thinks, 1) you can survive this medical ordeal and, 2) your insurance will cover it.

A two syllable prescription, on the other hand, means that your doctor is basically writing you off as a lost cause and is pretty much trying to just keep you comfortable and out of his hair while he doles out BUH-buh-buh to his patients with a fighting chance. On the bright side, BUH-buh usually only costs $4 at Wal-Mart.

Recently, my eldest daughter was diagnosed with pneumonia. We were pretty worried until her doctor prescribed not one but two BUH-buh-buhs, Pulmicort and Zithromax.

“Look — they have three syllables! You’re gonna live, honey! You’re gonna live!”

Good thing, too. Because if that scrip had said Trimox and Flovent, things would have gotten ugly in the doctor’s office.

“Listen you son of a bitch, that’s my daughter in there. Now you write her a three-syllable prescription right now! YOU HEAR ME!!!”

The three-syllable prescription phenomenon is actually a godsend to the general public. Since most of us have no idea how a toaster works much less a complex chemical compound like a basal-thingy something inhibitor, it clearly lets us know which of competing pharmaceuticals we should demand.

Blood thinners? Coumadin: good. Plavix: bad.

Cholesterol meds? Lipitor: good. Zocor: bad.

Antidepressants? Celexa: good. Prozac: bad.

Of course, the ads for these meds generally feature 90 minutes of disclaimer, ranging from loss of appetite to sudden detonation, but you can pretty much ignore those. Every clinical trial involves a handful of weaklings who have adverse reactions that must be reported. But let’s be honest. Those people would never be prescribed BUH-buh-buh in the real world. The doctor would take one look at them and hand them a free sample cask of BUH-buh.

Of course, every once in a while you’ll see an ad for a four-syllable prescription. Ignore those. A four-syllable prescription is likely a placebo. Either that or it’s so highly experimental, they can’t figure out how to keep it from killing half the monkeys in the lab. Never, ever take a four-syllable drug.

Always demand three.

You Can't Keep a Good Hoax Down

2011-07-26T15:37:00.000-07:00

What would a hot July day be without some global warming hysteria from USA Today?

Today, America’s newspaper attempts to paint a nightmare scenario in that natural gem, Yellowstone National Park.

“Increasing waves of severe fires fed by climate change could shift much of the iconic forests of Yellowstone to scrub or grasslands by the end of this century, scientists say.”

Oh heavens no! Hopefully, the melting polar ice caps will move the Pacific Coast close enough to Yellowstone by then that the sea mist will prevent such a calamity.

USA Today’s article is laughable. The myth of global warming has been blown out of the water. Yet, they found some scientists who still toe the line, saying that global warming will destroy our nation’s favorite park.

Well, of course they say this. Because now, having said this, the government will hand them a Hefty 3-ply garbage bag full of money to continue studying the situation in the hopes that it will result in a recommendation for greater government control over what we drive and what light bulbs we buy.

“They ran various climate projections through computer models and got three scenarios — mild, medium and severe — of how increasing warming could impact the area's fire patterns.

OK, this might be a good time to remind everyone that to date, the number of climate change computer models that have actually proven out is the exact same number of plywood interstellar space craft I’ve launched. That would be ZERO. None of these ridiculous, garbage-in models have ever predicted anything that’s actually happened.

Ever.

None.

Not one.

EVER.

The story continues…

"Frankly, the results really surprised us," says Monica Turner, a professor of landscape ecology at the University of Wisconsin Madison and one of the authors of the paper. The researchers found ‘more fire and a more rapid rate of change than any of us had anticipated.’"

Oh puh-leeze! Yeah, the results of this garbage-in model surprised you. “Hey, let’s construct a model based on the myth of global warming that says the earth is going to get REALLY hot and way drier. Now let’s say that this heat and drought happens over a widely forested region that’s prone to lightning. Now lets say it resides inside the world’s largest caldera. Let’s see what the computer spits out here… (DING!) Fires?!? FIRES?!? UNBELIEVABLE!!!”

Hey next, let’s build a model based on an average temperature of 124 degrees Fahrenheit at the North Pole. (DING!) What?!? The ice melts?!? Holy crap! I didn’t see THAT coming!

“…cooler, wetter times seem to be going away, says paper co-author Anthony Leroy Westerling, who studies climate and wildfire interactions at the University of California-Merced.”

And if he didn’t say this, how much money do you think he’d get to continue studying “climate change?” Anthony Leroy Westerling has a vested financial interest in imagining cataclysmic climactic scenarios. If he came out and said, “You know, everything seems really pretty stable and relatively cyclical based on solar activity,” he’d have to get a real job. Aside from studying climate and wildfire interactions, I mean. He’s probably the guy who came up with the Nobel-prize winning equation:

Ignition Source + Dry Vegetation = Fire

Not to mention its wildly controversial sister equation:

Wet Vegetation + Ignition Source = No Fire

“Some climate change calculations for the greater Yellowstone area predict temperatures 8.1 to 9.9 degrees higher in the spring and summer by 2099.”

Let’s step into the Way Back machine. Hmm. Some climate change calculations said that Florida would be under water by 2010. Some climate change calculations said the polar ice caps would be virtually gone by now. Some climate change calculations said the oceans would be devoid of seafood by now. Some climate change calculations said that New York, LA, Boston and Philadelphia would be relegated to the murky depths of the greater Atlantis area.

None of these ridiculous, garbage-in models have ever predicted anything that’s actually happened. Ever.

None.

Not one.

EVER.

"’Yellowstone is fairly close to the tipping point,’ Westerling says. ‘There's no analog for this within the past 10,000 years.’"

There’s no analog within the past 10,000 years for anything as laughably ridiculous as your borderline-insane prediction of 8.1 to 9.9 degrees of warming. Because prior to the rise of the ecomarxists, you’d have been drubbed out of the scientific community for malpractice. You’d have been roundly ridiculed for being a complete joke. But today, you’re pulling a university salary.

And you wonder why more and more young men choose not to go to college. This could be one reason.

“In 1988, Yellowstone experienced one of its most devastating fire seasons, a hot, dry year in which 36% of the park burned.”

Yeah, you know why? Because the government decided not to fight the fire and let the park go through a NATURAL PROCESS OF CATCHING FIRE EVERY ONCE IN AWHILE. I guess USA Today assumes no one remembers that particular controversy.

“By 2075, all three models begin to falter, simply because so much of the forest would have been recently burned.”

Well, all of these panicky models falter because their parameters are established by unscientific opportunists who profit from panic, either financially or politically. That is abundantly clear by now.

After the humiliation of Climategate, the revelation that NOAA pulled temperature monitoring stations out of cooler climates and the resignation of Harold Lewis from the American Physical Society (calling global warming, “the greatest and most successful pseudoscientific fraud I have seen in my long life”), you’d think that these exposed scoundrels would shut up, pack up and go away. But no. They just keep going. They seem to be clinging desperately to the philosophy that “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.”

They’ve built an entire industry on the mad rantings of Joseph Goebbels.

But hey, it seems to be working for them. We won’t be allowed to buy 100 watt bulbs come January 1. Good thing, too. Those babies get hot enough to burn down Yellowstone.

Are You Ready For Some Football?!?

2011-07-21T20:00:00.000-07:00

Well the blessed news just arrived over Twitter that the NFL players and owners have reached an agreement, thereby avoiding a badly needed shutdown of America's most gaudy five-shows-a-week television program. From today (which featured an NWS Extreme Heat Warning) until the second week of February (which will feature an NWS Blizzard Warning), we can look forward to endless coverage of the season to come, the season that is, and the season that was. This will be followed by the free agency season, combine season, draft season, spring voluntary (or you're fired) workout season and training camp season, interspersed with run-in-with-the-law season, FBI investigation season, serious allegations of (INSERT FELONY HERE) season and "marvelous story of redemption after prison" season.

Thankfully, we needn't worry another minute that our late summer, entire fall and three-fourths of winter will be devoid of life-enriching fare the likes of ESPN's NFL Prime Time (ten time winner of the Emmy Award for Outstanding Achievement in Jackassery). Cities like Pittsburgh, that desperately need revenue to fund vital graft, will reap the benefits of ticket sales, merchandise sales, parking taxes and public urination fines. And the makers of impotence drugs and impotent beers will once again find a forum to raise public awareness during the three-hour commercial marathons known as NFL telecasts.

Cue the exploding helmets! The gladiator music! The FOX dancing robot! Celebrate the storied rivalries such as Carolina vs. Atlanta, played on 100 yards of plastic and ground up tires under an inflated roof, just like Johnny Unitas and Bart Starr used to do! Savor the drama of waiting four minutes for a referee to decide whether the video replay conclusively shows that, a) that really was a catch or, b) that the receiver bobbled the ball upon landing out of bounds, even though both feet were clearly in bounds, because after all, he didn't make a "football move," aside from having control of the ball while both feet were in bounds, and even though the ground can't cause a fumble, it certainly can cause an incompletion, even if that ground is out of bounds. (It's clearly spelled out on page 964 of the official NFL rule book.)

So get ready to once again cheer the action, the collisions, the blind-side sacks, the bone-jarring, ball-loosening hits! And don't forget to join the NFL in observing a moment of silence for (INSERT FORMER PLAYER HERE) who succumbed to pugilistic dementia at the age of 43.

It's time for Air Force fly-overs, smoke machines, indoor pyrotechnics, and the National Anthem performed by a teeny bopper who doesn't know the words and is only vaguely familiar with the tune. Get ready for a halftime extravaganza featuring the animated corpse of Jimmy Page, followed by the insightful analysis of Shannon "What The Hell Did He Say?" Sharpe. And be sure to check Twitter after the game to see who's gonna wake and bake tomorrow morning!

Yes, the NFL is back, baby. And it's never going away.

Never, ever, ever.

The Idiot-Proof Cash Register

2011-07-09T15:06:00.000-07:00

During high school, I worked in a neighborhood corner store called Paul’s Market. It was a great little store, one of the last non-cookie-cutter convenience stores in Altoona, back in the days when virtually every middle class neighborhood featured a couple of homes that were converted into little businesses. A far cry from today when you can count on middle class neighborhoods with a couple of homes converted into meth labs. Both are entrepreneurial, yet hardly interchangeable.

Paul’s had a cash register that pretty much left change-making up to the cashier. After ringing up the item and taking the cash, some quick math in the head told you the change the customer received. Even though I’ve never been a mathematical wizard, only once or twice did I miscount. But these were the days when customers could do math in their heads too, so mistakes were quickly corrected and followed by accusations of attempted grand larceny.

One day, someone must have decided that mental math was too much to ask of the average cashier, and such registers were replaced with machines that tell you how much change a customer receives. No more thinking required. Just tell the machine what something costs, tell it how much money the customer gave you, and voila! It tells you exactly how much money to give back. How simple can you get? These new registers were 100% idiot-proof.

It appears I underestimated idiots.

Which brings me to Busy Beaver.

Actually, what brought me to Busy Beaver was a never-stop toilet that needed a new whatever that thing is called that makes a toilet flush and refill. After finding it, I made my way to the cashier, paid with a $20 bill and waited for my change.

I chanced a glance at the electronic register/supercomputer that most stores have now and noticed that it not only told the nice cashier what my change should be. It actually told her which coins and bills were required to make up that change:

1 — $5

1 — 5¢

2 — 1¢

Now, the only thing one can surmise from this is that somewhere along the line, there was an epidemic of cashiers who couldn’t convert a monetary figure into actual money.

“Your change is five dollars and seven cents. Um… OK… wait… so… here’s 12 of these guys with white wigs… and here’s a tube of nickels.”

Either that, or they just stood there looking blankly in the drawer for a few minutes before saying, “You know what? Why don’t reach in there and get it yourself.”

Are there really people who can’t convert “$5.07” into five actual dollars and seven actual cents? And if so, why are they in charge of money? Shouldn’t you have them outside sweeping the sidewalk? Or better yet, traveling the world looking for landmines with their toes? These are people who probably shouldn’t be working inside a building that’s stuffed to the rafters with hack saws, razor blades, power tools and some of the most lethal chemicals known to man.

You know why?

BECAUSE THEY’RE DUMB.

But in Busy Beaver's defense, they can't be the only ones encountering this level of dumbth in their prospective employee pool. There must be demand for these cash registers or no one would be building them.

When you think about it, that's not a comforting thought. After spending hundreds of billions of dollars on education over the last 20 years, our schools are turning out graduates who have to be given the recipe for change.

No Courtroom Drama

2011-05-24T17:22:00.000-07:00

I’m no lawyer. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Perry Mason, LA Law, Boston Legal and Edgar Snyder commercials, it’s that lawyers love going to court. That’s where they ply their trade. That’s where the excitement is and reputations are made. Where all those years of research and studying and practicing will manifest themselves in brilliant oratory and reasoned argument that sways the hearts, minds and opinions of judge and jury in headline-grabbing triumph.

Except, apparently, most of the “corporate lawyers” I’ve had to deal with in my career.

No, unfortunately these folks will do anything humanly possible to avoid ever seeing the inside of a courtroom. I’m not sure what they think happens there, but it can’t be good. Maybe they think courtrooms are filled with large bears and swiftly rotating knives. Maybe they saw The Execution of Private Slovic and they think that’s what’ll happen to them if they lose a case. I don’t know. All I know is that they never want any part of a trial. Ever.

They may be great people. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t met any of these banes of my existence in person. It’s always through some intermediary bearing tidings of great disappointment in the form of the phrase, “We can’t say that.”

I know why. But I always ask anyway.

“Why?”

“Someone might take us to court.”

Yeah. Yeah, they might. AND THEN YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BEAT THEM. Isn’t that what lawyers went to law school for? To WIN cases? Didn’t they do dozens of practice trials at school? What happens? Do corporations only get the students that lost?

It would be like a guy going through football practice day after day, lifting weights, doing agility drills, studying film and then flat out refusing to play a game.

“Jackson! You’re in!”

“Whoa! I’m not going in there! There could be giant bears and swiftly rotating knives!”

Awhile back, we had a great tagline for a product. I mean, it was perfect. It was beautiful. It was only two words yet it captured the very essence of the brand and the psyche of the target audience. This baby was a rallying cry and unlike anything the category had ever seen. Then it went to the lawyers. Turns out there’s a wee little company, probably 1/1000the size of our client, whose name uses variations of the two words in our tagline. Only in reverse order. And one is spelled wrong. And the one that’s spelled wrong is a noun. In our tagline, it was a verb. And spelled correctly. Combined, the words in their company name and our tagline meant completely different things. And believe me, whoever was buying from the little company was NOT in the market for what our client was selling. They’d have probably been brought to tears by it.

And of course, the lawyer agreed with all of the above. It made perfect sense.

“But you can’t use it.”

“Why?”

“They might take us to court.”

Uh huh. Uh huh. You’re right. They might just do that. AND THEN YOUR JOB IS TO BEAT THEM.

No. Apparently, their job is to run that white flag up the pole so fast that the rope smolders from the friction of their panicked yanking before any threatening move of any kind is made by any party anywhere.

I can just see that guy flopping, exhausted, in his extraordinarily expensive leather chair after work that night while his wife hands him a scotch and soda.

“I dodged a bullet today, Millie.”

Yeah. You did. It’s called VICTORY.

Mmm, Mmm, Carp.

2011-01-18T20:01:00.000-08:00

Last week, the Pittsburgh Tribune Review reported:

"Recreational fishers can safely eat carp from the Monongahela and Ohio rivers once a month, according to the state Department of Environmental Protection."

The good news is that our rivers are getting cleaner by the day. The bad news is that this announcement indicates that someone actually pulled a carp out of the Mon and said, “Hey, can I eat this?”

Um… What?!?

I don’t care if this thing tested negative for every toxin known to man, the answer should have been an emphatic, “NO.” First of all, it’s the Mon. Second of all, that’s a CARP. In case you’ve never seen a carp in the wild, head on down to the Mon and look for a pile of floating cigarette butts. That’s generally where carp congregate.

Over at the entrance to the Gateway Clipper Fleet, there’s a swarm of carp staring up at the bridge to the dock, the mouths on their grotesque faces flapping up and down mooching crumbs, just like giant aquatic pigeons. If you’re having trouble sticking to your New Year’s weight-loss resolution, just picture that sickening lump of living dreck on a plate.

The only way the state should OK eating carp is if the person making the request meets the following criteria:

You’re starving
You’re literally moments from death
You ran out of skunk

Otherwise, we run the risk of being labeled a bunch of carp-eating psychos. How would that play next time the CVB takes a call about a convention looking into our town?

“Pittsburgh is a beautiful place for a convention. Lots of greenery, lots to do, and lots of friendly, carp-eating residents who… hello? Hello?”

But again, I guess the bigger story is that our rivers are now so clean, so free of industrial waste that you can actually eat the most disgusting creatures that call them home. Maybe that should be our new slogan: “Pittsburgh — so clean, you can eat the carp. You know… if you’re desperate.”

The Great Spending Dilemma of 2011

2011-01-10T20:21:00.000-08:00

I’m extremely hesitant to spend money on myself, mainly because I’m the only person in a house full of five people that earns any of it. That and I have always been convinced that five seconds after I pay a lot of money for something, so-and-so will buy the exact same thing for 94% less than I paid.

But this year, I promised to make two purchases of items I dearly want but don’t really need: a second-generation iPad (fun!) and a Thompson Center .50 caliber Hawken muzzleloader (used but funner!). I say used because for some reason, a new Thompson Center .50 caliber Hawken muzzleloader is surprisingly expensive. Upwards of $750. That may not sound like a lot, but did you ever hear the expression “lock, stock and barrel?” Well, that’s all a Hawken rifle is: a primitive lock mechanism that was designed in the 17^th Century, a stock of wood and a thick iron pipe. It’s the most basic of basic firearms. But for some reason, $8 worth of wood and iron becomes, when assembled, $750 worth of retail flintlock. At least when it’s made in New England. So, I opted to look for a good one used.

I saved up throughout 2010 and came into 2011 excited for my two new toys. But, you know what they say: Life is prone to snapping off a slider when you’re sittin’ heat.

They do say that. I heard them.

Anyhow, that slider comes in the form of Sir Elton John.

On Friday, two colleagues at work emailed me the news that Elton John is coming to Pittsburgh on March 23. (As an aside, that’s two days before his birthday. I wonder if he checked the calendar.) And the problem is, tickets to an Elton John concert are really, really expensive. You’d think that a 63-year old dude who has earned eight bucks shy of half a trillion dollars wouldn’t need to charge $125 for a floor seat. But he does. Because there’s always some idiot out there willing to pay it. Me, for instance.

That wouldn’t be bad if it were just me and the missus. But it won’t be. You might think that three girls aged 11, nine and seven would have no interest whatsoever in going with mommy and daddy to see a 63-year-old Elton John in concert. Well, you’d be wrong. Because daddy plays a lot of Elton John music in his car and occasionally on his piano and his girls love it. (At least in the car.) They even request it. (Again, in the car.)

So now, with parking and the requisite souvenir and concessions, I was looking at a third major purchase in a two-major-purchase budget.

Like a lot of Elton John fans, I was torn between the concert, the iPad and the Hawken rifle. One of them would have to go. It was exactly like Sophie’s Choice. Only harder.

Oh well, I thought. I won’t be able to use the muzzleloader until December anyhow, and I haven’t found a reasonably priced used one in good shape yet, so I’ll put off the Hawken. But later, on the exact same day that my colleagues informed me of the upcoming Elton John concert, I got an email from my brother. A shop in Hollidaysburg had exactly the Hawken I was looking for. And it was less than any used Hawken I’d found online.

So I went to see it.

It was beautiful.

And now, it’s mine.

So now my splurge budget is down to either an evening listening to a 63-year-old entertainer whose voice irrevocably changed in 1986 or the absolute latest in amazing tablet computer technology.

It’s no contest.

You lose, iPad.

That’s OK. There will be a third generation of iPad, but who knows if my wife and kids and I will ever have the chance to see the great Elton John in concert again. He’s not getting any younger. And besides, with that Hawken rifle, I could get an iPad any time I want.

The Most Important Story of 2010

2010-12-31T11:49:00.000-08:00

There's a good chance many Americans aren't familiar with the most important story of 2010. The big-government-friendly media ignored it. The President, clearly, continues to pretend it didn't happen. And science teachers have never heard of it, as evidenced by their continued adherence to alarmist orthodoxy.

The story is perhaps not only the most important of this passing year, but of this century's first decade. It consists of one resignation letter: that of Harold "Hal" Lewis, Emeritus Professor of Physics, University of California, Santa Barbara. In this letter he exposes "the greatest and most successful pseudoscientific fraud" of his lifetime, and the machinations behind keeping that fraud alive. He also puts the lie to the claim that those who have not fallen for this fraud are know-nothings. Clearly, Hal Lewis knows his science.

Happy New Year.

http://thegwpf.org/ipcc-news/1670-hal-lewis-my-resignation-from-the-american-physical-society.html

Dioramas

2010-10-28T06:45:00.000-07:00

Forget computers, books and blackboards. Today’s educational tool of choice, by all appearances, is that three-dimensional quasi-artistic monument to household upheaval called the diorama.

You can't pass a school today without seeing at least a handful of kids carting their creations up to the school doors. In theory, these dioramas gave the kids a greater understanding of and appreciation for a tiny corner of our world. In reality, all they did was give these kids' parents a good idea of what the world would look like if God were a fourth grade surrealist. Rabbits would be the size of Kilimanjaro, grass would be 90 feet high, alligators and polar bears would live in the same trees, the hills would be covered with glitter and Selena Gomez would hover overhead beside the sun. Which is shaped like an eggplant.

Popular though they may be, I have the sneaking suspicion that dioramas are basically useless. Since when do kids have to build dioramas to learn something? Do you think anyone associated with the Apollo Program built dioramas in grade school? How about Einstein? Oppenheimer? Edison? Can you just see young George Patton building a diorama of the Brazilian rainforest? And those fellows did OK for themselves. Yet for some reason, there's always a diorama under construction in our three-schoolgirl home. They're building a habitat for an Aye Aye (a Madagascar lemur that's about as relevant to my kids as SETI is to the skunk in my yard). Building one of the Stations of the Cross. Building a grassland. Building -- as God is my witness -- a Mexican burial altar, complete with a plastic elephant, a picture of Bach, a chocolate-covered pretzel, a Gryffindor badge and a sugar skull.

Yes that's right. A sugar skull. What is a sugar skull? It’s a skull made of sugar. A human skull. With a patch of shiny foil on top. It’s about the size of a plum. And it cost me five damned dollars. I could have bought two five-pound bags of sugar for five damned dollars. Instead, I got one goofy plum-sized freaky-looking sugar skull that could have come from the world's tackiest Satanism superstore. I’m told they’re all the rage in Mexico. That would help to explain something else that's all the rage in Mexico: drug-gang massacres. How about a diorama of that?

Teachers that assign dioramas assume several things:

Parents have spare shoeboxes sitting around at all times just waiting to be desecrated
We have crap laying around that we wouldn’t mind hot-gluing to a shoebox
We have hot glue guns
We have children with artistic ability
We have spare fabric
We budgeted $5 This month for a goofy damned sugar skull

Note to teachers: you're wrong.

“Well,” teachers might say, “kids have fun with them.” Well of course they have fun with them. They’ve basically just been ordered by the primary authority figures in their lives to do something they love more than life itself: make the house look like a Mardi Gras float exploded in it.

In our house, one diorama — just one — completely ransacks three rooms. There’s the den, where the art supplies are kept and which must be thoroughly scattered so as to find the right foam, construction paper, twigs, cotton balls and walnut shells. There’s the dining room, where all that crap has to be meticulously disorganized into 35 individual piles, half of which are on the floor. Then there’s the kitchen, where everything comes together to create a darling display, which as it sits there all finished and shiny and colorful, looks a lot like an FTD Pick-Me-Up Bouquet in the middle of war-torn Baghdad.

It's not like they're learning a valuable life skill that will help them in their career some day. "Jim, the Mayo Clinic folks are coming in on Wednesday. I'd like you to build a diorama of an operating room that shows our new imaging tool in action. I think it'll seal the deal."

The worst part about dioramas is that after the kids take them to school, they eventually bring them back home again. What the hell am I supposed to do with it now? Yeah, I want to put that Mexican burial altar with its freaking $5 voodoo-shop sugar skull on my mantle. Yet you can't throw it away because, "Oh daddy I like it and I worked so hard on it." No, all you can do is leave it low to the ground and hope that someone breaks it eventually. Then you can pretend it's a darned shame as you carry it out to the garbage laughing quietly to yourself while sipping the iced tea you sweetened with that now-fractured sugar skull.

So please, teachers. No more dioramas. But if you must, here’s the deal: they’re coming to your house to make it. And then you get to keep it.

Enjoy.

Phenomenal Federal Food Drive

2010-10-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

This photo was taken on October 21, 2010.

It was taken by a friend who works for a massive government agency. I won’t say which one, since I don’t want to get him in trouble for pointing out this particular absurdity. But trust me. It’s loaded with people.

You’ll note that the date of the food drive was June 1-17, 2010. So you may be asking yourself:

• Why is the donation box still there FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE FOOD DRIVE ENDED?

• How effing cheap are federal government employees that the best they could do was a box of whole grain pasta (which sucks) and a tiny cup of applesauce?

• And what’s with all the hands holding up the planet? It’s the “Capital Area Foodbank” not the “United Nations Foodbank.” I got news for you: if you plan on feeding the world with one box of whole grain pasta (which sucks) and a tiny cup of applesauce, you’d better be Jesus, and you’d better have something better up your sleeve than whatever you pulled out to feed 5,000 people with a couple of fish and a few loaves of bread.

This is the federal government. They can’t even pull off a half-assed food drive, yet they’re convinced they can run the nation’s health care system, power the whole country with windmills and coerce auto manufacturers into building electric cars that appeal to people with testicles.

The world’s longest, least-generous food drive should be predictive of how all of that will turn out.

Typing with the iPad

2010-10-07T19:32:00.000-07:00

So im sitting here with the iPad pt ... Aw crap. Trying to use e keyboard to actually type something of length. This fantastic little device, I just ear, is the... No not ear, i just read is the most quickly adopted piece of electronic equipment ever pcreated. The only problem is its really hard to get used to typing on itl i mean, on it, i can't rest my fingers on the keypad, like i should do thwith a regu lar keypad. Bad things happen. And there aren't characters readi
Y avail... How the hell did I get down here now? Oh. The l is right beside the return key. Anyhow, characters like the apostrophe aren
T on the... Aw son of a bitch. See? Where the apostrophe should be is whe the return key is, i think I type too fart too because some of the letters don
T get typed shit! There
S that dammit!

Qwheee was I?

Oh right, I type too fast sometimes and it just guesses what word I was trying to type. That doesn
T Keats you bastard. That doesn't always work out too well. Where the hell did Keats come from? That was supposed to by "always."

Still, it
S a remarkable piece of technology, except for that cork sucking apostrophe pain in the ass thing I can not get used to. Maybe one of the advantages of that will be that we eliminate contractions from the English language and we shall start sounding rather formal again. But I digress.

What I will likely do, should I buy one of these for myself instead of Bogarting he one from the office, is get thoe wireless keyboard. Provided it isn
T this touch screen you miserable piece of peckerwood.I am on another line again.

Clearly, ,anyone who wants to buy an iPad and use it for writing purposes is going to have to relearn h qwerty keypad and alter their typing technique. It might be worth it. The portability and versatility of the iPad is truly remarkable -- which mite account for sales projections of over 12 million this year. But I can
T help but think that aw the hell with this.

The Battle of Raleigh

2010-08-27T14:06:00.000-07:00

At the Raleigh Airport today, a young woman sat several seats away from me and began an intense, animated, 10-minute battle with her badly misbehaving left breast. She was wearing a sun dress, and as she sat down, ol’ Lefty made a break for it. She started wrestling with it, trying to stuff it back in its nest, pulling up her strap with her left hand while pushing her breast down with her right, like a magician trying to stuff a stubborn white rabbit back into an undersized top hat. Just when it seemed like the situation was under control, she bent down for her laptop and, seeing a fresh opportunity to escape and nothing but unimpeded floor beneath it, her bosom ran to daylight once more. The battle began afresh, the lady’s elbows flailing like a faith healer trying to hold down a possessed teenager. She grabbed at it with authority and with a look on her face that clearly expressed what she was thinking: “I’ve had about enough of you, young lady! Now you settle down and stay in your room and don’t let me see you again!” After several more minutes of pushing, squeezing, strap-yanking and adjusting, Lefty was back in place. Temporarily. As she sat there, it began creeping back out. Like a kid trying to sneak down the steps without getting caught, Lefty was on the brink of another jump and run when the young lady caught it. This time, she gave it one good, authoritative push, reached into a bag and pulled out a denim jacket which she buttoned up to her throat. “There. I locked your door. You’re not going anywhere!”

NOAA's Threepeat of Deceit

2010-08-18T15:40:00.000-07:00

Having just returned from a beach vacation, I’m happy to report that the ocean is still within its boundaries. The beachfront hotel remains… well, beachfront. This is good news, given that global warming alarmists have been warning for years about rising waters that would leave the Island Vista several miles out to sea by now.

You would think that this admittedly unscientific observation technique (looking at something) might be the kind of thing that would make the global warming geniuses stop and say, “Hmm. Wait a minute. This isn’t rolling the way we thought it would.” But no, they’re still at it. Now they’re claiming that June was the “warmest on record.”

Well of course it was. And here’s why:

NOAA's cut back on recording temperatures in colder parts of the planet.

Back in January, Joseph D’Aleo (the first director of meteorology and co-founder of the now-decidedly ecomarxist Weather Channel) and a colleague reported that NOAA has pulled weather stations out of cooler locations around the world.

That’s right. NOAA has removed temperature-measuring weather stations from the world’s coolest locations. Lots and lots and lots of them. Since 1990 they’ve slashed the number of cooler-location weather stations from over 6,000 to less than 1,500.

And… Surprise! Their remaining weather stations, skewed heavily in warmer regions, indicate higher global temperatures.

This is the “sound science” of global warming. Do not question it.

If this isn’t proof that global warming is a diabolical hoax, I don’t know what is.

Oh wait. Yes I do! This:

NOAA says that this past June was the warmest on record, primarily because of how warm it was in the Arctic region. They got this data from the Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS).

A note here about GISS: Even though they say this warming was driven by high temperatures in the Arctic region, guess what? THEY DO NOT HAVE A SINGLE THERMOMETER IN THE ARCTIC REGION.

No, they simply extrapolate the numbers from a thermometer south of the Arctic region, a technique that is highly susceptible to personal bias. In other words, it’s a SWAG (Scientific Wild-Assed Guess). Maybe they think we shouldn’t question scientists who are so brilliant they can measure exact temperatures without a thermometer, but who in their right mind wouldn’t when billions of dollars and a slew of individual liberties are at stake?

If that isn’t proof that global warming is a diabolical hoax, I don’t know what is.

Oh wait. Yes I do! This:

Seems there’s a NOAA satellite that detected temperatures in northern Lake Michigan of over 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

(Oh, and look how precise their satellite is: it has a key for "Probably Cloudy.")

After this was revealed, NOAA denied it. Then admitted it. Then said it was no problem. Then admitted the satellite’s readings were degraded and would no longer be used for temperatures. After, of course, they were used to help bolster the myth that the globe is getting hotter by the second. Full story here:

http://www.climatechangefraud.com/climate-reports/7479-us-government-in-massive-new-global-warming-scandal-noaa-disgraced

Again, this is the sound science that none of us are supposed to question in the slightest.

Every time NOAA has been caught cheating the numbers, they simply move on to promote the next set of false data. And their "findings" are echoed and amplified by the lazy and/or complicit left-leaning media.

Which might explain why fewer people are taking either very seriously.

Headstoned

2010-08-12T19:34:00.000-07:00

One of the drawbacks of growing older is finding yourself in graveyards more and more often. This, of course, beats the alternative of finding yourself in a graveyard permanently, but still… it’s not a terribly pleasant part of the aging process to visit increasing numbers of your all-time favorite people in such places.

If these visits weren’t bad enough, there’s now something else that makes them even more unpleasant:

The appalling trends in modern headstone design.

These things are atrocious. What once were simple markers of the last mortal remains of our fellow human beings have been transformed into mind-boggling orgies of poor taste: gaudy displays of tackiness shaped like teardrops, hearts, books, flames, angels holding hearts, mountains, wings and animated ogres. Think I’m kidding?

But it's not just the shape that's changed. It used to be that the copy on a headstone was limited to the name and lifespan of the deceased. But this has tragically morphed into a verbose screed that features several lamentations and a list of unofficial titles that all start with the word “beloved:” Son, dad, cousin, brother, nephew, uncle, neighbor, hunting partner, business associate, tipper, drinking buddy…

They read less like headstones and more like resumes for passage into heaven.

“Says here on your stone you were a square dancer and avid fisherman who was beloved by everyone. No kidding, everyone? Dang. You’re in.”

In fact, according to modern headstones, everyone who’s died this year was a humanitarian who would have put Mother Theresa to shame. Just once, I’d like to come across a stone that indicates the interred was a miserable bastard. Or a grump. Or a lazy, cheap-beer-swilling, do-nothing, two-timing louse whose lone contribution to the betterment of this world was the departing of it. But I guess if that were true, they’d just list his name and lifespan.

Worse than the verbose headstones are the ones that take advantage of the latest visual reproduction technology.

These are stones that feature a laser-engraved collage of what the deceased enjoyed in life, such as ocean scenes, motorcycles, fishing ponds, airplanes, and even tree stands for deer hunting. You can just imagine a nightly herd of deer laughing at that. “You don’t look so bad now, do you Mister Buckmaster.”

Yet another trend is to include actual photographs of the dearly departed, presumably to let future generations know where their ugly gene came from.

Frankly, I don’t want someone a hundred years from now knowing what I looked like. I want them to see my headstone and think, “That there was the handsomest sonofabitch that ever lived.” Which is why my stone will look like this:

Handsomest AND happiest.

No mas.

2010-06-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

I know there’s a lot of debate out there about Spanish. One side says there are umpteen million Spanish-speaking people in this country and we should accommodate them. The other side says that if you want to create a permanent underclass, make it easy for immigrants to not learn English. One side says Spanish has become part of the American culture, the other says it splits that culture in two, like French does to Canada. But neither side is addressing the real issue with incorporating Spanish into every package, sign, ad and TV’s closed-captioning software:

It’s waaaaaaayyyy too long.

I first came to this realization when we translated a radio script for a client. In English, it was a well-paced 60 seconds. In Spanish, it was 75, even though the announcer was reading it faster than a disclaimer for a used car lot’s 0% financing event. We were cutting out complete sentences just to get it close to 60, and finally were left to eliminating all pauses after periods. Then time compressing it by 10%. You’d have to have a blue whale’s lungs to say that much that fast.

Brands, advertisers and politicians (of course) think they’re currying favor with Spanish-speaking people in the U.S. by accommodating, promoting and using their native language. But did anyone ever bother to ask just why these folks left their Spanish-speaking country? Maybe, just maybe, they were desperate to escape Spanish.

Look how long it takes to say things:

“50% more fiber!” is just seven syllables. But in Spanish (Cincuenta por ciento de fibra más!) it’s 11. That’s 57% more syllables to tell me I get 50% more fiber.

“Officer! That man took my baby!” (9 syllables) translates into the 14-syllable-long, “Oficial! Ese hombre tomó a mi bebé!” I got news for you: ese hombre is half-way to the next county by the time you spit that out.

In the sign above, telling employees that they must wash their hands takes a mere six syllables in English. In Spanish, 14. By the time you’ve read that in Spanish, the guy who read it in English has finished blow drying his hands with one of those heatless, earth-friendly dryers and is at the bar with your date, who was impatiently wondering what was taking you so long but is now agreeing to go check out this dude’s F150 king cab. The only thing waiting for you at the bar is the tab.

English is also much simpler because it’s flexible enough to slam words together and still have them make sense. Look how long it takes to tell someone in English that the 3 oz. Dixie Cups they’re buying are for use in the average bathroom: “Bath Cups.” That’s it. “Bath Cups.” You get it. You know they’re cups for the bathroom. Now look at the Spanish: “Vasos para el bano.” Four words, seven syllables to say “Bath Cups.” Even if you just say “Bano Vasos” it’s twice as long syllable-wise.

The Spanish version of “War and Peace” must be nearly six hundred billion pages long.

This isn’t to disparage the Spanish language. I recognize the lyrical quality to Spanish. It’s a beautiful language. But that’s no excuse for loquaciousness. English can be beautiful, too. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?,” “Do not go gentle into that good night,” “Kirk to Enterprise, three to beam up.” See? Gorgeous. And brief.

It's Time For a Name Change

2010-06-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

Having lived here for 20 years now, I can tell you there’s a lot to like about western Pennsylvania. The names of some of the places, however, don’t make the list. I’m not sure where these names came from, but someone should give them back. It’s our only hope.

Blawnox

I’ve always imagined that the elder in charge of announcing the winning entry of Blawnox’s naming contest got as far as, “And the official name of our community is” when he suddenly threw up. The town stenographer tried to spell the sound of retching as best he could and, voila. “Blawnox.” Since then, I’ve learned that the founders waited too long to name their town, and the only three names available were Stinktown, Upper Diphtheria and Blawnox. After 52 ballots, Blawnox beat Stinktown in a runoff by one vote.

Leet

That’s not a name. That’s a facial tick.

Leetsdale

A town of facial ticks.

Pittsburgh

I know it’s a tribute to William Pitt, a friend of the colonists, and that’s all good and whatnot. Still, these are two pretty harsh syllables slammed together and they just don’t sound good. Back in 1907, when Pittsburgh annexed Allegheny City, they had a golden opportunity to pick the better of the two names. They blew it. Bad. Don’t believe me? Which name do you think has a better chance of completing this sentence: “And the 2024 Summer Olympics are awarded to…”? Pittsburgh? Uh-uh. Allegheny City? “Why, that sounds like a lovely place to hold the Olympics!”

East Pittsburgh

They should have just called their town “Too Lazy to Feign Originality.” “There’s Pittsburgh. We’re east of that. East Pittsburgh. Motion to adjourn? Good. Commence drinking.”

Wall

I guess “Roof” and “Floor” were taken. “Support Beam” was a close second in the voting.

Glen Osborne

That’s not a town. That’s a B-movie actor who died under very mysterious circumstances. “Glen Osborne was found dead this morning inside his laundry chute. He was wearing a Spanish bullfighter cape. Several goats were found locked in his attic. Police suspect foul play and are still searching for the murder weapon, which is believed to be a ham.”

Plum

“I live in Plum” must sound funny to immigrants. “You live in Plum? Your wife, she live in Peach?”

Green Tree

If ever a bunch of town founders mailed in a name, it was the guys who founded Green Tree. They looked for something distinguishing about their town, and all they came up with was a tree? That’s green? What tree around here isn’t usually green? If they found a blue tree, then I could see naming a town after it. Folklore has it that Green Tree’s founders joined the westward migration and established the town of Flatter Than Hell, Kansas.

Munhall

I think that’s actually the title of a Neanderthal chieftain.

Pittcairn

“Cairn” is from the Irish and denotes a manmade pile of stones. So this is William Pitt’s pile of stones. Fantastic. Why not just name it, “Please Don’t Come Here”?

Squirrel Hill

I know it’s a lovely part of town and all, but seriously? You named it after squirrels? Squirrels are goofy little mental cases that run around burying nuts and immediately forgetting where they put them. Watch a squirrel some time. Just as soon as he finishes covering up the nut, he stands there and thinks, “Shit. Where’d I put that nut?” Then he runs fifty yards away and starts digging frantically because for some reason, he’s convinced that that’s where he left it. On top of that, what hill in Pennsylvania ISN’T loaded with squirrels? Every hill we have is squirrel hill.

Rankin

If you want to guarantee that the town you’re founding will always be well known for it’s assortment of eyesores, call it Rankin. Or Pus. Or Goiter. How about Gammy Leg? Snot? Maggot! No, on second thought, Rankin sounds worse. That’ll do the trick.

Wilmerding

These guys just had to be drunk.

The Best. News. Ever.

2010-05-07T14:21:00.000-07:00

They say you always remember every intimate detail of where you were and what you were doing when you receive life-altering news. I had one of those moments recently. It was in my living room, late at night, walking from our side room to our living room. A voice on my television said, “The national tour of Phantom of the Opera will take it’s final bow.”

Why will that moment live in my mind forever? Because I hate — and I do mean HATE — the Phantom of the Opera. I hate everything about it. I hate the music. I hate the mask. I hate the t-shirts and the typeface and the promos spelling the word “fantastic” with a “ph” and Andrew Lloyd Weber for writing it and Michael Crawford for nauseatingly caressing every sappy note of every sickening ditty.

And in case you’re wondering, no. No, I’ve never seen it. I wouldn’t see it if you paid off my house. There’s only one way I’d go see it and that’s if I got to personally meet Andrew Lloyd Weber afterward. Because I’d kick him right in the nuts. I’d wear a tuxedo and pack boots for the occasion. And I’d be hitting the squat rack months beforehand.

I hate Phantom because it would never leave me alone. Ever. This miserable, overblown piece of dreck has pestered me and haunted me and annoyed me for over twenty years.

It all started with a co-worker who had a cassette tape of the soundtrack. Instantly, I didn’t like it. Which is no big deal. If I don’t like it, I won’t listen to it. But no. No, she played that tape at least once a day for months. By the 50th time I’d heard it all the way through, I wanted to unwind that tape and personally strangle the entire original Broadway cast with it. Including the stage manager.

Maybe that early exposure increased my sensitivity to it. All I know is that for over 20 years, my blood pressure has instantly spiked every time I hear that obnoxious overture:

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

I could never escape the Phantom, though I desperately wanted to. For years, my radio kept telling me to go see the Phantom at the “beautiful Pantages THEE-uh-tah in Toronto, Canada!” with that melodramatic overture playing for 60 seconds behind an announcer who sounded like he just threw back a jigger of lye. But it must have worked, because that ad ran several times a day for YEARS on every radio station I listened to. Sports, classic rock, new rock, country, news/talk, Gregorian Chant, Hindu hits, Jesus-fish… all of them. I’d be driving along, minding my own business when suddenly…

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

You can trace the advent of road rage to that particular commercial.

Then of course, it would come to town. And even though it sold out every show roughly 26 seconds after tickets went on sale, they still advertised the living hell out of it for months. I’d be watching a Pirates game, or catching up on the news, or flipping around the radio looking for a song when suddenly…

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Then I’d have to listen to people talking about what a marvelous show it was. “Did you see Phantom? Oh, you HAVE to see Phantom! Phantom is wonderful! I LOVE Phantom. I won’t miss Phantom! I got my Phantom coffee mug. Phantom, Phantom, Phantom!”

And then, three days ago, as I spent my customary seven minutes an evening channel surfing for anything other than ultimate fighting or CSI Miami reruns, I heard it again.

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Only it was different this time. Before I could reach for a lamp to throw through the TV screen, I heard those beautiful, beautiful words: The national tour of Phantom of the Opera will take it’s final bow.

Instantly, my blood pressure receded. Thank you, God. My long personal nightmare is over. It’s leaving. It’s finished. The stage will go dark. Hopefully forever. Good riddance. May it rot in hell from whence it came.

The Best Survival Kit

2010-05-03T20:40:00.000-07:00

I recently renewed my membership in the NRA, primarily for two reasons:

Government is a lot friendlier when people can shoot back;
They have some great gun raffles.

Number two is important, because there are a couple of guns I really want, and the NRA tends to give them away once a year. One is a very nice side-by-side shotgun, the other a well-built .50 caliber Hawken flintlock muzzleloader. The problem is, they both cost more than I’m willing to part with presently. So it’s cheaper to buy a membership and take my chances, even though I’m 0 for 20 in this scenario.

But as a consolation prize this year, the NRA did give me a wonderful free gift for renewing my membership: the Official NRA Survival Kit. It includes a pseudo Leatherman tool, a flashlight and a knife. That led me to wonder…

Why the hell is the National Rifle Association giving me a knife?

I mean, seriously. You’re a GUN organization. And you’re giving me a knife? That would be like the Beer of the Month club giving me a free corkscrew.

I wouldn’t expect a free gun because they’re expensive, of course. But what about a cleaning kit? Or a sling? Or a can of bore cleaner? What can I do with a knife that I can’t already do with a gun (only louder)? Kill a squirrel? Scare off an intruder? Untangle a knot? No!

Come to think of it, the NRA has to know that if I join their organization, I likely already own a gun or six. So why do I need any survival kit at all? A gun IS a survival kit. Say you’re lost in the middle of the woods somewhere and along comes a bear or a rabid coyote or the hillbillies from Deliverance. What’s more likely to get you out of those woods alive:

A) The above survival kit (in a handy carrying case), or

B) A Remington 870 Express 12-gauge pump action shotgun

Don’t think too hard on it because the answer is B.

If you said “A,” well, you’re in for a brutal encounter with Darwinism some day.

Still, I’m not complaining. My Official NRA Survival Kit was free after all, along with my subscription to American Hunter magazine, which is often chock-full-o’ gripping stories of harrowing escapes from Cape Buffalo. None of which involve a four-inch knife, by the way. Or a flashlight. Or a faux Leatherman tool. Just a really, really big gun.

IT'S THE LAW

2010-04-26T20:42:00.000-07:00

Years ago, it was our commonwealth’s mission to make sure visiting drivers felt welcomed. “You’ve got a friend in Pennsylvania” was the warm and fuzzy greeting that met motorists who crossed the Mason-Dixon line or entered from any of our neighboring states. “Come on in,” the signs were saying. “We’re glad to have you.”

Today, sadly, it’s obvious that that heartwarming slogan is not only gone; it’s long, long forgotten.

On the most prominent signage along our interstate highways, the implied comfort of “You’ve got a friend” has been replaced with an oft-repeated and implied threat: IT’S THE LAW.

That’s a pretty drastic departure in tone. “You’ve got a friend” says “Come on in, relax, have a cup of coffee, spin a yarn and leave your worries on the other side of the border.” “IT’S THE LAW” says, “YOU DO WHAT WE SAY, SERF, OR YOU’LL SUFFER OUR WRATH”

Not quite the same is it?

Yet, there it is on sign after sign — warning after warning telling motorists to do as they’re told… or else:

BUCKLE UP. IT’S THE LAW.

TURN HEADLIGHTS ON IN WORK ZONE. IT’S THE LAW.

LIGHTS ON WHEN WIPERS ACTIVATED. IT’S THE LAW.

KEEP RIGHT. PASS LEFT. IT’S THE LAW.

ALL SNOW MUST BE REMOVED FROM MOVING VEHICLES. IT’S THE LAW.

Maybe the slogan on the welcome signs should be, “YOU’VE GOT AN OVERBEARING, MEDDLING COMMANDANT WITH A GOD COMPLEX IN PENNSYLVANIA.”

Oops, almost forgot the most important part: “AND HE’S A FILTHY HYPOCRITE.”

You see, Pennsylvania is big on telling you to follow the law, but the people who write the laws are free to break them at will. And pretty much without consequence to boot. Oh sure, sometimes the powers that be sacrifice a bozo to appease the disgruntled masses, but for the most part, lawmakers as lawbreakers is the norm here. And even when they are caught and convicted, they’re barely punished for breaking THE LAW.

Take convicted State Senator Vincent Fumo. He bilked state taxpayers of at least $4 million and was tried and convicted. Federal sentencing guidelines and a probation report recommended 21 to 27 years in prison. State prosecutors were asking for 10 to 15. The judge in the case gave him two and a half. But don’t get too upset. He’ll be out before then for good behavior.

So technically, you’ve still got a friend in Pennsylvania, provided you’re a powerful and well connected yet corrupt politician.

But since the state is so fond of telling everyone what THE LAW is, maybe they should consider a few more signs. Like maybe a reminder for PennDOT about what exactly they’re supposed to be doing. Start with their mission statement:

“PENNDOT provides services and a safe intermodal transportation system that attracts businesses and residents and stimulate (sic) Pennsylvania's economy. IT’S THE LAW.”

Of course, they do no such thing. (Hell, they can’t even make their subjects and verbs agree.) They provide lousy roads that are poorly conceived, constructed and maintained so as to create government make-work jobs in a state that couldn’t attract business without bribery if their lives depended on it.

Here’s one for our illustrious elected officials:

“A balanced budget must be approved by July 1. IT’S THE LAW.”

Pennsylvania has made a habit of ignoring this particular law — without consequence, of course. Ed Rendell has turned breaking this law into an art form by constantly demanding new taxes and higher spending as his solution to absolutely everything, then holding state employees hostage until the legislature caves to at least some of his useless spending.

Here’s a beaut:

“No member of either House shall during the term for which he may have been elected, receive any increase of salary, or mileage, under any law passed during such term. IT’S THE LAW!”

Back in ’05, they got around this through something called “unvouchered expenses” which jacked their pay 16-32%. The Supreme Court probably recognized this as an unconstitutional act, right up until they discovered that their own salaries got bumped up, too. Ta-da! It’s legal! Eventually, a near revolt by the citizenry scared the legislature into repealing the raise, but the courts let them get off Scott-free. Which means they can completely ignore that very clear constitutional prohibition at will in the future.

But by God my headlights better be a blazin’ if my windshield wipers are on or I’m gonna be dragged before the magistrate and made to pay an exorbitant fine.

After all, IT’S THE LAW.

So, according to Article I Section 21 of the state constitution is this:

“The right of the citizens to bear arms in defense of themselves and the State shall not be questioned.”

That is, if you think it’s actually a state worth defending.

Eyjafjallajokull.

2010-04-17T20:47:00.000-07:00

If you’ve happened to read any news reports in the past week, you’ve learned that a volcano is wreaking havoc with air travel in Europe. This, of course, is normally a union job, but I digress. In virtually all of those printed (or webbed) news reports, you’ll see the name of the volcano, Eyjafjallajokull, written out like any third grader should be able to pronounce it. Which any third grader can, provided said third grader lives in Iceland, which is where Eyjafjallajokull is located.

But here in the States, Eyjafjallajokull is not a word. It’s what happens when a ferret walks across a laptop.

It would make sense of course, and be totally courteous, if the news outlets spelled Eyjafjallajokull the way it sounds. If they did, they’d come up with something like Ayafyatlayokut, which isn’t a lot better. But still, a reader could get close to the proper pronunciation. However, AP and Reuters reporters would never dream of spelling Eyjafjallajokull with the letters which, in English (which we speak), actually make the sounds they hear when someone in Iceland pronounces the name of the volcano. No, no. They’re more global than you or I. And by God, they’re going to prove it by spelling it the way they spell it in Iceland. If you don’t know that those double “L”s make a “T” sound, it’s because you’re dumber than they are. Or more parochial. Same difference.

“But that’s not how they spell it in Iceland,” they might say. True. But look very, very closely at a globe. You may notice something surprising: This isn’t Iceland. By the reasoning of “That’s how they spell it,” Ichiro Suzuki’s name should always be printed in Japanese letters. “Pravda,” the Russian newspaper, should be spelled BP3MR (and the R would be backwards). King Tut’s name should always be spelled with a couple of fish, a Sphinx head, rippling water and a stick. So why is that volcano spelled like someone tried to type with their elbows?

This disregard for the way we pronounce letters in our American culture is nothing new. Take Duke basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski. I’m sure Krzyzewski is how they spell Shishevski in Poland, but again, please see the aforementioned globe. This isn’t Poland. In America, the letters in “Krzyzewski” make the sound “Kurzyzooski.” If you want America to pronounce it “Shishevski” maybe you ought to spell it that way. But if you’re more in love with the way it looks than the way it sounds, then good luck in that big game against NC State, Mister Kurzyzooski.

This constant bending to the grammar rules of foreign countries is how we Pirates fans ended up with a back-up catcher by the name of Jason Jaramillo. And yes, it’s pronounced “Jayson HairaMEEoh.” Someone needs to tell this feller that “J” makes one sound in American English, and that’s the sound of “Jar,” “Jerky” or “John Wayne.” How do we acknowledge that rule in Jason’s first name, then abandon it one word later? If some guy from Chicago insisted on the same treatment in a foreign land, he’d be labeled an “Ugly American.”

But here, we have to be politically correct and avoid the scorn of our American culture-hating elitists for being narrow minded xenophobes. So to that end, I’d like to remind you that if you’re traveling to Europe, beware Eyjafjallajokull. Back in 1821, it erupted for a whole year. Hopefully, it will do the same this time around. You’ll need that long to learn how to speak Icelandic.

How to Kill a Cat.

2010-03-25T06:24:00.000-07:00

Up until a couple of days ago, I’d never heard of the rare flat-headed cat of Southeast Asia. But to be honest, I haven’t heard of most animals that don’t come with a side of fries and/or hush puppies. That and the fact that the closest I get to Southeast Asia is the Pad Thai lunch truck in the Strip District.

Today, however, I’m so happy to have learned about this elusive creature. because I realize that the flat-headed cat can teach us all a valuable life lesson: namely, that the people orchestrating the green movement are dangerous idiots.

These, of course, are the masquerading Marxists who still prophesy the doom of “global warming” and advocate for draconian energy reduction, even though Phil Jones, former head of the Climatic Research Unit of the University of East Anglia (from which the warmers got all of their alarmist data) admitted that there has been no global warming in the last 15 years. And that the CRU fudged data. And that they ignored the Medieval Warming Period (500 YEARS of global warming) when depicting how the earth has warmed over the centuries.

Today we learn that their lunacy is about to wipe one critter off the face of the earth. Because, according to nationalgeographic.com, more than half of the flat-headed cat’s lowland habitat is quickly becoming vast biofuels plantations.

You remember biofuels. They’re going to save the planet by replacing fossil fuels, which are the culprit behind the global warming that hasn’t been happening for the last 15 years but actually DID happen for 500 years in Medieval times (which was long before fractional distillation was discovered) no matter how much Phil Jones tries to ignore it.

You remember too, I’m sure, the greens pushing for biofuels like ethanol made from corn. Remember when all of our vegetables went way up in price a couple years ago? That’s because farmers started swapping out other foods to grow corn, the price of which was artificially inflated by new ethanol mandates.

Anyhow, just like compact fluorescent light bulbs, which contain mercury but we all have to start using anyhow because they reduce the use of fossil fuels (but not by nearly as much as once thought, which doesn’t matter because they’re not warming the planet anyway), biofuels have proven to do more harm than good environmentally, given the vast quantities of fossil fuels required to grow, harvest, distill and transport them. To date, however, this has not been enough to dissuade the ecomarxists, who only care about control and money, both of which they’ll get in spades if we adopt their agenda.

Now, given that their nonsense is on the brink of a real and tangible ecological result (the eradication of a species) we’ll see how truly eco-conscious they are. If they do care about the planet, they’ll call for an end to biofuels mandates (but still advocate for research). But don’t hold your breath. Their agenda isn’t environmental. It’s political.

Oh, and just as an aside, if, say, Exxon-Mobile were endangering this cat by drilling in its habitat, do you think the story may have made it to the evening news, the New York Times, NPR and the Washington Post? Yet somehow, this story hasn’t. Interesting.

The Latent Anti-Stupid Gene

2010-03-17T14:55:00.000-07:00

At some point in your life, you’ll hear (if you haven’t already heard) someone make a crack about the stupidity of the average American. “DFA” (Dumb F*** America) is the slur people often drag out to disparage the great unwashed masses who oppose their latest, greatest idea, opinion, poem, finding, theory, reform or theatrical release.

But Americans aren’t dumb. They may be distracted, misinformed or too busy to get all the facts, But on the whole and as a whole, they’re not dumb. And they recognize dumb eventually. Sometimes, they may even tolerate dumb for a short time. But eventually, they have no time for it and will go to extremes to circumvent it, even if that means breaking the law.

Take Pittsburgh’s West End Circle construction, now in it’s third year. (NOTE: Three years to fix a bottleneck is dumb.) After two-plus years of minor messes in the Circle, City engineers and other geniuses have finally succeeded in creating a mess of impressive proportions. Traffic now backs up an insane distance every day. It’s a design fiasco that is so complete, it could not have been better implemented intentionally.

This has been going on for weeks, and people have been patient. They’ve put up with it for a good long time, even though the magnitude of the mess makes no sense. But at some point, tolerating stupidity is no longer an act of patience or civility or civic duty. Patience becomes an act of stupidity in and of itself.

Today, people lost their patience with stupidity.

Steuben Street heading toward the West End Circle is diverted to one side street that hooks on to the now-lone main drag into the Circle. Problem is, coming up from the West End Valley are at least four other roads that also must now divert onto that same road. Traffic to and on the side street off Steuben backs up for well over a mile. You might expect some police officers there directing traffic to mitigate the morning disaster. There aren’t any. Which is dumb.

This morning, after creeping roughly 100 yards in 30 minutes, people started blowing through a gap in ROAD CLOSED signs on Steuben to find a less congested side road connecting further down the main drag. One car after another after another decided that the designated route was too stupid, too ineffective, too obviously flawed to observe for one more second, traffic laws be damned.

What they did was, technically, break the law – a law that mandates a behavior that is maddening, slow, inefficient and agitating. Some might call that irresponsible, selfish or even dangerous. I call it independent and wholly justified. That fierce streak of independence is in our DNA. It’s the trait brought over by the independent people that founded and built this country. It’s a virtue, a strength, a glaring positive.

It’s good to see that that gene, however latent, can still be awakened. Because with the staggering amount of stupid that’s creeping our way from Grant Street, Harrisburg, Washington and Turtle Bay every day, we’re going to need it.

Pittsburgh Paralyzed!

2010-02-12T18:15:00.000-08:00

Schools were closed again in Pittsburgh today, one week after the very first snowstorm to hit this city in recorded human history and possibly well before that.

With only four days notice of the impending deluge of snow, the storm caught everyone by complete, utter and total surprise, including the Mayor, who was stuck an hour outside of town at a ski resort where he was celebrating his seventh birthday.

Over 21 inches of snow hit Pittsburgh on Friday and Saturday, February 5th and 6th. The National Weather Service warned the city to expect 8 to 14 inches of snow, setting a new government record for accuracy. By Wednesday, streets in nearly every city neighborhood remained unplowed. The rivers however are snow-free.

The storm and its attendant inconveniences have rallied the population of Pittsburgh. Residents of the city’s diverse neighborhoods have banded together in a show of endurance and community spirit to do what Pittsburgh does best: complain.

They’re complaining primarily about the mayor and city council, all of whom were re-elected recently in spite of widespread and widely publicized incompetence, corruption, economic ignorance, demonstrative dishonesty and an abject lack of sense.

“Who’d have thought that a bunch of total idiots could have screwed something up this bad,” asked one resident whose street is buried beneath eight feet of permafrost. “At least I can console myself with the knowledge that I pay exorbitantly high taxes. Not like those dopes in the suburbs with cleared roads living miles from downtown. Which I can’t get to anyway unless I find an Iditarod sled team in my basement.”

Mayor Ravenstahl has promised to have all the roads cleared city-wide in time for the Pirates’ home opener on April 5, “unless it snows again. And really, what are the odds of that?”

Just An Observation

2010-02-05T18:08:00.000-08:00

The Postal Workers Union sent this offer via the United States Postal Service to a guy who doesn't live at this postal address. You'd likely think the Postal Workers Union, or the Post Office, or the postman would have noticed that. Well... you'd be wrong.

Our Sunday Best

2010-01-29T14:57:00.000-08:00

Years ago, that ubiquitous phrase meant that you were going to the house of the Lord, and as such, dressed as respectfully as if you were to be in the company of a king.

In some places, that still holds true. At nearly every predominantly African-American church I’ve passed on myriad Sundays, dapper men wear suits and hats and the ladies wear bright, faultless dresses. There’s something at once charming and impressive about that.

On the other hand, about the only time you’ll see white people dressed that well in a Catholic church is when they’re lying in a casket.

For the most part, there’s nothing wrong with dressing a bit casually for church. Personally, I’m about as comfortable in a suit as a cat in a bathtub. But at some point, dressing down crosses the line from “casual” to “what the hell is wrong with you?”

Take Pittsburgh, for example. On any given Sunday, you can look around the church and see grown men and women smartly decked out in their finest Steelers jerseys. Now, that’s fine if the line you’re standing in is for a couple of beers and a footlong. But in a Catholic church, it’s kinda ridiculous, given that Catholics believe they’re standing in line to receive the body, blood, soul and divinity of the Son of the Living God. Do you really think that an appropriate top to wear for this Eucharistic mystery is Ben Roethlisberger’s big ol’ number seven?

“Ah, what’s the big deal?” some ask. “It’s not like the Apostles dressed up for Jesus.” Well, yes, that’s true. But on the other hand, they weren’t wearing a licensed replica throwback Barabbas tunic either.

Seeing Steeler jerseys at Mass makes me wonder what Father Robert J. McCoy would think of today’s church fashion. Father McCoy was our parish priest growing up in the Juniata section of Altoona. He was a no-nonsense man, a veteran of World War II and no fan of the creeping informality that began infesting the church after Vatican II. I’m pretty sure that had you walked into Holy Rosary Church in the 1970s bedecked in your best Lambert jersey, Father McCoy would have put you in a half-nelson and thrown you head-first through a stained glass window. Had you’d been paralyzed in the incident, Father McCoy would have then promptly taken to the podium and made a heartfelt financial appeal to fix the window.

However, in the era of Christ-as-self-esteem coach, I’ve yet to see a priest bat an eye when a jersey-clad parishioner walks up to receive communion. They’d probably tell you they’re just glad the Steelers fan is at Mass.

So am I. They make my khakis and polo shirt look rather formal.

Snow, Please.

2010-01-25T10:51:00.000-08:00

Imagine a guy with a beard. A nice, bushy, white beard. He looks nice with that beard. Distinguished. Warm. Friendly. Then one day, he shaves the beard, only to reveal a face full of scars, pockmarks, lopsided moles, puncture wounds, bug bites and a birthmark shaped like a vomiting goat.

That's Pittsburgh in winter when the snow melts.

This time of year, western Pennsylvania sprouts a bumper crop of ugly. There's no sugarcoating that fact. Without snow, this place ranks right up there in dismal with post-eruption Mount Saint Helens. It's brown and gray and dead and depressing. Ever see a promotional photo of Pittsburgh in winter with no snow? No. You know why? Because it's fugly, that's why.

We had an inch and a half of rain yesterday, and all people are saying is, "Well, at least it wasn't snow." Yeah, that would be awful if this vista of mud and leafless trees and naked scrub brush and brown grass and crooked telephone poles were to be covered up by a blanket of pristine white snow. Thank God it rained and now I can see every discarded milk jug in every decomposing patch of thickets along every dilapidated guard rail.

"Well, you don't have to shovel rain."

This is the frequent refrain from folks who'd rather suffer Seasonal Affective Disorder than push fluffy white snow to the curb. I guess an increased risk of suicide is preferable to an increased risk of heart attack.

Unfortunately, these folks are getting their way right now. This gray, lifeless day could last another three months. They may be happy, but I'm praying for snow. Everything's dead out there. It might as well be buried.

Scott Brown Saves the Democratic Party

2010-01-19T19:55:00.000-08:00

Republican Scott Brown won the election for Ted Kennedy's seat in Massachusetts tonight. It was a shocking victory in a state where Democrats outnumber Republicans roughly 3-1. But the big winner tonight is the Democratic party.

That's because Democrats in the house, senate and white house were on a suicide mission to ram through unpopular legislation: the health care takeover, union card check, unfathomable deficits and cap and trade (and tax and regulate and dictate and plunder). These pieces of legislation ran counter to the will of the people who recognize them for what they are — cash and freedom grabs that would pay off democrat special interests to the detriment of the rest of the country. Passing them meant almost certain defeat on election day.

But in winning tonight, Scott Brown has ended the filibuster-proof power of Democrats in D.C. In so doing, he has put up a roadblock to legislation that the vast majority of American voters despise. And in so doing, he has put off the November slaughter of democratic politicians who were poised to fall on the sword for government health care, insane and unnecessary green regulation and free-choice obliterating gifts to big labor. Those democrats who were ready to lose their seats to advance these nation-altering laws are now off the hook: odds are, they'll never come to a vote.

With these issues off the table, Americans' anger will abate over the next few months. They won't remember that their representatives were on the brink of pushing this country into virtually irreversible socialism, only to be rescued by Republican senate voter #41. Republicans won the battle tonight. But come November, tonight's victory will make it exponentially more difficult to win the war.

Can I Never Fly USAir Again, Please?

2009-12-17T19:25:00.000-08:00

Standing in line at Boston Logan Airport, awaiting the privilege of being frisked in the name of national security, I was privy to the utterances of a well-dressed gent in the first class line who breezed by with the comment, "USAir is the worst airline in the world." Sitting here tonight, some 24 hours after landing and still with a kink in my right lat, I can't muster a counter-argument. USAir is gawdawful.

It boggles the mind that the same industry can produce the extremes of USAir and Southwest. Southwest flights are affordable, the planes full and comfortable, the result profitable even though bags fly free. USAir flights are expensive, the planes full and just barely beneath the Geneva Convention definition of torture, the result consistently on the brink of bankruptcy even though bags fly at $25 a pop.

There's only one possible explanation:

USAir is run by people who have no association with flight whatsoever.

To be honest, I have no idea who runs USAir. They might be nice people. But it's pretty obvious that they've never flown in their lives. Ever. They may not even know what an airplane looks like. If you showed them a picture of one of their planes and asked them what it was, they'd probably tell you it's some kind of fancy turtle.

The concept of why people fly is foreign to them. It seems ridiculous to them that their customers — people who have to travel so far that the only way to make the journey in less than a month is to do so in the sky at nearly the speed of sound — would have any need to bring stuff with them. Hence they punish their customers $25 per-bag and provide overhead storage that can hold approximately 20 carry-ons, even though the plane holds 50 people, each of whom is invited to bring on two items.

I'm also not sure who the person is in charge of configuring the interiors of USAir planes, but I'm pretty sure he came from the Campbell's Soup Company, where his job was to design boxes that reduced product loss due to shipping damage. Clearly, he believes that the key to moving people safely around the country is to pack them in so tightly together that they don't shift during transit. On yesterday's flight from Boston to Pittsburgh, fifty people were stuffed in a plane that any rational individual would estimate to comfortably hold fewer than twelve. But in fairness, none were dented on the journey.

My flying partner yesterday, Dave Popelka, (davepopelka.blogspot.com) said that the plane was, "designed around the premise that the only people who fly USAir are jockeys." I'm six-feet tall, which isn't terribly unusual for people raised on cow-based food that was laced with bovine growth hormones. I had to crouch the length of the plane to avoid shaving my head on the ceiling. This cumbersome waddle ended at America's least comfortable seat. The headrest was situated roughly one foot lower than the sitting height of the average human head. The seat cushion was as hard as marble. The flight attendant (there was only one) told us that it could be used as a flotation device, but that's only because it appeared to have been made out of titanium and shaped like a ship's hull. Around the seat, the window was perfectly positioned for optimum viewing, provided your eyes are in your elbow, and the armrests were barely wide enough to accommodate the limbs of a starving mantis.

Oh, and the cabin was roughly 116 degrees Fahrenheit. Luckily, being winter, we were all wearing heavy clothing.

The world's most accomplished sadist couldn't create a less comfortable flying experience on a dare.

Oddly enough, the flight was overbooked. I'm assuming that's only because Al Qaeda Airlines was full. As an incentive, USAir was generously offering a $200 voucher for anyone willing to give up their seat. The catch was that it was only good for a future USAir flight. For 25 cents and a seat on Southwest, I'd have volunteered in a heartbeat.

Just Say "No" to Squeeze Mayonnaise

2009-11-03T13:58:00.000-08:00

I, like most Americans, cheered the technological breakthrough that brought us squeeze mayonnaise. Thanks to the squeeze bottle, I would never again face the horror of sticking a knife into a jar of mayo, only to discover a six-week-old fragment of chunk light tuna that used to be swimming in natural spring water.

But here's the problem: Squeeze mayonnaise is a diabolical plot, masterminded by Hellmann's (and probably Halliburton) to increase mayonnaise sales.

They make it look legitimate with words like "E-Z Squeeze" and a label that's applied so as to be upright when the bottle rests on its cap. And at first, one little squeeze delivers a perfect portion of mayo. Don't be fooled! This condimentary utopia is a swiftly fading mirage.

Even though it may be resting on its lid in the fridge for a month, the mayo inside refuses to yield to gravity after less than half the bottle has been emptied. First, you try to shake it. But that mayo has stronger adhesive properties than colon polyps. Sometimes a stray dollop shakes loose, only to be ejected from the bottle by your violent shaking. This projectile mayonnaise (or "projectaise") is inexplicably drawn to trousers and/or mail. At this point, you think there's enough near the bottle exit to squeeze on your burger. But after only a fraction of an ounce crawls out, an air bubble is released with the escape velocity of a Saturn V rocket, spraying a fine mist of mayonnaise (or "mistaise") over a six square foot area.

Angry and in need of new pants, you figure you'll just take the lid off and use a knife. HA! That lid is harder to remove than a truck bumper. It's designed with a locking latch and secured with Krazy Glue, solder and carpet tacks. It's the exact same lid mechanism they use for spent uranium rods. You're not getting inside that bottle without the jaws of life.

Eventually, you give up and throw out 40% to 60% of the mayonnaise you bought, then run out and buy more. Meanwhile, the fiends at Hellmann's (and probably Goldman Sachs) laugh all the way to the bank.

But I'm on to your sinister game, Mr. Hellmann (and probably Mr. Bin Laden). I'm going back to the jar, tuna be damned.

Note to MLB: HURRY UP!!!

2009-11-02T14:26:00.001-08:00

If there's one thing this year's World Series is long on, it's length. Each game has been nearly three and a half hours long, regardless of the final score:

GAME 1: Phillies 6, Yankees 1
Hits: 15
Pitchers: 7
Time: 3 hours 27 minutes

GAME 2: Yankees 3, Phillies 1
Hits: 14
Pitchers: 6
Time: 3 hours 25 minutes

GAME 3: Yankees 8, Phillies 5
Hits: 14
Pitchers: 10
Time: 3 hours 25 minutes

GAME 4: Yankees 7, Phillies 4
Hits: 17
Pitchers: 8
Time: 3 hours 25 minutes

Yes, there have been a couple of high-scoring affairs there, but even game two which totaled only four runs was nearly 3.5 hours long. Compare that to this:

1960 World Series Game 7: Pirates 10, Yankees 9
Hits: 24
Pitchers 9
Time: 2 hours 36 minutes

A game that featured 19 runs, seven pitching changes, 24 hits, five walks, one error and a timeout to drag Tony Kubek off the field was 49 to 51 minutes shorter than any series game played so far this year.

There is one category, however, where this year's games all come up short: drama. On October 13, 1960, there was barely time to breathe between twists and turns. This year, there's time to visit the fridge, check email, tuck in the kids, run to the store and take part in a webinar. No wonder America is tuning out in droves.

A bigger problem that MLB seems unable to comprehend much less address is that the next generation of fans can't watch the games because they start so late and last so painfully long. On school nights. IN THE SECOND MARKING PERIOD.

In 1960, game seven started at one o'clock in the afternoon. So loved was the game of baseball that kids skipped school to watch it or smuggled transistor radios into school to catch the action as it happened. Now, they're lucky to be awake when the second inning starts, much less for the final out.

If kids never see the final act of the baseball season, eventually (and this is already happening) they're not going to follow Major League Baseball at all during the summer. The only reason you follow a story is to see how it ends. And baseball's story ends too late in the year and too late at night for kids to get that satisfaction. Which, down the road already being traveled, might end baseball's story altogether.

The World's Funniest Nazi Dies at 96

2009-10-30T11:31:00.000-07:00

The mystery is how Fritz Darges didn't die at 31.

Darges was the last surviving member of Hitler's inner circle. He died Saturday at the age of 96, still admiring Hitler, still longing for a Reich. "I must say, I found him a genius," he said of Hitler. (OK, that part isn't funny, but what ardent leftist doesn't think all socialist crazies are geniuses?)

Darges cut his comedic chops in the worst possible place imaginable: a conference with Adolf Hitler on July 18, 1944.

Now, by July of 1944, Hitler probably wasn't in a joking mood. The Allies had landed in France and things along the eastern front with Russia were falling apart. In this particular conference of his inner circle, Hitler was going over strategies and maps with, among others, Darges and Luftwaffe adjutant Nicolaus von Below. At one point during the meeting, a fly made it's presence known by buzzing around Hitler's head and landing on his map.

At this point, Hitler ordered Darges to dispatch the fly.

Darges, who I'm assuming was laughing inwardly as he said it, suggested that since the fly was an airborne pest, the responsibility fell to the Luftwaffe, and as such, von Below should take care of it.

History tells us not whether von Below laughed. But Hitler sure as hell didn't.

Only a Hitler could not find Darges' comment funny, and needless to say, this Hitler did not. "You're for the eastern front!" he raged, and had Darges removed from the room. True to his word, Hitler sent Darges to fight the Russians. Considering that kings normally slay jesters who fail to amuse, he got off easy.

Or at least until he got home, I'm guessing. Imagine explaining that one to the missus.

DARGES: Um, honey? I leave for the eastern front tomorrow.
MRS. D.: What?!? But you're in Hitler's inner circle!
DARGES: Yeah, not so much now.
MRS. D.: What happened?!?
DARGES: Well... it's funny, really, when you think about it. There was this fly buzzing around and Hitler told me to kill it. So I said, "That's an airborne pest so it's the Luftwaffe's job. Make von Below do it." Heh-heh.

Pause

DARGES: I guess you had to be there.

Two days later, that bit of hilarity might have saved Darges' life. On July 20, the bomb designed to kill Hitler went off at a meeting of the inner circle, killing three officers and the stenographer.

Meanwhile, Darges was alive and well and on his way to Russia. That's a shame, given how unrepentant the old Nazi was right up until the very end. That joke should have killed.

The Not-So-Super Collider

2009-10-29T18:09:00.000-07:00

Very quietly last week, scientists deep under Switzerland restarted the Large Hadron Collider. This is the device that European men designed to slam atoms together at 99.999% of the speed of light just to see what happens. (OK, I'm only assuming it was men since it involves making things crash into each other. Which, as any man will tell you, is frickin' awesome.)

The Europeans restarted it quietly this time because when they first started it back in September of 2008, they did so with much fanfare. Then it broke down. Kinda like their cars.

But it's back up and running now, and soon we'll unlock the secret of how and why matter exists in the universe. Which is nice, I guess. And I have to guess because I have no idea what they're talking about when they start explaining what they're looking for. Mind you, I graduated from one of the most respected science universities in the world. Granted, it was with two writing degrees, but you have to figure that I picked up something by osmosis.

What they're looking for is the Higgs boson particle, sometimes referred to as the "God Particle" for its vital role in making matter exist. If indeed it exists itself. Here's what Wiki says about the Higgs boson particle:

The Higgs boson particle is one quantum component of the theoretical Higgs Field. In empty space, the Higgs field has an amplitude different from zero; i.e., a non-zero vacuum expectation value. The existence of this non-zero vacuum expectation plays a fundamental role: it gives mass to every elementary particle which has mass, including the Higgs boson itself.

Uh-huh, uh-huh. I followed that right up to the first appearance of the word "boson."

This demonstrates one problem they're going to have to overcome if they do find the Higgs boson particle: explaining just what it is and what it means in a way that somebody can understand. It's more likely that whoever they're talking to will just ball up a fist and punch them in the mouth out of frustration.

Another problem is they're crashing sub-microscopic stuff, which is dreadfully dull. Personally, I'm not interested in what happens when proton beams or lead ions collide at the speed of light. However, I would be extremely interested in seeing what happens when two Matchbox cars collide at the speed of light. Or a bowling ball and a rock. Or how about two of those electric football players. What do you think would happen to the dude with the little cotton football in a head-on, speed-of-light collision? I'm guessing he fumbles, but without the sound science this super collider provides, we'll never know for sure.

A lesser problem, but a problem nonetheless, is that some scientists theorize that the collision could create a black hole. They're not talking about a burn-hole in the machine itself. They're talking about the black hole that sucks in all matter and crushes it into virtual nonexistence. Eventually, it would swallow the entire planet. The good news is it would start with Europe, so we'd at least get the last laugh.

One final problem is that the collider is being tampered with. Two physicists (one Danish, one Japanese) believe that the collider broke down the first time because of some weird time warp created by the machine itself. Their theory is that nature traveled back in time and stopped the creation of the Higgs boson. Oddly enough, both physicists are named Gene Roddenberry.

Of course, this last problem is just silly. Let's face it: if nature could travel back in time, the first thing it would do is stop the creation of Astroturf. Then it would turn its wrath on virtually all post-1950s architecture.

But, even if it isn't a time warp or a black hole, we can be sure that something exciting will come out of the Large Hadron Collider, because scientists will tell us as much. It just won't be between 160 GeV/c2 and 170 GeV/c2, because the Tevatron excluded that at the 95% confidence level back in March. But that goes without saying, really. Or at least, it should.

Celebrating the Absence of Resistance

2009-10-09T13:38:00.001-07:00

Upon hearing that President Barack Obama is the winner of the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize, most people rightly asked, "Why?" A world leader for only nine months, Obama has no substantial achievement that would seem to qualify him for such an honor. But according to the Nobel Peace Prize committee, he doesn't need one:

"His diplomacy is founded in the concept that those who are to lead the world must do so on the basis of values and attitudes that are shared by the majority of the world's population."

That's a revealing reason, given that the "majority of the world's population" (which lives under one degree of socialism or another) has been unable to match our tiny minority of the world's population in achievement that betters humanity. In science, medicine and economics, the United States has won 231 Nobel prizes. No other country has even approached 100. Britain is closest with 73. Clearly, the "values and attitudes shared by the majority of the world's population" tend not to inspire genius or achievement. Rather, the values and attitudes at the root of American liberty have proven most effective at compelling, inspiring and allowing individual greatness to manifest itself. Two-hundred and thirty-one times, at last count.

In spite of this, the Nobel Peace Prize committee has for many years honored those who stand in opposition to America and squarely in the camp of socialism — especially if they do so from within. Al Gore, in 2007, for his manufactured global warming hysteria that would, if acted upon, cripple the American economy and quash most individual freedoms. Jimmy Carter, in 2002, for his worldwide Bush-bashing tour. From outside our borders, there's Wangari Muta Maathai from Kenya for her "contribution to sustainable development," which is code for "government central planning of pretty much everything." The United Nations won in 2001 for... um... I guess their "sex for food" program. And most famously, Mikhail Gorbachev took the prize in 1990 for single-handedly winning the cold war by surrendering unconditionally to the war-mongering capitalists, Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush.

True to form, the Nobel committee again fawned over a man who wants to surrender American sovereignty, individual liberty and prosperity to the left's false religion of climate change:

"Thanks to Obama's initiative, the USA is now playing a more constructive role in meeting the great climatic challenges the world is confronting."

And so it is that Barack Obama, champion of massive government intrusion in the name of climate change, is the 2009 recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. A man known for his peaceful takeover of the U.S. auto industry and the U.S. financial system. A man working tirelessly to peacefully take over the U.S. health care system. A man, very quietly, trying to peacefully take over the World Wide Web through his internet Czar, Susan Crawford — an ACORN-associated leftist who envisions the web as a utility like gas, water and electricity (which are, of course stringently regulated by the government). A man who has spent the better part of his presidency thus far traveling the globe and apologizing for American hubris.

The glowing words from the Nobel Peace Prize committee on Obama's worthiness are destined to fade into obscurity. Yet they serve to remind us of more prophetic words that are frightening in their ability to endure:

"The meaning of peace is the absence of resistance to socialism."
— Karl Marx

In no one is this absence more profoundly pronounced than this year's Nobel Peace Prize winner.

The Route 22 Miracle

2009-10-08T20:29:00.000-07:00

When I was in college, the drive from Altoona to Pittsburgh along Route 22 took two hours and steady nerves. It was mostly two lanes, and not much more than a paved pioneer trail that largely followed the Indian footpaths of antiquity up and over the Allegheny Mountains. The ascending road was often slowed by fully loaded coal trucks, but broken-yellow-lined passing zones provided the opportunity to zip past these lumbering hulks — provided the fully loaded coal trucks barreling downhill in the oncoming lane were far enough away to avoid.

Today, after billions of dollars, this section of Route 22 is almost entirely four safe, smooth lanes of relatively new concrete. Those harrowing curves have been straightened out by the simple expediency of hacking through the mountains rather than following their meandering contours. Thanks to this sizable investment and brute-force taming of nature's winding design, the trip from Altoona to Pittsburgh now takes...

Two hours.

Only in Pennsylvania.

The brakes on what should now be a much faster trip have been applied by the genius of PennDot. No fewer than 16 traffic lights have been installed along the new 22, all but a few of them on the 30 miles between Indiana and Monroeville. And in a classic example of Pennsylvania's traffic management prowess, these lights are so imperfectly synchronized that travelers see red at nearly every single one. Murrysville, which was once a mess of traffic constricted by two lanes is now a four-lane mess of traffic constricted by one red light after another. Sixty-five MPH zones through the mountains are clipped by 20 MPH in the mile or two leading up to and immediately after intersections that had never existed before — and wouldn't exist now if engineers had noticed the ample land surrounding that would make merge and turning lanes possible.

Of course, that would make sense. And this is Pennsylvania, after all.

But wait. There's more. In winter, it's not uncommon for road conditions on the new 22 over Cresson Mountain to become so severe that the road is closed and traffic is diverted to...

Wait for it...

Old Route 22 over Cresson Mountain.

In the days when this stretch of road was being built, signs bragged that the construction was providing "Jobs for Pennsylvanians." No doubt it did. In fact, were it not for constant road repair and construction projects, our unemployment rate would probably be 30%. But at some point, someone should probably remind our illustrious transportation department that roads aren't about construction jobs. They're about, well, transportation.

Maybe then, several billion dollars will actually build a more efficient road.

Don't hold your breath, though. This is Pennsylvania, after all.

Judge Upholds Eviction of Mom of 6.

2009-09-24T17:17:00.000-07:00

That headline is from the Altoona Mirror, September 24, 2009. And one would be forgiven for asking, where's the compassion? How could he do such a heartless thing? Let's go to the story itself, because it's instructive of the kind of tragedy created (I submit, intentionally) by generations of social engineers in the inner cities. And now it's spreading to smaller towns.

Shaquita...

We pause after the first word in the story because that's the first hint that trouble's afoot. Social engineers have created an inner city culture that separates itself from (and often visibly despises) the rest of America. One demarcation line is the invention of new names. Not that there's anything wrong with creating new names in a country with 300 million people. We can only have so many "Mikes." It's just that the practice pretty much started in some of the worst communities in the country. So as soon as you hear "Shaquita," you can pretty safely guess that something bad's coming next. Rarely do you see the name "Shaquita" followed by the words, "won a prestigious award."

Shaquita Young, 28, who came to Altoona three years ago from Chicago...

She left a bustling city three years ago to come to a contracting small town with a rampant drug problem and overly generous access to welfare. That rampant drug problem started after someone in Altoona (too cowardly to step up and take credit) put the word out to New York City, New Jersey, Philly and other inner city Meccas that Housing Authority-owned dwellings in Altoona were abundant and vacant (due to lack of need). (Aside: How long do you think Altoona will be a solid Republican vote with people moving in from big city slums? Do you honestly believe that's not by design?)

... said she didn't know what she was going to do.

Young, whose children range in age from 8 months to 11 years...

Another staple of the leftist-designed inner city: illegitimate children, helping to realize Karl Marx' dream of the destruction of the traditional family. Who needs a family with a dad bringing home the bacon when the government cuts a check to replace him? This reality is learned young, as evidenced by the fact that Shaquita was a mom at 17. So she very well could have been pregnant at 16.

Let's skip down the story fo find out who fathered that child when Shaquita was 17...

She said the father of her oldest son "did terrible things" in Chicago, and in retaliation, his brother and grandmother were gunned down. She said the killings stemmed from gang activity.

I won't comment on the abject stupidity of getting knocked up by a gang banger, but focus on another staple of the social engineered inner city: the gang. An expensive yet worthless government education system produces men with no skills other than to gang up and peddle dope. And of course, vote for people who play the race card and promise more welfare or more money for inner city schools. But not school choice, of course. These inner city kids might become productive citizens who don't need welfare. Too big a risk for the political poverty pimps.

The children's fathers...

Note the plurals. Yet another result of the welfare culture and another nail in the coffin of the traditional family. ("Yay!" cried Karl Marx.)

The children's fathers do not contribute to their support.

Of course they don't. They don't have to. The government has a check ready for those kids and their mom. And if the fathers are all the caliber of daddy #1, what would they contribute? Weed?

The leaders of the American left have sold society-dividing snake oil from a bottle labeled "compassion" since the 1950s. The result: people who create not only their own hell, but one for the next generation. And the next. And the next...

Find the compassion there for me. Because frankly, I'm having a hard time finding it. And no one who looks closely can honestly see it either, especially the people who created this mess.

Everything is working out for Shaquita just the way it was designed to. I don't for a minute believe that the politicians who have peddled this "compassion" have ever thought that it would help people escape poverty. They wrapped their malicious scheme in Christian-baiting words to tug at the hearts of good people who want to help. They knew it would only expand and institutionalize poverty — and their own power.

It's working perfectly.

Havin' Fun at the G20

2009-09-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

With the impending arrival of G20 dignitaries and their entourage of rent-a-mob protesters, the fed has seen fit to evacuate all mailboxes from the downtown area. This move should also serve to discourage al-qaeda from trying to parcel-post a suicide bomber to the proceedings.

No doubt, bandanna-ed groups like The Coalition for Broccoli Equality will be attacking anything that remotely conveys government ownership or control. Which in Pittsburgh is pretty much everything but the pigeons. But apparently, mailboxes, pacifists that they are, are most at risk. And therein lies a tremendous opportunity for the City of Pittsburgh to send a message to the world. That message is: start a riot and we'll shoot you!

So here's what they should do. Get a hold of the guys from those hunting shows on Versus and post them up on a building. Then, leave one mailbox out in the open and let the cameras roll. While the guy in Real Tree camo whispers on and on about the wind and the sun and travel routes and the one he missed in Seattle awhile back, protesters will start sneaking out of the shadows and start sniffing warily around the mailbox. Eventually, one will have a go at it. At which point, the Versus guy stops whispering to the camera and BLAM.

It's just like baitin' a bear.

"Woo! Look at him! He... is... a... beauty! Looks to be about six foot, has to weigh 128 pounds! That's huge for a protester!"

Then, as a guitar and a harmonica play a gentle down-home ditty in the background, we see our Versus fellow carting off his quarry with a deer drag, and hear the voice of Sam Elliot say, "There's nothing like spending a day afield in protester country."

And somewhere, a whole slew of other rent-a-mob protesters will start thinking, "Yeah, I don't want to play anymore."

I Wouldn't Want to be Starbucks Today

2009-09-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

Starbucks was successful not because of the crunchy atmosphere or the cache or the eco-conscious, earth-friendly, shade-grown, fair trade blah, blah, blah. It was successful because for many years, it was the only place in the country that served really good coffee. It freed millions of coffee drinkers from the tyranny of Maxwell House. And because of that, it was able to charge unheard-of amounts of money for a simple cup of java.

But then McDonalds caught on and started brewing their own excellent blend. And Dunkin' Donuts one-upped Mickey-D's with their own outstanding offerings. Both were blows to Starbucks' bottom line.

And then this morning...

This morning, I was jonesing for a cup of coffee. I stopped at the Sunoco A-Plus convenience store/gas station because I'd noticed they'd upgraded their coffee machines. I grabbed a 16-oz. cup, added a bit of real half-and-half and filled up with Sumatra.

It was excellent. And it was $1.25.

If the Sunoco A-Plus in Crafton Borough, Pennsylvania has caught on to the premium coffee trend, it's a fair bet that pretty much everywhere else in America has as well. There may be a million Starbucks in the U.S., but there are a lot more everywhere-elses. And if they're just as good as Starbucks, more convenient and less money, Starbucks opened its doors this morning on a totally different world.

It'll be interesting to watch how they react to it.

Some Free Advice to the UFL

2009-09-12T20:40:00.001-07:00

I don’t know what the United Football league is going to look like, but I can guess. It’s going to try to look like the NFL. Other leagues have come and gone by trying to be the NFL, only with lesser talent. None have succeeded.

Or they’ve tried to look at where the NFL is now, guess where it’s going, and get there first (the remote-controlled hover cameras of the XFL, for example). This too has failed.

So rather than trying to imitate and/or innovate, the UFL ought to do something completely unexpected: the exact opposite.

Retrovate.

Hey, there’s a reason why Mitchell and Ness can charge over $300 for a 1970-style Johnny Unitas uniform and Steelers crowds are still packed with fans wearing Lambert jerseys. Fans loved what professional football used to be.

The UFL should look at what made pro football different, fun, popular and wildly successful. Then give that back to football fans. Forget about drawing in new fans. That’s what the NFL has been all about for twenty-five years now — changing the rules to create more offense, making broadcasts as much spectacle as sport, turning game day into an event. They should imitate what the NFL used to be when it caught the imagination of the sport-loving public. Put the goal posts on the goal line. (That’s why they’re called “goal posts” not “back of the end zone posts.”) Bring back wider hash marks and sportsmanlike conduct. Kill the TV time-outs and video reviews. Start games at the same time every week. (That’s how kids get into a habit of watching it.) Take it back to when a guy was down only when he had two knees on the ground and was actually touched. Forget the muff rule and the five-yard rule. Bring back the rule that you can’t act like a five-year-old desperate for attention every time you make a tackle. And forget uniforms that look like something the Jetsons would wear. No one is ever going to spend $300 for them in the future.

Want to be really retrovative? Get rid of some of the padding. Heck, go with leather helmets. Sure, you’ll have more broken noses, but you’ll have fewer cases of pugilistic dementia. Guys won’t go helmet-to-helmet if what’s covering their melon is only slightly more than a tossel cap.

Try it. Why not? Everything else has been tried before. And failed.

Oh, Well Hey There, Sex Offender!

2009-09-11T07:25:00.000-07:00

The scuttlebutt last night was unpleasant and unnerving: we have us a sex offender living and lurking in the neighborhood. Well, living, at least. We don't know if he's technically "lurking."

That's because we don't know what he did. Is this a guy who did something unspeakable to a defenseless child? Or a guy who, at 23, found himself in the company of a willing, 16-year-old, scantily clad skank? No one knows. All we know is there's a registered sex offender living in an apartment right behind a family with four children.

But there are only two possibilities: 1) he's a threat; 2) he's not a threat.

If it's #1, why is this person not in prison? Clearly, the law considers it important that everyone know when a sex offender has moved in, so they must consider him a threat. So why isn't he in prison if he's committed a sex crime in the past and considered likely to do so again? What are the residents supposed to do with that information? Restrict their own freedom or that of their children? Run the guy out? Arm themselves? Set a trap? What are they supposed to do? I mean, other than live with worry, fear and trepidation?

If it's #2, then why make the guy register as a sex offender and alert all of his neighbors to a crime he's supposed to have paid for already? Prison isn't supposed to be about punishment, we're told by lofty thinkers. It's about reform. OK, he's out. So he's reformed, right? Why turn all of his neighbors against him and throw a dark cloud over every home in the immediate vicinity? All that's happened is life has been made a little less pleasant for everyone around him.

Thanks for that, legal system.

Laws making it mandatory to register sex offenders were created because some people repeated their crimes after serving time. And no doubt, Borough Council will be asked to pass more laws and ordinances that will make it necessary for this man to move. They'll say that registered sex offenders can't live within a mile of a playground or school. They'll make it incumbent upon landlords to check backgrounds of tenants. They'll drive him out to...

Some other neighborhood.

Wouldn't a simpler solution be to use some common sense? If it's a true sex crime involving a child (rather than the aforementioned skank), the guy never gets out of jail. He's no threat there. And his sentence might just serve as a deterrent to other would-be predators who instead of seeking a victim might instead seek help.

Either way, the neighborhood isn't punished.

My, How the U.N. Loves Children

2009-08-28T10:10:00.001-07:00

WARNING: SOME CONTENT WILL MAKE NORMAL PEOPLE UNCOMFORTABLE.

From news reports this past week:

The United Nations is recommending that children as young as five receive mandatory sexual education that would teach even pre-kindergarteners about masturbation and topics like gender violence.

Under the U.N.'s voluntary sex-ed regime, kids just 5-8 years old will be told that "touching and rubbing one's genitals is called masturbation" and that private parts "can feel pleasurable when touched by oneself."

It's fair to ask: How many members of this U.N. panel have child pornography on their laptops? Because only a pedophile would even consider THINKING about talking to a five-year-old about sex, much less go public with that perverted thought. They may hide behind the guise of diplomatic dignity, or PhD's in utterly useless fields of study, or the rhetorical gymnastics that dupes mistake for reason, but there's no hiding the real motivation here. They want to have sex with children, and they want to make it easier to do so.

This is the U.N., after all. The same organization that ran an elaborate "sex for food" operation in war-torn sections of Africa back in the '90s and early '00s. Here's how that humanitarian effort worked: if you were starving to death and wanted food, you had to have sex with a U.N. worker to get it. Yes, that included children.

Noble, huh?

Oh, and if you've been earning an income for the past 20 years, congratulations. You've been paying for this. Which is good, because we need the U.N.

At least, that's what our own PhD's in government tell me.

What Government Should Do

2009-07-31T20:31:00.000-07:00

“The government should do something.”

With any endeavor, any crisis (real or imagined) or any movement, that cry rises from nearly all quarters. Be it a serious event like a flood, or an imagined looming catastrophe like global warming, the immediate reaction in front of and behind the cameras is, “the government should fix it.”

Government can do no such thing. For one simple reason: With government comes politics and politics are nefarious.

Government and politics are inseparable. Anything that involves the government — be it through funding or regulation — involves politicians and therefore, politics. It is impossible for that not to be the case. The belief that a politician — any politician — can somehow be apolitical is naïve in the extreme. All of them owe their office to someone else — a coalition, like-minded donors, PACs, cause groups, industry sectors, unions, George Soros and, to a limited extent, voters.

Because of this, introducing government changes the mission of the cause, movement or crisis response. The goal (a cure, the end of hunger, clean air, safe streets) is no longer the sole objective. Politicians add new objectives — appeasing a constituency, getting re-elected, advancing a larger agenda, sticking it to an adversary, getting positive PR, diverting attention, etc. Aid, science, logic, freedom, truth, effectiveness… all become secondary (at best) to political aims.

The historical evidence is clear: Usually, government involvement, far from helping, makes the situation worse. After massive spending to pull America out of the Great Depression, unemployment was nearly twice as high in 1937 as it was a year following the crash. After massive government funding, involvement and action, our inner cities are worse off than before. After strong-arming lenders to relax mortgage requirements, the collapse is costing trillions. The cost of education and health care have spiraled since the fed first began to “help.”

In spite of its track record, there are those who will scream, beg and insist that government “do something” because only government has the money, power and resources to help. But consider:

In 1889, the first Johnstown Flood laid waste to the city. As word spread, relief committees were organized across the country. Buffalo Bill Cody held a benefit for the flood fund in Paris. Over 1,400 full carloads of goods — 17 million pounds worth — rolled into the city on rails rebuilt by the PRR. And over $3.7 million in donations came in from the U.S. and around the world. FEMA didn’t exist for the simple reason that it didn’t need to. We can take care of ourselves.

In 1936, Johnstown flooded a second time. This time, the government “did something.” The fed built channels to make Johnstown “flood proof.” And the State of Pennsylvania enacted a temporary 10% liquor tax to raise the $41 million needed to rebuild the community.

Forty-one years later, “flood proof” Johnstown flooded yet again.

Seventy-three years later, that temporary 10% liquor tax, which met its intended financial goal by 1942, is now 18%.

After the 1889 flood, good hearted people saw a need. They reacted to the plight of their fellow man with one goal: to help. In 1936, politicians saw an opportunity. The fed’s primary goal was to create jobs (and save their own) during the depression. The state’s, to create a new — and permanent — revenue stream.

History again and again tells us that the government should, indeed, do something. Specifically, stay away.

Eggs

2009-07-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

I don't go grocery shopping often, and probably for good reason. Grocery shopping to me is a game where I'm challenged to spend as little as possible. So rather than coming home with the $3 box of flash-frozen non-hybridized corn from organic fields fertilized with butterfly tears, I come home with a 79-cent can of store brand corn that was shoveled out of a 90-story grain silo and boiled in a solid steel can that used to be the front fender of a Dodge Dart.

Sometimes, I'll pay more for better quality for the sake of the kids. But one place I won't compromise frugality is in the egg aisle. I will always and forever buy the cheapest eggs they sell, no matter what new variety of egg they roll out.

And roll them out they do. There are just plain old eggs in the off-gray carton. There are also lower-cholesterol eggs, pasteurized eggs, free-range eggs, organic eggs and combinations thereof that include free-range pasteurized organic low-cholesterol eggs.

But the point is, whether your egg of choice came from a chicken in a coop, a cage, an assembly line or a flowering meadow... whether that chicken was force-fed laboratory-synthesized hormone pellets or wandered freely about a certified-organic farm eating fresh grains sprouting from rich volcanic soil... there's one important thing to keep in mind about that egg:

IT DROPPED OUT OF THE ASS-END OF A CHICKEN.

Honestly, who in their right mind is going to be picky about what kind of ass-end that egg fell out of? "Well, the chicken was in no way genetically modified and lived freely on 1,000 acres and was fed only native baby grains and spring water." Uh-huh. And then an egg fell out of it's ass-end. And you're eating it.

Why would anyone pay more than the absolute minimum for that privilege?

A Well-Reasoned Answer to the Question Posed by Mr. Francis Scott Key at the End of the First Verse of His Song, "The Star Spangled Banner."

2009-07-22T13:59:00.000-07:00

No.

One Giant Leap Backwards

2009-07-20T19:48:00.000-07:00

It was forty years ago today that man, for the first time, set foot on the soil of a world other than our own. The sheer magnitude of that event — the first footprint on the infinitely vast frontier of space — captured the attention and the awe of the entire world. For tens of thousands of years, countless people in countless cultures imagined journeying to the moon. The United States, after just 193 years as a nation, actually did it. It was proof that the founding philosophy of the nation was correct: that humanity, under the emancipating power of liberty, is capable of unimagined greatness.

It was the crowning proof of American exceptionalism. A society that discovered miraculous medicines, accelerated scientific discovery, improved the human condition the world over, spawned countless life-improving inventions and yielded a standard of living that mankind had never, ever seen before.

Since then, our country's intellectual elites (politicians, pundits and pointy-heads in ivory towers) have spent countless hours and boundless energy on trying to convince America that since we're not perfect, we're not special. They accuse us of hubris, of imperialism, of destroying the planet and raping resources. They've belittled our history, re-written textbooks to highlight our warts, pointed to the exceptions in our imperfect society and called them the rule, and invented vicious new ways to keep us constantly bickering with each other.

They've pimped guilt over what we think, what we drive, what we eat, how we pray, where we choose to live, what we wear, what we enjoy and how much we earn.

They've dictated and tinkered with virtually every aspect of a society that in their eyes — despite all evidence to the contrary — is utterly flawed. They've set new laws and regulations that fly in the face of our founding philosophy. They've made villains of doctors, entrepreneurs, CEOs, hunters, investors, preachers, builders and employers. They've dictated business practices, mandated the water flow of toilets, outlawed incandescent light bulbs, saved us from the scourge of lawn darts and realized myriad other achievements of astounding pettiness draped in false robes of consequence.

They've done all in their power to bring us back down to earth in every way.

Is it any wonder why today, our greatest achievement is nearly two generations behind us?

Burros and Jackasses

2009-07-17T12:55:00.000-07:00

Today, a friend emailed me some facts and figures on H.R. 1018, the "Restore our American Mustangs" Act. The link he sent along provided some hard-to-believe facts and figures on the bill that were so asinine I felt it had to be a hoax. So I did a quick search for H.R. 1018.

No, my friends, it is real. In fact, according to the text of the bill itself, it's purpose is:

"To amend the Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act to improve the management and long-term health of wild free-roaming horses and burros, and for other purposes."

Yes, you read that right. There exists today such a thing as the "Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act." And apparently, it needs to be amended. Because, hard as it might be to believe, it appears congress did not pass a very good "Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act" the first time around. Thus, it becomes imperative that our august congress establish a more perfect "Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act," lest countless wild free-roaming horses and burros suffer deprivation and engage in risky behavior. How, you may ask, will they improve the current, inadequate, some might say shameful "Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act"? With millions and millions and millions of dollars. Two-hundred million dollars, as a matter of fact, according to the Congressional Budget Office. For things like a biennial horse census, "enhanced contraception" (one can only assume to replace the Puritan, entry-level wild horse and burro contraception provided in the original act) and 19 million acres of land.

Two-hundred MILLION dollars that could have been spent by the people who earned it on things like cars, computers, private schools, anything they please is instead going to a land grab and equine anti-pregnancy program.

When it comes to horses and burros, the jackasses are taking care of their own.