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    Free Essay
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    Oil exploration update u. s. to play catch up with cuba

     

    Startlingly enough, it looks as if the time will soon arrive when the USA will have to play catch-up with Cuba in oil exploration. The diminutive and destitute communist enclave that serves as Fidel Castro’s personal cigar plantation now realizes that it has enough oil reserves under its coastal waters to prop up its no-go economy for decades and, incapable of assembling the capacity to out the oil itself, the island nation has begun to license drilling rights to other countries, including China, the prospect of which alarms us, and Spain, the idea of which invites us to think of tapas. In wisdom wrought from its neediness, the resourceful islet has also offered to license American oil companies. Expectedly enough, the very prospect of Cuba scooping oil out of the ocean floor while America has outlawed it for decades has enkindled hot debate in Congress about the present wisdom of our self-imposed interdiction. The debate has rapidly blossomed into a gusher partly because America has even more proven oil reserves in its coastal waters, no doubt principally because it has even more coastal waters. Persuasively enough in these oil-dear times, there seems to be enough of the black gold there to meet all of our energy needs for about 18 years, or long enough for all the leaders in the Middle East who we aren’t getting along with these days to go the way of leaders everywhere who, we determine, are irredeemably misguided. Naturally, conservation societies have been galvanized into opposition by the mere prospect of an oil bit chomping into the emerald waters of our abundantly fishy coastlines in search of the liquid treasure below the reefs. As the debate bubbles on, we can only consider a worst-case, best-case scenario. Worst case: we do nothing while foreign companies who don’t exactly have the most reverential reputations in ecological propriety drill away and, as time allows, send oil spills slithering onto our beaches. Best case: we race to catch up with Cuba and maybe even preempt the ill-advised entanglements that might otherwise drill down into our hemisphere. Since we’re actually talking about drilling in our own backyard pond, we might also, one hopes, do it in ways that are less likely to lead to the shameful oil blights that fill us all with remorse and send fish and fowl off to tarry death – derelictions that strange countries in a strange land might less assiduously labor to avoid.

         
    On the road again

     

    My wife and I need to exercise more. Every time we leave the house we notice vultures circling overhead in anticipation and now our washing machine is doing that nasty thing where it shrinks our clothes. So, in a moment of pure inspiration and absolutely no intelligent thought whatsoever, we decide to take up mountain biking. We could remember biking as kids and there was nothing to it. We set out to purchase our bikes with the fond memory of a cool breeze gently blowing in our faces. One of the first things we notice is that the seats are too small. Apparently they are now making the seats smaller than in our youth. The clerk smiles knowingly and smugly suggests that for the more mature biking enthusiasts they can attach foam padding. There is, of course, an extra charge. My wife chooses the extra padding and is currently riding around on what looks like a bucket seat from a 1967 Buick. I, on the other hand, have decided to save the additional expense and go without the padding. My proctologist has assured me that the tingling in my left buttock should eventually fade away. Early Saturday morning we prepare for our first cycling adventure. We decide to leave early to insure we'll be back before dark. My wife is to travel in front and carry a fanny pack with suntan lotion, a first aid kit and our medical insurance cards. Her job is to set the pace. My job is to follow behind and criticize. I'll be carrying a backpack filled with: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (for subsistence), energy bars (for endurance), 2 jugs of Gatorade (to replenish our bodily fluids), rain gear (in case of inclement weather), a map and compass (in case we get lost), a flashlight (in case we're lost at night), and signal flares (to assist the search party). We go over the route one final time. I spread the map out on the kitchen table, pointer in hand. "This is the route we'll be taking, so pay close attention. If you have any questions, now is the time to ask." I carefully review the emergency procedures. "If separated, we will rendezvous either here, at check-point Charlie, or here, at check-point Romeo." "We've been over this four times already," my wife complains, obviously taking the whole adventure much too lightly and showing no respect for my superior training and experience. After all, I was the one who spent nearly two full years in the Cub Scouts, not her. Fortunately, I understand the seriousness of the task ahead and have taken the necessary precautions. We're finally ready to put our weeks of training and preparations to use. It's time to venture forth and boldly go where no sane middle-aged man or woman has gone before -- it's time to leave our driveway. I brief the kids. "Now remember, while we're gone I want one of you to remain by the phone at all times in case we need to call for assistance." "But you're only going around the block," the kids complain. "The house will be in sight the entire time." Ah, the innocence of youth. They oversimplify everything.

         
    Our adobe hacienda

     

    When I was a teenager, my family moved to the largest alpine valley in the world, the San Luis Valley in southern Colorado, into a house that hadn't been inhabited for many years. What appeared to be an insurmountable task, reclaiming the living space in an adobe shack, while we cooked outside and pumped water from a hand-pump, slowly became a passion. The old adobe had been built by a Japanese family many years before, and until we found it, had been a frequent gathering/party place for local teenagers. Infested with chipmunks from the attic to the floor, it began to take on a new life as we put in new floorcovering, and scrubbed and cleaned until we thought we'd die. By the time winter rolled around, we had moved in. It didn't have a bathroom yet, so we endured an outhouseing from southern New Mexico, we had no idea what 40 degrees below zero felt like, until that winter. Let's just say if you left a shovel on the ground, you wouldn't be using it until the Spring thaw, the ice was so thick. My siblings and I thought it was great, except for the outhouse part, and we spent many hours sliding around on Sangre de Cristo Creek, pretending we were ice skaters. The "old adobe" as we refer to it now, was heated entirely with a big wood stove in the main room which served as kitchen, dining, and living room. All visitors were invited in and took a place at the table where they'd consume steeping hot coffee by the gallons, and whatever confections had been baked that day. My family got to where they groaned about "another peach cobbler", I had made so many. The next summer, the owner of the adobe, Luther Bean, a retired history professor from Adams State College, made his way from Alamosa many times, overseeing and helping with the building of the bathroom. We kids, along with "Mr. Bean", sifted sand, gathered stones, mixed cement, sawed studs, and watched the laundry - and bathroom slowly become a reality. The building project was in addition to preparing and growing a garden to the north, by the creek, and investing in chickens, hogs, goats, and one pitiful "pinko" sheep we named Baby. Thoughts of eating Baby vanished as she became an increasingly large family pet. We got a couple of dogs, Sandy and Curly, who, after Curly (a sheepdog) trained Sandy, were the keepers of the livestock. When the livestock would get out of their fences, the dogs automatically herded them back in. A seamstress for many years, my mother built an upholstery shop in one of the outbuildings just North of the potato shed (for non-Valley folks, that's a huge domed, insulated-with-hay, underground structure designed to store San Luis Valley-grown potatoes in the freezing Colorado winters), which soon became a place to park vehicles so the blocks wouldn't freeze. We did a lot of canning that next summer (hence, all the peach cobblers) and I'll never forget how cold the water coming out of our well was, when washing spinach and other vegetables. We'd raised chickens in Texas, so we knew the drill, and it was no fun, dipping and plucking those varmints. We didn't have to cut their heads off, though, that chore was Dad's. I will always remember one time when we lived in Texas and Dad was late getting home from work, Mom decided she'd go out and kill a chicken for supper. Dad did it by putting its head under a hoe handle and pulling it off in one quick jerk. Well, mom got it backwards, and put its body under the handle and pulled and pulled on that poor chicken's head until she had to give up. The rooster walked away stunned and ruffling his feathers, and Mom watched dinner amble off into the barnyard. We had beans and cornbread that night. The old adobe had electric wires running through conduit. There was no switch in kitchen, just two bare wires that you had to hook together to get the lights on. For years, we hooked and unhooked those wires and none of us ever got electrocuted. It must have been guardian angels that kept that from happening. I didn't really feel it back then, that we were very poor, because I didn't feel poor. I felt very rich in many ways. Life was full and interesting, there were dreams to dream, there was always something new to read, and each day held its own excitement. When I left the Valley, for 24 years, I had a knawing homesickness for it. That Japanese family had come through and were in tears when they found that we had restored it and were living there. It must have meant a lot to them, and I understand why, as I remember the smoke curling up from the crooked stove-pipe, with eight-foot-long icicles hanging down from every side of the house, making it look like a piece of iced gingerbread on a winter's day. After returning, I went to visit the old adobe, which my parents had long-since left, building their own home and moving from there many years before. I discovered that the old adobe was gone. I found out that one of the farmers around Fort Garland had bulldozed it down. There had been life there, for the Japanese family and then for us. We learned a lot about survival on that place, and what it's like to truly live without all the conveniences like TV, running water, and central heating, which I call luxuries, we're so accustomed to. I know I could do it again, if I had to. Wilderness...here we come. © 2005 Dianne James

         
    Our baby the grape

     

    My wife and I are only about six weeks into this pregnancy thing and we're still trying to wrap our heads around this whole idea of having a baby, though we have wildly different thoughts on the subject. I'm worried about whether or not we'll be able to handle the financial and moral responsibilities of bringing a child into the world. My wife is mostly worried about passing something the size of a watermelon through her hoo-ha. And so far the worry has been all our own. We haven't told anyone else about our impending baby because, quite frankly, I don't think either of us fully believes that my wife is actually pregnant. Sure, she's moody all the time and has had an inexplicable food cravings and she's taken to complaining about how bloated and fat she feels, but really, that's no different than how she's acted for the for the five years that I've known her. And I still married her. Right now our baby is not really a "he" or a "she" as much as an "it" in our minds. We've been reading a lot of these baby websites and a lot of these sites compare our baby's current size to various pieces of fruit. The message eventually changes as the pregnancy moves forward, so one week the baby site will proclaim "Your baby is now the size of a sesame seed!" and a week or two later we'll read "Your baby is now the size of a raisin!" If these baby sites had their way we'd all measure our own size compared to various items from the produce aisle. I'd stand 8.4 carrots tall and when I stepped on the scale it would read like a slot machine and report my weight as in at 250 pumpkins, two oranges and three cherries. So every day I check these sites and every day I'm reminded that our baby is only the size of a grape. I don't mind telling you that it's hard to feel very attached to a grape...and it isn't even a fully developed grape. It's not like my wife has a little grape-sized person in her. No, right now she has a little pink squishy thing that, really, looks kinda like a...well....a squished grape. Our baby is only beginning to grow organs, so it's not like we have a whole lot in common with our very, very, very little offspring. I mean, I'm a not a very complex guy but I still like to relax with a TV remote in one hand and a beer in the other. Right now our baby doesn't have hands to hold the remote or even a liver to process the beer. This is all still so unreal to us that my wife and I are also still trying to find the best way to even talk about the whole idea of being pregnant. The phrase "we're pregnant" makes it sound as though we're some sort of bisexual Siamese twin sharing one body and committing unspeakable acts of fornication on ourselves. She's the one who's pregnant and I'm the guy who did it (or so she claims). We've struggled with ways of referring to the pregnancy situation and so far we've used phrases like "knocked up," "expecting," "got a bun in the oven," "infiltrated," "violated," and even "been slimed." I think we'll have to filter out a few of those when it finally comes time to announce the news to our families. So that's where we are in this whole baby-making process. The baby has been made, but it's still a pretty gooey, tiny thing that doesn't really have much personality and even less mass. I'm sure this whole fatherhood thing is going to change my life, but right now I'm just not feeling it. I have, however, sworn off eating grapes. At least until our baby grows up... to be the size of a lime.

         
    Our police takes care of us

     

    … It happened at one of the railway stations within Moscow precincts. On the watch of public order there was captain Viktor Nikolayevich Stepantsov. Rough and lusty fellow, he was a drinker and had a vehement hatred for all the migrants. Once his strong claws caught a couple of Tajiks (citizens of Tajikistan), who were trying to get on the train for free. Guest workers were brought to the police station where they underwent a thorough check-out, though the policeman didn’t find any documents, money or any other tangible property. Having been distressed by this kind of insidiousness, Captain Ivantsov lectured his captives about the inadmissibility of walking without money (what the hell then he had spent his time on them?!) and laid down his terms: - Well then. One of you two stays here, while the other brings cabbage (1000 roubles (like 40 bucks) per each). After that you can get out of here. The trick used to work but this time Tajiks jibbed. Claiming than they hadn’t a bean and moreover owed money all around, they refused to separate point-black, what finally enraged Ivantsov. - The hell with you, stay here till morning if you like! Then there’ll come the car and I’ll send you to the reception center like tramps! Having locked Tajiks in the “monkey house” (the cell), Captain returned to his business. In several hours Ivantsov reaped his rewards, crooked the elbow and only then remembered his rebellious prisoners. - Hey, basmatches, made up your mind? A thou per mug and buzz off. Or to the reception center! Tajiks shook their heads. Looked like it wasn’t the first time they were caught like that and knew that there wouldn’t be any car and, having frightened a little, cops would release them anyway. However they didn’t know Ivantsov at all! In an hour or so, staggering after two more vodkas, captain came back to the station and ordered his mate to take prisoners outside. Sergeant, at a loss, dragged Tajiks out of the cell and obeying the order placed them both by the concrete fence. With an imperial gesture Ivantsov unfastened the holster: - I’m asking you the last time, counters, are you gonna pay?! Tajiks kept silence. Ivantsov pulled “Makarov” revolver out of the holster, switched the preventer, twisted the lock and having aimed at one of “basmatches’” heads pronounced threateningly: - For not paying the fine, defiance to police and on suspicion of illegal migration, in the name of law – you’ll be executed by shooting, bastards! There was a sound of shot and one of the Tajiks collapsed on the ground (luckily because he fainted). Then the colleagues realized they’d better go on the captain, as he was aiming at the other prisoner’s head. Colleagues had trouble pinioning “the indomitable fighter against illegal migration”, and then there began sudden fits. The frightened orderly officer called an ambulance. Diagnosis (as everybody could guess) was mental disorder and Captain was taken to the psychosomatic unit. Tajik was brought to senses and both of them were allowed to go with an order to forget everything. P. S. You may think that Viktor Nikolayevich was fired? Not a bloody thing. As I’ve heard recently, he got “major” rank and is waiting for promotion again.

         
    Palestinian leadership saved by suitcase loaded with cash

     

    The Palestinian leadership, experiencing an ongoing cash crunch because the civilized world refuses to support its unachievable vow to destroy Israel, suffered the indignity of being assaulted by its own unpaid workers, who shouted “We are hungry!” But, just in the nickel of time, the Palestinian Foreign Minister managed to smuggle a suitcase loaded with $20 million in cash into Gaza. He had slipped in from Egypt, on his way back from a successful begging trip to Indonesia, Malaysia, Brunei, China, Pakistan, Iran and Egypt. Evidently, he was not the first Palestinian emissary to attempt a cash run, but his predecessors ran into unexpected obstacles on the way across the border. Is this or is this not a ludicrous condition to bring a people to who have aspirations of statehood and an inalienable right to at least a pinky of dignity. But then the poor misguided slugs did vote Hamas in, so they did play a part in bringing such embarrassing travail on themselves. Question is, how long will Hamas keep its populace on the rack before the surprisingly elected organization realizes that, if it wants a state, the first thing it has to do is recognize the right of its neighboring state to exist. One wonders how long the inconvenienced Mahmoud Abbas, sensible and promising moderate that he is, can witness the indecisive idiocy and its debilitating effects without attempting to take effective action. Since he is dealing with such an misguided opposition, we must wish him safe passage through the intricacies of his far wiser enterprise.

         
    Pat robertson confesses god upset with him tells him he lost his mind

     

    In the wake of having reported that God told him Tsunami-like storms were likely to hit the U. S. coasts this year, Pat Robertson appeared on his TV program visibly shaken, and announced, “God has told me something else, and it’s something I didn’t want to hear. He said, ‘Pat, you lost your mind.’ “Naturally, I was surprised and asked why he would ever think such a thing of me. “God went on to ask, ‘Did you report that I told you America should assassinate Hugo Chavez, the leader of Venezuela?’ “'Yes, I did,' I confessed. “’And did you recently tell people I told you that this year I’m going to send fearsome storms to batter the coastlines of America?’ “'Yes, I did,' I confessed again. “’But, Pat, ask yourself, if I’m the benevolent being people expect me to be, how could I have said those terrible things?’ “You mean, you didn’t say them?' I asked. "’Heck, no! I’ve got my reputation to consider. What I actually told you is, on the first point, that America should invite the President of Venezuela to Washington to talk things over.’ “'You did?' I replied, swallowing hard. “’Yes, Pat. And on the second issue, I told you I felt Katrina was enough of a Category 5 hurricane for the time being and I intended to hold off on such destructive whirlwinds for years to come.' “'Really?' ”'Yes, Pat. But what has happened? You misheard every message I delivered. Now, since I know you would much prefer to be my dutiful servant, I can only assume you’ve lost your mind.’ “Yep,” Pat continued to his enthralled audience, “that’s what God told me and, let me tell you, His mighty words gave me pause. So I said, ‘In the future I’ll listen more carefully.’ “But God wouldn’t have anything to do with that. He was just too upset with me. “’I appreciate your good intentions, Pat, but I can’t take anymore chances. My reputation is already too damaged.’ “Then the Lord told me the most hurtful thing I can imagine." “’Pat, I’m not going to show up and talk to you anymore.’ "’Oh, God, no, please,’ I told him. ‘I’ll listen to your every word more carefully with all my heart and mind.’ "’I know you’ll have the best of intentions, but, I regret to say, the next time we talk is when you arrive at the Pearly Gates. I have to find somebody to appear to who can get the story right. But listen to me, Pat. If you do exactly as I say, I, in my infinite mercy, will forgive your every misinterpretation. And here is what I say. If you ever think I told you something in the future, tell yourself it can’t be true and you made it up. Do you hear me, Pat?’ “’Yes, God,’ I told my Lord and Master. ‘Not only that, I apologize for any damage I might have, through no conscious intent, done to your magnificent and forever undamaged reputation.' “’Good, Pat, good,’ God told me, and put out His hand. “’I look forward to seeing you again in ten or twenty years.’ “’Thanks, Your Worship, see you then,’ I told Him. “Then we shook hands and he disappeared. “So let me just announce to my faithful listeners, that’s it, folks. I won’t be making anymore announcements about what God told me. I have gotten the message from on high that I am now out of personal communication with the Infinite. From now on I am as much a creature of the finite world as you all are. “And I am confident that, because of this decision, God loves me and you more than ever. So please donate more generously than ever."

         
    Peace loving muslim located expresses normal human concerns

     

    Noting the way violent and irrational Muslims have dominated the news, while the Muslim masses and, most inexcusably, Muslim clerics have in general remained reticent about the scandalously murderous terrorist talk and the mayhem the lunatics advocate, we decided there must be, among the world’s billion or so Muslims, any number of normal, peace-loving and, on a wild bet, perhaps even modern-minded, acolytes. So we began our tireless search to see if we might find such a rare and wonderful countercurrent to the tide that is sweeping the Muslim religion ever more beyond the shoreline of what sane and civilized people consider blessed. We’re delighted to tell you that, after an extensive search, we were, in fact, able to locate at least one such exceptional and distinguished soul. Obviously, there may be others out there, but they’re just not being visibly vocal, unless, of course, a cartoon shows up that they decide is offensive. Where, you may ask, did we find our prize Muslim? Why, in the most appropriate of places – at Ground Zero, where he is employed as an engineer, working on rebuilding the area after the murderous and damnable crimes of 911. He invited us to meet him on the job, just so we could confirm with our own eyes that a Muslim would be involved in such a noble and redemptive construction process. The following recounts our entirely delightful and encouraging interview with him, which, we hope, inspirits all to think the better of Muslims in general and, most especially, to persuade many another Muslim to follow in his savingly enlightened footsteps. NewsLaugh: According to the questionnaire you were kind enough complete, you’re a peace-loving Muslim? Peace-Loving Muslim: Yes, I am. NewsLaugh: Good for you. We also understand you’re modern-minded. Peace-Loving Muslim: I am, indeed. NewsLaugh: Glad you meet you. Peace-Loving Muslim: Glad to meet you, too. NewsLaugh: Are you the only peace-loving and modern-minded Muslim or do you think there might be others? Peace-Loving Muslim: Oh, there are millions of them, I assure you. NewsLaugh: Really? Why don’t we ever hear from them? Peace-Loving Muslim: Because peace-loving people usually don’t make news. They wake up and do things like go to work and feed the kids. NewsLaugh: Yes, of course. We’re familiar with such activities ourselves. But why do Muslim clerics so seldom speak out about all the violent activities perpetrated in the name of Islam? Peace-Loving Muslim: Some do, but I agree, they should be more out there. But you must understand that, since they are peace-loving, they might never shout as loud as Muslims – and I I even hesitate to call the most violent ones by the term Muslims – who aren’t. If you’ll notice, crazy people generally scream, while peaceful people are more like to carry on a conversation, like this one. NewsLaugh: Yes, of course. But do you think some of them quietly suspect that the monsters perpetrating these crimes are on the side of Allah? Peace-Loving Muslim: I hope not. I can’t imagine a truly religious person seeing Allah as being on the side of murder. But, of course, you have to allow for all possibilities. My own Muslim cleric is a very peaceful fellow who thinks that Osama and his cronies are madmen who are damaging our religion inexcusably. NewsLaugh: Bless his insightful butt. Peace-Loving Muslim: I’ll let him know you said that. NewsLaugh: Where were you born? Peace-Loving Muslim: Pakistan. NewsLaugh: Oh, where Osama Bin Laden is supposedly hiding out. Peace-Loving Muslim: I prefer to think of it as the country where President Mushararf is doing everything he can to help the US catch him. NewsLaugh: Good point. You’re an engineer? Peace-Loving Muslim: Yes, I am. NewsLaugh: I suppose that means you’ve read a number of books besides the Koran. How did you manage to pull that splendid achievement off? Peace-Loving Muslim: Well, I felt Allah gave me a brain, so He wanted me to use it. I was always good at math. There’s not a lot of math in the Koran. So I guess it didn’t interest Mohammad much. But even an elemental look at nature reveals that Allah works with math in ways that are so sophisticated everything happens in perfectly natural ways. The math never gets in the way; it accommodates all events, like the perfectly natural movement of waves. We should only know as much about math as Allah. NewsLaugh: Well, to tell you the truth, there’s not that much math in any religious book I can think of. But that’s another interview. How did you become peace-loving? Reading the papers and watching the news, one gets the idea that Muslims, in general, are all a pretty violent and backward lot. Peace-Loving Muslim: A lot are, I admit it. But that’s because a lot of them have erroneous ideas. I can’t say they have erroneous knowledge, because I don't believe there is such a thing as erroneous knowledge. I also don't believe a lot of knowledge is necessary to be peace loving. My parents, who have very little education, are very peaceful people. So it’s not a matter of education. It’s a matter of outlook. Either you think you serve Allah by killing other people or by loving them. I prefer the latter, and I think Allah prefers my conduct for that and, if He has prepared a paradise for us, peace-loving behavior is the most likely way to get there. NewsLaugh: Well, it seems like a more logical approach, expecially since Allah or God by any other name made us all. How did you become modern minded. Peace-Loving Muslim: Well, it was pretty easy. I grew up with my eyes and ears open. While the world around me was often backward, I knew about the world outside. I decided if it’s modern, that’s part of the potential Allah put in it, so I ought to adjust to it and, in fact, do my own best to help move it along. I think the modern world has blessed life with such inarguable enhancements as antibiotics and air conditioning. NewsLaugh: What do you think the chances are that other Muslims will start to think like you? Peace-Loving Muslim: Well, it depends on what they hear the loudest; the outside world, ranting at each other, or their inner voice telling them that they’re part of the whole, and, if they want to find a welcome place in the whole, they have to become a peaceful part of it. I think they also have to understand that Muslims running around blowing other people up are acting as if Muslims don’t have lives or property that can also be blown up. This is one reason why their actions are harmful. Every time a Muslim blows something or somebody up, we wonder how long it will be before non-Muslims decide to teach us that such behavior is not a one-way street. NewsLaugh: Yes, we wonder about that, too, It seems to us that the world has been pretty tolerant so far. Peace-Loving Muslim: To paraphrase you, bless their butts. Yet I can’t tell you how much fear peace-loving Muslims live in that the behavior of violent Muslims will result in damage to the nonviolent ones and their property. NewsLaugh: Well, it’s certainly a pleasure to meet you. We’re glad to know that there is at least one peace-loving and modern-minded Muslim in the world. It gives us hope. May your way of thinking spread. Peace-Loving Muslim: If it doesn’t, I may decide to become a Buddhist. I’ve been reading about their beliefs, and, if you have to believe in an ancient religion to make peace with life, it seems like a pretty good option. Newslaugh: Well, it certainly is a more peaceful choice. We’d don’t hear of many Buddhists blowing up non-Buddhists. Whatever you decide, we wish you luck. Peace-Loving Muslim: Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to rebuilding Ground Zero, It’s one of the ways I hope to make up for what Muslims who have shamed other Muslims have done.

         
    Political humor are you a dittohead

     

    Years ago, Rush Limbaugh coined the term "adult beverages" to refer to alcoholic drinks. Yet millions of dittoheads across the Fruited Plain lacked a guide for making the best adult beverages. So I created The Dittohead's Guide to Adult Beverages, a collection of humorous dittohead recipes such as the Rio Linda Rouser, EIB Ecstasy Elixir, Club G'itmo Guzzler, and many more! Just try out these great recipes: DEAD WHITE GUY GINGER ALE Glass: A Clay Bowl Stolen from Native Americans (by dead white conquistadors) Ingredients: 1 Part Vodka (a colorless ingredient symbolizing white European oppression) 3 Parts Ginger Ale (containing blood-thirsty, intolerant, white supremacist sugar) A Splash of White Wine (reminiscent of Napoleonic French imperialism) A Splash of Lemon-Lime Juice (made from fruit hand-picked by indentured servants) A Dash of Sugar (due to safety concerns, no brown sugar allowed) Instructions: While attending a college seminar on multiculturalism, with an emphasis on Native American, Afro-centric lesbian poetry, combine ingredients in a clay bowl stolen from Native Americans. Consume on Columbus Day while attacking white males who have the audacity to continue to breathe. Origin: This adult beverage is named in honor of Christopher Columbus – a capitalist, European bigot responsible for the death and murder of eighty trillion pacifist, nature-loving Native Americans (and a man whose lone accomplishment was the "discovery" of someone else's backyard). Special Warning: Under no circumstances should you add brown sugar to this adult beverage, as it is sure to be ravaged and destroyed by the racist, imperialist, homophobic white sugar already present in the ginger ale. AFFIRMATIVE ACTION AMBROSIA Glass: A Measuring Cup (to ensure precise fulfillment of quotas) Ingredients: 0 Parts Light Rum (using light rum is insensitive to minority rums) 3 Parts Dark Rum (to rectify the past injustice of rampant light rum preferences) 3 Parts Soda (cola is preferred over a lighter soda, such as Sprite) Quotas That Aren't "Quotas" (except that they really are quotas) Instructions: While throwing an "affirmative action bake sale" on a local college campus, or campi (the preferred EIB plural form for those of you in Rio Linda), combine ingredients in a measuring cup. Consume while labeling as "racist" any of your friends or companions who dare to add light rum to their favorite adult beverages. Origin: This adult beverage is named in honor of government-sanctioned discrimination. Make sure that you don't add light rum to this adult beverage when dark rum is available instead. Failure to do so may result in court-ordered sensitivity training. Special Note: A firm supporter of government-sanctioned discrimination, the NAALCP (National Association for the Advancement of Liberal Colored People) dreams of the day when prohibition will be re-instituted in America – with only "light" rum banished from the shores of the United States. P. S. Forward this page to 15,067 Rush Limbaugh fans in the next 7 minutes or you will be stricken with eight agonizing years of a Hillary Clinton presidency and/or the appointment of Ted "The Swimmer" Kennedy as your designated driver!

         
    Polygamists march demand volume discount on marriage licenses

     

    Polygamists, under attack even in the generally tolerant and Mormon-populous state of Utah, marched on Washington, demanding what they regard as their right to a volume discount in the purchase of marriage licenses. The demonstration was incited when a breakaway member of the Mormon Church, who is accused of seducing a minor female and matchmaking other minors females to older men, was buying so many marriage licenses that he had to rob a bank to pay for them. As a result of the armed banditry, he wound up on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List. The bearded leader of the march explained, “When people only buy one marriage license, we can see why they’d have to pay the full freight. But when you’re like us and buy them on a regular basis, it’s only fair that you ought to get a break on the price.” We were surprised in our assumptions, as usual, when we asked a female marcher why she, in this age of women's rights, would consent to be married to a man who has four or so wives. “It’s not like you think,” she told us. “I’m actually too independent to be married to any man full time. This way, my husband is so busy with his three other wives I only have to put up with him 25% of the time.”

         
    Pope to rule on condoms and aids may consult people with hands on experience

     

    Pope Benedict, taking an unexpected and courageous step, has asked for recommendations from fellow ecclesiastics about whether or not a couple, in which one member has AIDS, may use condoms for the prevention of disease. We assume, however, for the greater glorification of the Church, that neither he nor his advisers are at the expert level when it comes to either topic under consideration. As a result, we think the Pope would wisely bring enhanced credence to whatever he decides if he were actually to meet with couples who have hands-on experience with condoms and AIDS. The face-to-face discussions would, we believe, evoke a greater likelihood that he will opt for, not the continuing teaching of the absolute impropriety of condoms, but for the competing and, we think, far worthier principle of the sanctity of life. Should he go the extra mile, he might also speak with a selection of devout Catholic women who want to avoid having abortions by not becoming pregnant and therefore do dearly wish that the husbands they love could wear condoms. There is hope among the women that in time the church may decide that permitting them, rather than prohibiting them and inadvertently making abortion more likely, is, in its terms, “the lesser of the two evils.” The entire problem of condoms is, if we might apply the multifaceted phrase, a sticky wicket. We wish the apparently well-intentioned man wisdom, courage and Godspeed. Devout Catholics are, we must remember, dying for a change.

         
    Proof tax laws faulty 9 out of 10 americans set to declare bankruptcy

     

    As the distribution of wealth in America becomes increasingly skewed toward the wealthiest 7% or so of the population, where we find more and more resplendently bedecked billionaires, the income of the other 93% of the populace continues to go the way of wealthiest. The growing destitution of this significant segment of the population has now become so acute that the majority of Americans are all set to declare bankruptcy. Appropriately concerned, since we remember the Aristotelian analysis that the stability of a state depends on a the middle class – in case ancient sage’s segmentation has dropped out of the back of your mental file cabinet, he avers, it turns out a bit too generally, that the poor have no material stake in the society and the wealthy are too taken up with whooping it up – we ask, why is it ever more possible for the few to accumulate billions, while the many grow more insolvent? There is, of course, the much reverenced idea that the race is to the quick and we’re lucky to have the energetic entrepreneurs, CEO’s, and various early adapters and assorted scammers, because, in the process of accumulating their wealth, they do throw off some shekels for the needy multitude. Yet one does still persistently wonder about the current upward drift of pay dirt. As a result of our cursory demographic analysis of the distribution of assets and debt, we arrive at the conclusion that the tax code is evidently flawed. If every billionaire who’s gleefully accumulating his or her way to the status of multibillionaire was also required, while clenching legally onto some few billions as a just reward for expertise of one sort or another, to pay billions in taxes, the government would be well-enough provided for without taking a pair of Draco’s shears to the transparently taxable paycheck of the average Joe or Jan. Further evidence of that the tax code is not proportionate to the ability to earn is, while someone who earns billions makes headlines, if even anybody ever paid billions in taxes, he or she would make history. In conclusion, it’s time to set up the tax laws so the quick who earn their billions will pay proportionate billions and the beleaguered average wage earners can step back from the brink of bankruptcy. The revision requires little change in lifestyle at the high end and presents rejuvenating rewards to the middling low end. After all, what is the difference between the life a person can have with a mere billion or so to fling around or keep under the floorboards compared with the one he or she can have with many more billions? On the other hand, there is quite a sumptuous difference between how one can live when he or she is making the usual $40,000 to $50,000 a year while their much revered but feared Uncle Sam is standing by with his big hand at the ready for a scoop of what is, in today’s calculation of monetary splendor, hardly more than necessitous chump change.

         
    Radical muslims run afoul of kant s categorical imperative

     

    As if the Muslim religion didn’t have enough problems in the often less than mutually tolerant text of the Koran, now its radical exponents have run afoul of Kant’s ever-present Categorical Imperative. How? As Muslim murders Muslim, the warring Sunnis and Shiites each maintain that their religion lends support to their bloody sectarianism. To the extent that it does, it runs counter to K’s Categorical Imperative, which, as every schoolchild in America is taught by the age of five, states, “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law." In other words, set a good example, in fact, one so laudable we can all join in. Now, imagine if the Muslim manifesto for mayhem did become a universal standard of behavior. Instead of principles sanctified by religion, their flaming intolerance sounds more like improvised bylaws for Murder Incorporated. So what do we have, particularly among extremists who advocate a worldwide caliphate through decapitating everyone who disagrees with their beliefs, but definitive proof via Immanuel Kant that such an idea necessarily disqualifies itself. If everyone believed as they do, it would be just fine for everyone to kill off anyone who doesn’t agree with exactly, in their murderous judgment, makes a true believer in Mohammed or in anything else. Certainly, if Mohammed were interested in the multiplication of his followers to the max, the internecine wars among the Muslims in Iraq via Al-Qaeda or not would be enough to make him tear at his tent. And just as assuredly IK would spin as he viewed the starry night at the contradictory nature of the wish to make a religion universal when, given the activities of its most flamingly irrational advocates, it cannot possibly become a universal standard of behavior. What we see, instead of religion's true intent, is self-defeating stupidity. To mollify their convinced fury, extremists might contemplate a conversation between Mohammed and Kant, in which Mohammed expresses his hopes for the future of his religion and Kant cautions him that any beliefs that encourage murder would disqualify the religion from spreading any wider than it recklessly might. So the sides have been arrayed: the warriors of Muslim fanaticism, brandishing all the irreligious vituperation they can wangle from it and the eternal verity of Kant’s considerable ethic. May the Categorical Imperative vanquish hate unto the last grain of sand into which blood, innocent or guilty, may soak.

         
    Razor burned

     

    It should have been a simple task. Just go to the drugstore and buy a razor. Not even one of those highly complex computerized electric razors you need an advanced degree in electrical engineering to operate, just a plain old manual model with which I could joyfully hack away at my face. It was not to be. Now, I’m a simple guy. I try to abide by the aptly named ‘Occam’s razor’ principle of science, which basically says that the simpler things are, the better. Now I find myself wondering just how many blades Occam’s razor had. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the evolution of manual razors seems to be roughly following the same path as home stereo equipment. In the fifties, you had a razor with just one blade, just as you had a transistor radio with that one tinny-sounding speaker. Then came the invention of stereo, and the two bladed razor was born. Two speakers and a subwoofer, three blades. Quadrophonic sound, four blades. Now we are up to Dolby 5.1 surround sound and a razor with an incredible five blades on one side and one on the other. That’s right, there are now so many blades on your razor that they can’t even fit them all on the same side. Where will it end? Is there a theoretical limit on the number of blades one razor can support? I, for one, believe that we are very close to the blade event horizon. Critical mass has almost been reached. It used to be that I would occasionally give myself a slight nick while shaving. One false move now and I’ll be getting tips from Michael Jackson on which nose to buy. Perhaps the razor companies just don’t understand the concept. Maybe someone needs to tell them that we are just trying to take the hair off of our faces, not make julienne potatoes for a society luncheon while we shower. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes out with a razor that has one blade for every hair follicle on your face, so you can shave with just one stroke and then spend the rest of the morning trying to find your lips. No more, I say. It’s time to release myself from the tyranny of blades. This morning I gave myself a clean , comfortable shave without using any blades at all. Now I just need a new string for my weed whacker.

         
    Relaxed and happy american located agrees to brief interview

     

    Despite the troubling news that assails us each day and seems bent on convincing us we should all be the tense and unhappy recipients of the worldwide outrages it forwards, we remained confident that maybe somewhere there is still at least one American who is relaxed and happy. Intent on locating the indomitable soul, should there still be one, we spread out across the nation and, just as we were ready to drop our shoulders and sigh with hopelessness, we saw a man walking down the street of a small resort town in the Northeast, singing to himself the song Louis Armstrong made eternally popular with his scratchy but heartfelt voice, “What A Wonderful World.” Suspecting we might, at long last, have our man, we introduced ourselves and asked if he’d consent to an interview. “Sure,” he replied, “but only a short one. So I can stay relaxed and happy.” For whatever it may do to help you achieve your own peace and bliss, the interview follows. He reveals, among other things, that he concentrates, in a surprising way, on subjects that appear in the dictionary under the letter "F." NewsLaugh: Just for the record, we understand you’re an American who’s actually relaxed and happy? Relaxed, Happy American: Yes, I am. In fact, I’m so relaxed I can’t remember when I had a tension headache. So darn happy I smile all the time, so often, in fact, sometimes I feel like an idiot. Of course, I’m not. NewsLaugh: You’re sure of that? Relaxed, Happy American: Sure, I’m sure. I’m just happy to be alive – privileged, in fact, to be part of the great unfolding of life on the earth and in the universe. Seems like a big thing to be part of, if you ask me, especially since I began as a tiny sperm, swimming for its life, and an egg, wondering if and when that spirited competitor might arrive. NewsLaugh: Interesting perspective. May I ask how, in this tense and troubled world, you’ve managed to remain relaxed and happy? Relaxed, Happy American: Well, the first thing you need is what the French call distance. NewsLaugh: Does that mean you just don’t pay much attention to what’s going on in the world? Relaxed, Happy American: Heck, no! I allow a certain space for it, just so I know what’s happening, sort of like putting my hand on a coffee pot just long enough to feel the temperature, but not so long I get a blister. NewsLaugh: Can you explain how you manage to preserve such perspective? Relaxed, Happy American: Lots of perspective. For instance, if my body represented my life, I allocate for daily events something about the size of my index finger. NewsLaugh: Your index finger? Well, then, how about the rest of you? Relaxed, Happy American: Oh, that’s the wholeness of my life, start to finish, I figure, maybe eighty some years – big space, especially compared to the idea of living for the moment, which, to me, is the perfect prescription for becoming way too frazzled. Newslaugh: What about the idea that only the present moment exists? Relaxed, Happy American: Oh, come on, that’s like looking at your lawn and saying the only blade of grass is the one that’s currently tickling your toe. Newslaugh: Fair enough. So how does that apply to your everyday life? Relaxed, Happy American: Easy. I never let anything in the outside world or, for that matter, in my personal life, get bigger than the wholeness, of which every event or aspect is, logically, only a part. In fact, I never subordinate my whole life to anything, even when somebody I love is behaving incomprehensibly. Otherwise, I would be doing an injustice to itprende? NewsLaugh: Si, Senor! Relaxed, Happy American: Muchas Gracias. NewsLaugh: I notice you spoke a little Spanish there? Relaxed, Happy American: So did you. NewsLaugh: Very little. But you don’t look Hispanic? Relaxed, Happy American: No, I don’t, and for a good reason. I’m not. But my building is staffed with people whose first language is Espanol. So I speak a little of it to get preferential treatment. For instance, my air conditioner is already ready for summer. How about you? Newslaugh: It’s how I ingratiate myself at Mexican restaurants. But back to the taco we were talking about. Certainly, there are other things that contribute to your relaxed and happy attitude? Relaxed, Happy American: Yes, there are. I actually feel I owe it to my life to do the best I can with my mind, my feelings, and my body – if the three can be separated – and I get so many emotional rewards from what that inspires me to do, they make me happy. NewsLaugh: Sounds like a nice pastime. Do you ever think it may be a little self-centered? Relaxed, Happy American: Oh, come on. There’s a difference between selfishness and enlightened self-realization, because the second one includes consideration for other people, that is, if you’d like to have any of them in your life, especially dates. NewLaugh: OK, enough about daily events. Mind if we talk a little about the big things that can bum people out, like intimations of mortality? Relaxed, Happy American: No problem! Hardly give it a thought. Just figure if I take good care of life, whatever made it will take good care of me, that is, if it takes care of anybody beyond just providing the stage, the actors, and the food. NewsLaugh: Fair enough. Would you like to add anything else? Relaxed, Happy American: Oh, one more thing. When you’re down and out, you have to concentrate on the letter “F.” NewsLaugh: The letter “F”? Why so? Relaxed, Happy American: If you analyze the alphabet, you find a surprising concentration of things there that make people relaxed and happy. NewsLaugh: Such as? Relaxed, Happy American: Oh, food, family, friends, words like fabulous and fantastic. NewsLaugh: And? Relaxed, Happy American: Well, fine wine, fiction, philosophy, spelled, for consistency, with an “f.” NewsLaugh: And? Relaxed, Happy American: Short interviews.

         
     
         
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