Download the ka-BOOM!

How Yoli LatinX met Cowboy Bob

Yoli LatinX is a brash, big-mouthed, barely-breaking-5-feet-tall bonfire of blasphemous bombast from the Bronx. She spits tirades and taunts at anyone she finds disagreeable, mainly men, who challenge her wit and wisdom. Choice targets them mens, yup!

Cowboy Bob is from West Texas, the Panhandle, where 64-ounce steaks is normal eatin’. Bob is an easy-going former ranch-hand, given to wry observations about people under the influence of ego. He likes to paint desert landscapes and wants to be a ballet star.

The backstory begins with Yoli. Yoli has joined forces with a group of radical feminists traveling cross-country in a coast-to-coast warfare. Their opponents? Racism, stupit old men, and T.V. beer commercials featuring beach party sex-orgies for hairless homeboys and B-cupped groupies flashing Pronamel grins. Their mode of travel was ZZ Top’s old touring bus and a hot pink G-Wagon for off-road hot-dogging, dragged along behind on a tow-bar.

Their journey was a zany 4,000-mile corkscrew, beginning at San Francisco, then south to L.A., east to Jacksonville, to end in New York City. There, in the cultural capital of the universe, the warriors planned Armageddon-style mayhem against The Vatican, Madison Avenue, and all NBA super-stars with Nike swoosh tattoos on their scrotums.  

As expected, the first leg of their quixotic odyssey was casual and without incident. Of course, the Texas Panhandle had other ideas. On the approach to Amarillo, the mobile warriors were greeted by the Cadillac Ranch, a graveyard for decommissioned ghetto busses buried grill-down in the desert sand. The sight of the rusted hulks fascinated Yoli and beckoned her to take selfies to show her primos in the Bronx. Her companions were in no mood. They had eyes on the scenic wonders of the Palo Duro Canyon and enjoying a leisurely snack before moving on. They struck a compromise: Yoli could take selfies, the others would drive to the canyon where they all would meet later for lunch.  

Yoli unhitched the G-Wagon and drove to Cadillac Ranch. She frolicked crazily amidst the rusted metal carcasses. She took hundreds of selfies. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to her, fate dealt her traveling companions a loathsome hand. A cult of polygamists roving the high plains ISO fresh recruits to enliven their stable of nookie, zeroed in on the fleet of unescorted damsel corvettes. The horny lost disciples of Mormonism, stoked into a frenzy by the maddening scent of female pheromones secreting and stewing inside their war armor, ambushed the hapless women, took them hostage and escaped into the long, menacing shadows of the desert badlands, never to be seen again.

Upon arrival at the designated meeting area, Yoli did not find her friends, or the touring bus. At first she wasn’t concerned. An hour passed. Nothing. Another hour, then Yoli began to fret. She called the bus’s onboard cell phone. The call went straight to voice mail. Another hour passed, nothing. Her head swirled with questions. Did they forget her? Abandon her? WTF?!

The day was coming to an end, getting dark. The park would close soon. What’s a girl from the Bronx sposeta do? Her instincts kicked in. No damn big city girl like Yoli gonna spend a night surrounded by sand, sagebrush and snakes. Uh-uh, no way! She’s gonna find herself a city somewhere and hunker down for the night. Even a jerkwater cowtown like Amarillo would do. Yoli wasted no time. She 180’d and zipped back toward town, leaving just enough time to behold the final scenic wonder of the day – a faltering oil pressure gauge – and savor the G-Wagon’s coughing and lurching to a grinding halt.

Did the story end here? Of course not. Stories need drama to build suspense. So while Yoli sat and fretted on the lonesome stretch of west Texas asphalt, her options seemed limited. But were they really? Of course not. Options need allies to unravel suspense.  

Next up, Cowboy Bob. As the rays of the setting sun faded, rescue for Yoli was near at hand. For emerging from the evening desert mist was a landscape artist named Cowboy Bob, toting his daily output of Georgia O’Keefe knock-offs, hoping to hook a ride back to Amarillo. He was in luck! As he squinted into the dusk he spotted Yoli, his ticket back to town. He approached her. Their eyes met. She regarded him with suspicion, being from the Bronx, a natural reaction for her.

In his friendliest panhandle drawl, Cowboy Bob spoke first, “¡Oye compañera! ¡Yo soy Cowboy Bob! ¿Quién eres tú?”

With a mouthful of nasty on full-automatic, Yoli responded, “I’ma Yoli LatinX. Why you care, you pinche sexist shit-for-brains?”

And thus began the most unlikely of alliances of modern day. Theirs was a meeting of opposites – mismatched, unequal, casual and caustic, biting sarcasm and flirtatious teasing, overt warfare and covert romance. What kept them apart glued them together. Downhill is the only direction their relationship could go. Y’think? Well, let’s go an’ see s'more.

Many meanings of Green

To many people, green means money (and no coincidence the pronunciation of “green” sounds like “greed”).  To others, green means envy which leads to greed and brings us back to money.  Imagine that!

Then there are people whose unstable inner ears cause vertigo when sailing on rough waters – sea sickness – and become green with nausea.  Whoops, here comes lunch! 

Next category of green is reserved exclusively for all environmentally-woke folks and blokes consumed by all things green and how best to grow green stuff greener still.

Another use for green is to describe unripe bananas or tomatoes, and anything lacking maturity or experience, like raw recruits not tested by combat (called “greenhorns”), or – here it comes – the dub-stepping freestyler representing New York’s 124^th congressional district, Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez.

Is it an accident her brave, bold initiative is called the “Green New Deal”?  Sure seems so, because the placement of the G-word at the front of her banner opus is a dead-giveaway.  Any editor with experience (i.e., “non-green”) would’ve corrected that because Ms. Corntax’ deal, as labeled, announces it’s still in first draft – raw, unfinished, unedited and untested (i.e., "green").  Need we go on?

So why would anyone go public with an unedited position paper?  Because O-C is an inexperienced newbie, a greenhorn.  If she had said “New Green Deal” that would convey a different proposition, but she didn't and all we have is what she pitched.

We owe O-C a note of thanks for inadvertently telegraphing her punch:  her deal is all about money, greed, envy and inexperience, all leading to a national epidemic of nausea.  What’s puzzling is why she burned through all that effort and taxpayer money to tell us what we already knew?

Oh.  Right.  It’s not her money she’s burning through.  Guess she knows what she’s doing after all.

Hunh.  Now I’m PO’d!

Embarrassments in the woodpile

During the Neolithic period of my youth, I dreamed wild fantasies of art school.  I enrolled in a Midwest conservatory that offered standard Bohemian curricula – sculpture, painting, drawing, photography, along with a compulsory yearly Halloween ball where students were encouraged to let imaginations soar, free of worldly tethers.  No costume too outrageous.  

Freshman year, my first ball, students morphed into Fu Manchu, mental patients, prostitutes, Attila the Hun in full-tilt pillage, and mobsters with molls in-tow and violin cases packed with plastic Tommy-guns.  All manner of life forms – humanoid or otherwise – were represented with caricatured insolence typical of youthful renegades like us.  My roommate, a tall gangly good ol’ girl from the Hollers, went as a hillbilly moonshiner, with painted freckles, buck-teeth, and ratty bib overalls with patches and side-boobs.  How’s that for stereotyping? 

One student named Arturo, a musician, was commissioned to provide live music.  Arturo, white, like me, costumed himself as Jimi Hendrix and brought along his entourage as back-up.  The school budget was skinny, so classmates pooled funds to buy a half-ounce of Mexican primo to incentivize Arturo and his bandmates to perform their best.  Uh-huh, sure.  Nothing kicks up professionalism better than musicians dazed-out on cannabis sativa while trying to maintain stage presence.  Arturo’s wig fell off several times during air-riffs.  No one was ejected from school.

My costume?  Right.  Back then I had naturally curly red hair, sculpted into a monster Afro, so my get-up was an easy stretch.  I was Sly Stone (Family Stone fame), with a mauve silk shirt, pinstripe bell bottoms and platform shoes.  To complete the makeover, cosmetic specialists at Merle Norman sprayed my hair black and altered my skin color to a convincing mocha.  The transformation was so credible nobody believed it was me.  On discovering my disguise, all laughed, agreed it was good, and after the ball was over nobody cared.  Why would they anyway?  Yep, those were the “daze”.

Post-graduation, some classmates exorcised their outrageousness and went on to successful careers in visual arts professions.  Others honed their outrageousness and made careers in professional outrage.  Then there were those who pursued professions where details in their backgrounds mattered.  Had I chosen public office, my early Sly Stone knock-off, once outed, was cued-up to deconstruct my woodpile.   Lucky me, I avoided an easily-offended state like Virginia. “Mr. Governor, a photo recently surfaced showing you a long time ago dressed up as Sly Stone – GASP! – a black-face!!  How d’ya respond?!”  

Sidebar for any Governor under-fire.  There’s one answer – the truth – and one way to respond – straight on:  “Well, yeah, it was a Halloween party, and my costume came off afterwards.  But you, in the glass house, you’re still dressed as a patient in a mental institute!  Y’didn’t get the memo?  The party’s over!”

Years from now, historians will decree the last 50 years in the U.S. as the era when the inmates took over the asylum.

No Go, No Stop, Who Cares?

Years ago, Chevy introduced a compact called “Nova.” Allegedly, the car failed to gain traction in Latin American markets because “No va” in Spanish translated to “no go.” What lunatic wants a car that won’t start? Duh.

Years later, Toyota recalled a couple million vehicles because of bad brakes. Actually, the cars stalled in the market because “Toyota” in any language translated to “no stop.” What lunatic wants a car that won’t stop? Double-Duh.

Toyota learned a lesson. It double-doubled-down on Duh and made a pitch to an exploding bumper crop of 21st century lunatics to go off their meds, run off the rails and “Go places” in the auto maker’s new roll-out, the “Asylum.” “Brakes not included” sealed the deal. No one uses ‘em anyway.

The ad campaign knocked it out. Soon the landscape everywhere was overrun by frenzied motorists in gleaming new fantasy machines…spinning, lurching and ricocheting, like amped-up ion particles in an electron tube.

Best “Let’s Go Places” ad is the frizzy-haired, wild-eyed woman, rocketing along to the bumpy riff “She has the look.” But what exactly is “the look”? A kamikaze pilot dive-bombing an aircraft carrier? Banzai! A terrorist driving into a crowd? Alu Akbar! Whatever the “look” is, I don’t ever wanna see it.

Actually, I already have. Not long ago I was talking with a neighbor at a nearby corner where collisions regularly occur involving motorists afflicted with “the look.” A white SUV turned off the I-10 service road and sped toward us. Behind us, a few feet away at the corner of Nolda and Sandman, was a stop sign, routinely ignored by motorists.

The approaching vehicle, a RAV4, showed no sign of slowing. As it flew by, I could see the driver, a female with teeth bared and a thousand-yard stare, fixin’ to ignore the stop sign, too. And why not? She had “the look.”

Job well done, Toyota! The lunatics now own keys to the Asylum.

Obituary for a fart in a punch-bowl

Many years ago, the Houston Chronicle engaged its high-sheriffs for a lively debate: should “Doonesbury”, the longest-running salute to sanctimonious spittle ever appearing in newsprint, be in the comics or the editorial section?

Strong cases could be made against either. The comics section was nixed because the strip was seldom funny; its main characters were pompous gasbags afflicted with end-stage irritable bowel syndrome, ready to bombast readers with sneering, condescending diatribes at the drop of a dime.

The editorial space was hallowed ground for opinions and exercise of free speech, but to some minds Doonesbury’s narrative was suspect – the strip was thinly-veiled code-talk for sedition – so it was off-limits there, too.  With no consensus, then, the debate paused and the strip was free to waltz across newspaper pages, with all the appeal and subtlety of a serial flasher overdosed on Quaaludes.

Fast forward to Christmas morning 2016 when the Chronicle, lovingly ensconced in the full-color comic section, arrived at readers’ doorsteps full of Yule greetings.  But not so fast!  If readers expected cheery holiday fluff, such notions were quickly squashed when confronted by the sullen, disdainful mug of Doonesbury character, “Rick Redfern”, notable for a chronic scowl typically associated with sufferers of psoriasis and piles, befouling the front page like cat litter in a Christmas stocking.  Garry Trudeau, creator of the strip, shows why he’s the perennial fart in the punch-bowl, a noteworthy achievement for which he was awarded a Pulitzer in 1975.

Trudeau’s Redfern character, ersatz journalist and unapologetic purveyor of hackneyed Marxist drool, wastes no time heaping broadsides of snarky bile on incoming president-elect #45.  Now Trump isn’t even due to arrive at the Oval Office for another 23 days, yet Trudeau is unleashing his spleen at Le Donald with the ferocity of a 50,000# psi pisswater-cannon.

Gotta wonder where Trudeau was during the last eight years while Obama connived and finagled how to transform America’s clock back to the Jurassic era?  Oh, right, he was front-row, cheering him on.  See, Doonesbury was the go-to forum for inspiring many incendiary upheavals – Occupy Wall Street, Black Lives Matter, Hands Up-Don’t Shoot – providing misfits an open-source playbook, and excuse, for instigating social mayhem and calamity.

Trudeau’s comic creation has been kicking progressive-liberal-left glop into Americans’ faces for 46 years.  Enuff awready!  Time to drain the swamp!  Doonesbury's self-righteous UC-Berkley style chicanery has overstayed its welcome.  Bury it and everything it stands for.

To the Houston Chronicle high-sheriffs, seems like passage of time resolved the debate.  Doonesbury fits in neither the comics nor the editorials, that's why there's obituaries.  “Doonesburied 1970 – 2016. Good riddance."

Velveeta-in-Chief

The excitement some women are experiencing about seeing U.S.'s first female presidential nominee is understandable.  It's dismaying that their desperation to witness this event in their lifetimes has herded them to an insipid knock-off like HRC as their standard-bearer.

In my lifetime I’ve always wanted to see a wheel of sharp cheddar cheese as President, but I’m not that desperate if my only choice is a moldy lump of processed Velveeta.  My standard-bearer would have standards.  Disconcerting that others are much less discriminating.

Related to this epochal moment is a little-known anecdote buried in the annals of U.S. political lore, mentioned here to put HRC's achievement in perspective.  Clinton, the vaunted glass ceiling smasher with borrowed swagger, has staked a claim as "the first female presidential nominee of a major American political party."

Seasoned wordsmiths wary of suspicious modifiers in any HRC jabber would note if the word "major" was deleted from her statement, Clinton's claim is altogether false.  How?  Two words:  Victoria Woodhull.  Who's that, you ask?  Well, Ms. Woodhull scooped Hillary – she was the Equal Rights Party's nominee to run against incumbent president Ulysses S. Grant in 1872.  So much for the first ceiling smasher hype.

But, but, but...here come the apologists...nobody's ever heard of the Equal Rights Party, and it's not even major!  That's right, but by the same token, without a "major" Hillary isn't even a player, much less the first female nominee.  And saying it's so doesn't make it so, except in her own diminutive mind.

http://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2015/04/victoria-woodhull-first-woman-presidential-candidate-116828

 

Impostors on parade a cause for mutiny

Photo-op circulating this weekend shows two clowns in same parade, one of which, or both, being an impostor. 

First clown in navy whites could be a poseur, or not, but either way his goofy Saturday Night Live demeanor compromises the decorum of an officer in uniform.  Navy vets familiar with matters of military conduct all agree no self-respecting Chief Petty Officer would appear in public as a costume party doofus, and certainly not within spitting distance of Hill-dog, on whose watch rested the fate of 4 Americans, including 2 Navy SEALS, at Benghazi.

Second one in blue Chairman Mao opera jacket knock-off is clown doing a third-rate impression of a depleted estrogen vessel.  Lipstick on Hillary accomplishes as much as Reddi-Whip on a cow-pie – it doesn't prove she's a woman and it doesn't make her likable.

The jury’s out on the navy dude, but no question the second one's an authentic fake.  Imagine having to salute that road-apple.  Now that's real cause for mutiny.

Uzbeks? Kazaks? Tajiks? What's in a name?

In November ‘89 following the long-overdue collapse of the Berlin Wall, an unhinged Soviet Union unleashed a slow-motion bull in its own china shop.  Over the next few years, what once was a fearsome empire of colossal strength and ruthlessness would dissolve into a stagnant puddle of dreary inertia.

After the meltdown, Russia, America’s loathsome Cold War archenemy, would be exposed to the world as a paranoiac serial flasher with a microbe-sized Johnson, a shabby trench-coated empire with no clothes.  East and West Germany reconciled and became one.  Poland, Hungary and the east Europe bloc countries wriggled out from the Soviets’ grip.  Belarus, Estonia and the north Europe states told the Rooskies to f*ck off.  By late ‘91 the Soviet Federation itself, the matrix of the Red madness, splintered into fifteen separate sovereign nations.

As former Soviet slave-states lowered lifeboats into the turbulent seas of economic uncertainty, the overarching theme was “Screw the ruble, we’ll take our chances.”  And they did.  During these years, some countries succeeded after finding their bearings.  Others struggled just to get footing.  Still others thrashed helplessly, dazed and confused without the smothering hug of a tyrannical overlord.  Chaos reigned.  Deception and cruelty prevailed.  Governments were sleazy agencies of systemic corruption, populated by high-ranking thugs and mobsters on-the-take who pillaged and plundered with as much zeal as they did as high-ranking politburos on-the-take in their old jobs.

Hungary offered the best illustration of this era.  They tolerated the Russians’ lawless strip-mining of bauxite from its native soil and were ecstatic when they left.  They had good reason to resent the Reds, yet when little actually changed afterward, they found sardonic humor in noting that the same Ukrainian brutes previously dressed in Russian military uniforms, who drove T-34 tanks and carried Kalishnikov AKM side-arms, later became the Ukrainian mobsters with Armani luxury black leather jackets, Mercedes-Benz E-Class sedans, and Walther PPK 380 conceal carry small-arms, along with the new arm-bling favored by fast-living thugs living low in the high life – stunning blond escorts of vacuous expression and factory-enhanced cannons.

During this tumultuous period nothing was safe.  The sticky tentacles of theft, extortion and misappropriation snatched monetary assets for amusement, human lives for sexual slavery, and real property for new empire-building.  All was fair game if it could be transferred from one to another without documentation or consent.  Records were lost, owners’ rights and lives meant nothing, borders changed, people disappeared, whole countries vanished or traded hands.  Business as usual, as usual.  The Wild West redux, live, from the Wild East.

Eventually, in the same way planet Earth coalesced from the calamity of its own creation, post-Soviet states settled into new routines of their own, however unfamiliar or uncertain each might have been.  All was good, for most part.  But the new calm was short-lived, and as the twentieth century began setting the stage for the new millennium, something unusual occurred.

The Cold War ended, but spying and clandestine surveillance didn’t.  Satellite imagery, the new mainstay in a spy-master’s bag of assets, began acquiring perplexing data tucked away in the shadowy chinks of central Asia’s rugged terrain.  In the western tip of the north portion of Kyrgyzstan at the Uzbek interior corner border, a tiny land mass barely 6 square miles in area was found to be populated by citizens not native to the territory – Grizzly bears.  Not just a handful of isolated strays, either.  Close analysis of the imagery revealed nearly a thousand Grizzlies, in large and small groups, moving purposefully within the region.  And as analysts scrutinized the data more closely, they were astonished to discover the bears carrying firearms and weaponry!  The signature of the activities was unmistakable – live-fire training exercises, weapons maintenance and field maneuvers – leading analysts to conclude the bears were readying for warfare.

When this news arrived in Langley, Virginia, CIA brass immediately scurried into red-alert mode, not wanting to be blind-sided by a seemingly innocuous anomaly which just as easily could’ve developed into cataclysmic upheaval.  Orders were sent to the Kyrgyzstan station chief, who dispatched intel-gathering assets to the region to sniff-out the G-2 to unravel the mystery.  The answer came back in short order.  The full report, paraphrased below:

“Subject land mass triangular in shape, 5.7 square miles in area.  East boundary is original Uzbek-Kyrg border, SW boundary is Chatkal River, and NW boundary is the old uncompleted Soviet civil engineer water project.  In mid-1980 Russia began first phase of 2.5 mile-long water diversion project, to create artificial tributary for diverting waters flowing from Charvak Reservoir 1 mile northwest, into the Chatkal River. Objective of new tributary was to relieve pressure on downstream Chatkal south banks during winter flooding, and create a water feed-source for the Besh-Aral State Reserve SW extension 5 miles northeast near Kotak… 

“Project reached 40% completion milestone, then abandoned during U.S.S.R. break-up.  Uzbekistan declared independence in 12/1991 but did not include subject territory in its reorganized charter, acting on (erroneous) belief the river project denoted an earlier redrawn border ceding the lands to neighboring Kyrgyzstan.  Former high-ranking Soviet politburos (names redacted) familiar with the project took advantage of the geopolitical confusion and usurped ownership of the territory to claim as their own…

“To defend the region from marauding Uzbeks and Kyrgs, the new (illegal) Russian landlords sacked the Moscow State Circus of its prized asset, the Dancing Grizzlies.  Several hundred bears were spirited away to the sanctuary where they were coaxed to parent new offspring, and equipped with automatic weapons, RPG’s and various small-bore field artillery which the easily-trained Grizzlies learned to use quickly.  Observation of the ursine training exercises in the region indicates the Grizzlies work as an effective combat unit excelling at small-scale skirmishes…

“As of this report, no information was obtained that the Uzbeks plan to challenge the Russians’ claim. This situation is being monitored closely.  When asked for details explaining their actions an unidentified spokesman reported that the Russians, superior in aggression but sub-par in cognitive skills, became hooked on the U.S. constitution, notably the 2nd amendment, which in their minds gave them sufficient justification to arm bears to protect their lands.  Presently, this is a region with no name, although “Dyslexistan” is as good a name as any.

Filed 06/23/1997
Tashkent Field Office
(name redacted), Case Officer

 

Somebody muzzle that dog!

This is National Dog Bite Prevention Week.  Let's git this started on the right foot and get that junkyard dog outta the White House and behind a cage before he bites us in the ass again with another flea-infested executive order.

Agree:  Growl, howl and bark loudly and clearly

Disagree:  Drool, slobber and foam at the mouth

Undecided:  Whimper, roll over and play dead

Rights of passage through sewers of the Times

If I said to you “Frank Bruni is a writer for the New York Times” you might respond “That’s like saying he’s a dildo for an emasculated serial flasher” and someone else might say “He’s a latex glove that a proctologist uses for a DRE” and we could all laugh ourselves silly until someone gets serious and says “Okay, so where’re we going with this?”  So let’s find out.

Bruni has written couple articles about Trump and when reading them it's apparent he derives a kind of perverse pleasure using the word “sewer” as many times possible.  Then it struck me:  Bruni isn’t a journalist for the Times, he’s a propagandist for the Left, a munitions handler for toilet water cannons, a hatchet man with a fetish for exploring waste holes.

To hear Bruni’s POV, Trump lives, works and plays in a sewer.  The evidence he cites to prove his case is LeDonald hangs out in the private sector, doing stuff like investing, building, marketing, promoting, buying, selling, negotiating, and the like.  In other words, the sewer that’s Trump’s world is nearly the same as what a lot of other folks schlep through every day, except for scale and extravagance.

Point is, we all work for a living, in many cases in jobs that are sewers, figuratively or literally.  I endured a couple during my working career, but shrugged those off as dues to pay for self-improvement to rise above the heap.  Plumbers and municipal workers, by the way, earn livings in the milieu of filth and stink, but at least they’re clean on the inside.

Sewers are rights-of-passage but Bruni holds these in contempt, given his preference for the boondocks of intellectual fraudulence traveled by Hillary.  He believes, with a straight face, Ms. Clinton would tarnish her stature if she were to descend to Trump’s level for dialogue.  And with an even straighter face, he ignores the fact HRC has spent her entire career trolling through the dank entrails of the biggest sewer system in the U.S. and all the conduits leading to it.  Now who's descending to whose level?

Who else except pompous elitist lackeys like Bruni could find virtue in a power-crazed VINO* whose No. 1 political goal is testicle redistribution, giving a set of stones to those who don’t have any.  Hillary herself doesn’t need any, of course, because she’s got two pairs locked up already – Bill’s and Bruni’s.

And where else could Bruni find work except with the NY Times.  One time, journalism stood for integrity, but no longer since integrity has been retired from the Times' wordlist.  Now the Times’ brand of journalism is just spermless jism, sticky drivel with the consistency, and substance, of snot.  The newspaper didn't earn the nickname "New York Slime" for no reason and Bruni, yer right at home.

*Vagina In Name Only   

Big carbon footprints and inconvenient feline facts

In western states where wind turbines proliferate, operators are exempt from penalties relating to eagles killed by the turbines.  Snopes, a quick-and-dirty fact-check site for the slothful, failed to validate the story, but more digging found the Smithsonian Institute and the Institute of Energy Research, two powerhouses of respectability, offering these insights:

> In 2013, the Obama administration unveiled regulations allowing wind energy companies to obtain 30-year permits to kill eagles, peregrine falcons, owls and other species protected under the Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act and the Migratory Treaty Act, without prosecution by the federal government.

> Statistics vary, as they usually do, yet the aviary mortality rate has increased noticeably as more wind turbines come on-line.  During the past 5 years, an estimated 3 million birds have been killed by wind farm operations, and until recently the government’s lethargic enforcement division has shown little inclination for penalizing offenders.

> Fossil-fuelers don’t enjoy the luxury of the fed’s leniency, however, in view of the $100+ million in fines assessed BP for its role in the 2010 Deepwater Horizon oil spill which tallied up an estimated 800 thousand bird kills.  No question that BP's treasury deserved to be pillaged, but the enforcement disparity issue raises a political stench more toxic than the sludge washing into the marshes of south Louisiana.

Big carbon footprints, stand aside!  Big Green is the new kid on the block.  New is exciting and sexy and anything of verdant hue, which all translates to subsidies, tax abatements and high favorability ratings in the swamps of public opinion.  Green, like the dollar, is good because it represents growth.  Fossil-fuelers had their turn harvesting growth, oft-times at public expense.  Now Big Green wants theirs, even if at public expense, too, because that’s the trade-off for sating the nation's bloated energy appetite.

Advocates for wind turbine energy are quick to point out household cats kill as many birds, if not more.  What?!  They kidding?!  One thing doesn’t have to do with the other, but if industry proponents are going to rely on this as an argument it should keep in mind that felines are predators by nature, so what does that say about Big Green?

Two weeks ago, westbound on Katy Fwy on a routine shopping mission, a CofH electric-powered municipal vehicle passed me.  On the rear of the car was a logo of an electric plug and cord, proudly bragging on “100+ miles per gallon!”  If I was able to, I would’ve inquired if the driver knew the following facts about his vehicle’s mileage stats:

33 mpg – provided by coal-powered generation plants
32 mpg – electricity provided by natural gas-powered generation plants
20 mpg – all others (hydro, wind, solar, renewables, oil, etc.)
15 mpg – provided by nuclear-powered generation plants

Hmm, if we're truly committed to reducing CO2 emissions, we could reduce our driving by about 65%.  But that requires a working knowledge of Math 101, so I’m not optimistic about reduced emissions any time soon.
 
How to fix our energy issues?  We innovate, solve and lead by doing. That requires integrity, courage, accountability and backbone – all in short supply, of course.  The golden eagle just got more company on the endangered species list.

Colossal time-sucks

For research, the internet is a primo work tool.  It’s also a colossal time-suck.  Keep this in mind if you’re undisciplined – countless opportunities are available for disappearing into a string of rabbit holes where huge chunks of time disappear along with.

Word of the day:  Labyrgoogle (lab-ber-goo-gull), v., to traverse through mazes of interconnected digital corridors, with or without goal or focus; from labyrinth (Greek), Google (Silicon Valley).

How used in sentence:  Because of earthquakes and Armageddon, my flight was delayed for a couple hours, so I labyrgoogled the internet until they announced the boarding call.

Footnote:  Lexicographers most likely will dismiss “Labyrgoogle” and the word will fail to gain a foothold in day-to-day jabber.  "Google" is explicit in meaning, and it stands by itself to convey the process of becoming lost in multiple venues without help from redundant auxiliary words. As well, any time lost by someone who Googles without focus is understood as an inherent business risk, generally to be minimized where possible. 

Twerks for money, panders for votes

"She twerks hard for the money"*
Click-on video and enjoy the lyrics and GIF's below.

She twerks hard for the money
So hard for it honey
She twerks hard for your money
So you better grease her right

She twerks hard for you honey
So horny for the money
She twerks hard for you honey
So you better grease her right

Hillary there with iPhone in hand
Wonders where her Super-PAC is
And the pain still hurts
Some people seem to get ahead of her
Nine P.M. the truth’s at hand
She’s watching the polls return
And she’s looking real snooty
She’s gettin' ready to bury the Bern

She twerks hard for the money
So hard for it honey
She twerks hard for your money
So you better grease her right

She twerks hard for you honey
So horny for the money
She twerks hard for you honey
So you better grease her right

Sixty eight years have come and gone
She’s tired of waiting her turn
Now’s time to take what’s hers
And twerk for those who brung her there
Life’s a bitch working night and day
For quarter million dollar speaker’s pay
But it’s worth it all to hear the bank say
“The checks cleared”

She twerks hard for the money
So hard for it honey
She twerks hard for your money
So you better grease her right

She twerks hard for you honey
So horny for the money
She twerks hard for you honey
So you better grease her right

Already saying adios to her bad times
Already claiming nothing but good times
She’ll always sell out, both she and Bill
Bet your last dollar she will

Repeat refrain after instrumental

She twerks hard for the money
So hard for it honey
She twerks hard for your money
So you better grease her right

She twerks hard for you honey
So horny for the money
She twerks hard for you honey
So you better grease her right

Repeat refrain until end

 

*With many apologies to Donna Summer (1948 - 2012)

True courtroom tales

Please rise.  Court's now in session.

Q.  To the best of your knowledge, did the victim’s husband predecease the victim before or after the victim deceased?
A.  It was one or the other, I wasn’t there.

Q.  Doctor, did you say he was shot in the woods?
A.  No, I said he was shot in the lumbar region.

Q.  Officer, what led you to believe the defendant was under the influence?
A.  Because he was argumentary and he couldn't pronunciate his words.

Q.  Now, you have investigated other murders, have you not, where there was a victim?

Q.  Do you drink when you're on duty?
A.  I don't drink when I'm on duty, unless I come on duty drunk.

Q.  Are you sexually active?
A.  No, I just lie there

Q.  ...any suggestions as to what prevented this from being a murder trial instead of an attempted murder trial?
A.  The victim lived.

Q.  Are you qualified to give a urine sample?
A.  Yes, I have been since early childhood.

Q.  The truth of the matter is that you were not an unbiased, objective witness, isn't it. You too were shot in the fracas?
A.  No, sir. I was shot midway between the fracas and the naval.

Q.  What is the meaning of sperm being present?
A.  It indicates intercourse.
Q.  Male sperm?
A.  That is the only kind I know.

A Texas attorney, realizing he was on the verge of unleashing a stupid question, interrupted himself and said, "Your Honor, I'd like to strike the next question."

Adjourn for recess.

Existential garden life philosohies

Life goes on with no Plan "B" 

Live fast and avoid speed traps

Seize the day and curb your dog

Always aim higher – gravity will correct

Time awaits no one traveling in the Twilight Zone

#1 rule of successful people:  Make your own rules

Shoot for the most distant star – few will care if you missed

Faster horses, older whiskey, younger women, higher credit score

Be nice to your neighbors before they’re nice to you – just on principle

Life is 90% showing up, 10% is waking up, throwing up and f*cking up

The joys of fusion cooking

Memorial day is closing in.  About enough time to clean-up the grill and research new fusion recipes to wow the townhome neighbors.  Just. Can't. Wait. 

Madam of the Whorehouse, we presume?

It’s not your imagination.  Hillary’s payroll is enlarging.  New hire-ons of goons specializing in bulldozing noncompliance into submission are emerging everywhere, muscling people aside with menacing admonitions like “You better get used to saying ‘Madam President’”, as if in preparation for the inevitability of the presumptive one’s assault on the Oval Office.

Fine, whatever, the voters can decide that.  Until then, let’s lay down some ground rules about naming rights.

Rule 1:  Due to conflicting claims, the title “Madam” shall be co-owned by “Madam President” and “Madam of the Whorehouse”.  This means Hillary must share equal billing with the house manager of the world’s oldest profession, who, under a principle of land law called “adverse possession,” has a much stronger claim to the title than Hillary anyway.  If Hillary’s fine with that, then we’ll happily call her Madam all day and night every day of the week.

In the age of Twitter, brevity is key.  Instead of calling her “Madam All Day and Night Every Day of the Week,” let’s shorten it to “Madam 24/7.”  But why stop there?  How about “Madam 31,” since 24 + 7 = 31.  Or shorter still – “Madam 4,” since 3 + 1 = 4.  Oh hell, let’s whittle it all the way down – “M4.”  Like the symbol for the artist formerly known as Prince, “M4” is the handle for the pseudo estrogen-vessel formerly known as Hillary.

Having said this, though, Rule 1 forces into the open an insoluble conundrum, since calling Hillary “Madam” presumes she’s of the female persuasion, an arguable claim, given there’s little evidence to support this.  Until empirical data arrives proving beyond doubt she’s derived of woman-ness, we’ll concede the point momentarily and call her “Madam V.I.N.O.” (Vagina In Name Only) as an alternative, about as accurate a title as any.

Rule 2:  Titled vs. Entitled.  There’s a difference.  “Titled” means having been given a name for something, like a book (“The DaVinci Code”), or person (“Captain”).  “Entitled” is different altogether.  Nobody’s entitled to anything, except maybe food, safety and shelter – a birthright in a very narrow sense for everyday peeps, or in a broader sense as royalty in European monarchies where rulers ascend to the throne by right of birth, and not popular vote.  Maybe Hillary’s GPS is faulty, or she flunked Geography, but this isn’t England and she’s not entitled to the Presidency.  End. Of. Conversation.

Rule 3:  Titles are signs of respect, by the way, earned through achievement and valor, not deceit or brute force.  Respect is two-way, too.  Hillary can call herself the Handmaiden of God for all it matters, but as long as she treats us commoners like low-watt knuckle-draggers, we’ll call her “Lord Ass-Witch.”  Sounds like royalty, anyway.

Three pretty good rules we can work with.  How ‘bout you, M4, or Lord Ass-Witch, whoever you are?  Waddya think of dem rules?

Related articles

Dwayne ''The Rock'' Johnson Responds to Fans Wanting Him to Run for President: ''Maybe One Day''

VIDEO: Rudy Giuliani SLAMS Hillary Clinton With THIS Comparison To ISIS!

Pictures: Obama & King In The Oval Office

Hillary Clinton Crushes Trump's "Business Experience" During CNN's Final Five

Cuban history in the making, or in the taking?

Official story-line:  The President’s historic trip to Cuba has opened the doors for our offshore island neighbors to frolic in the sumptuous font of luxurious 21st century living.

First-draft version:  So-called Yanqui largesse, as it were, signifies the resumption of business as usual, making the island safe for pillaging and crony capitalism once more.

Realists among us view the much-anticipated infusion of fresh capital as doing little except resupplying the depleted inventory of oxygen tanks, walkers and life-support machinery to prop up the decrepit Marxist functionary, Fidel, for the rest of his life.  After that, all bets are off.

Ask Yoani Sanchez – who might also differ with the PR hoopla – since she, as a native Cuban, and political dissident, has been forced to live her entire life in the backwash of Castro’s drifting dinghy to nowhere.  Until Fidel is gone, Yoani’s expectations are not great that the lives of herself and her countrymen will improve that much, if at all.  Get lost, you smelly fossil!  Fósiles olorosa, dejar!

Six pretty good books to read about Cuba…

“Dancing with Cuba” by Alma Guillermoprieto
Professional dancer travels to Cuba to teach modern dance, abetting in Castro’s epic struggle to meet the island’s sugar quota

“The Brilliant Disaster” by Jim Rasenberger
Play-by-play narrative and post-mortem of how a plan with too many moving parts went so catastrophically wrong

“The Americano” by Aran Shetterly
True story of a sad-sack soldier of fortune from Toledo, Ohio who signed-on with Castro, then later was purged from the history books

“The Bay of Pigs” by Howard Jones
Chronicles of shadowy DC jerk-wads plotting campaigns of astonishing ineptitude, all with the deniable blessing of John F. Camelot himself

“Havana Real” by Yoani Sanchez
A Cuban woman's struggles with everyday life, chronic hunger and broken plumbing in the world’s last non-functioning Marxist commode

“The Brothers” by Stephen Kinzer
Everything you ever needed to know how America alienated friends and influenced enemies, and the two sibling clown-pants behind it all
 

Related articles

Ex-Cuban President, Castro Fires Obama Over Reconciliation Comments | African Examiner

Gloria Estefan: Queen Of Latin Pop | Flashback Miami

A communist coup in Cuba

Bigger boots needed

In the early 90’s after the collapse of the Soviet empire, many communist bloc countries checked their hole cards, and when realizing they had none, began the long march to economic reconfiguration.  China was one such country; to put their $$ house in order meant having to sever the umbilical cord to one of its client states, North Korea, who because of its own sparse resources and production capability was dependent on China for agricultural subsidies.

To China, this was an administrative action.  To North Korea, it was the trigger for the great famine of the 1990’s, a devastating humanitarian catastrophe of near-incalculable scale.

Initially the international community responded by delivering food aid to supplement imports.  Kim Jung-Il, leader at the time, responded by blocking the aid to the more desperate regions, then jiggled the books to finance construction of a $790 million mausoleum for his father, Kim Il-Sung.  Against this, North Koreans did what they could to survive – foraged for insects or plant roots to fill their bellies, sifted through garbage if any could be found, traded in black markets or grew illegal gardens – but in the end it was never enough.  Starvation claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, millions, and the toll still mounts.

In 2011 when Kim Jung-Un stepped in to fill the “Great Leader” shoes, he stepped-up the burn-rate, spending $650 million on luxury goods…clothing, alcohol, cosmetics, electronics, little-man toys like yachts and relic autos, and, for all we know, silicone implants to make more chubby his cheeks, in deference to ancient Korean proverb “Boy with chubby face-cheeks win heart of girl with chubby aft-cheeks.”

Chubby-boy’s burn-rate eclipses that of Imelda Marcos’, another symbol of profligacy and excess who thirty years ago, before North Korea’s own troubles began, had amassed a collection of 1,220 pairs of shoes before dissident Corazon Acquino booted Imelda and her despot-husband Ferdinand off the Phillipine islands.

On a scale of 1 to 10 on the brutality meter…10 being the worst…the Marcos’ legacy rates about a 2 when compared to the Kim’s 10.  If North Koreans ever expect to shut-down the Kim’s reign of terror, the answer is simple:  they need a bigger boot.  Question is, who'll step in to wear it?

The Art of Dealing with Pain

If you can't stand the pain, then stay outta the kitchen.  Or wherever.  The Donald should've taken Lemaze lessons before his water broke.  Or whenever.  Not sure Ted Cruz is Donald Trump's best choice for a midwife.  Or whatever.   Not sure I can take much more of this circus.  Whatever.

Related articles

Ted Cruz Has Had 5 Mistresses Claims the National Enquirer?

Shocking Rumors: Ted Cruz Sex Scandal?

Ted Cruz, Donald Trump Rumble Over Tabloid Claims That Cruz Cheated on Wife Heidi

Cartoons: Donald Trump and Ted Cruz

Donald Trump Threatens Lawsuit After Ted Cruz Gets More Delegates in Louisiana | Hinterland Gazette