Being Abnormal

I overheard a young woman talking with her friend recently, consoling him over the fact that he had apparently scored a 70% on some test he had taken.

Depending on where and when you went to school, some places consider 70% to be a “C” or “Average” grade.

Once upon a time, grades went like this:

A = Excellent
B = Good
C = Average
D = Poor
F = Failing

I was struck by the young woman’s explanation that the 70% “C” fell into a category I didn’t recall from school.

Apparently, here in the 21st century, the category is called “Normal” instead of average.

She didn’t elaborate on how the rest of the categories played out, but I found the notion to be fascinating, if not somewhat disturbing.

It occurred to me that “Normal” and “Average” are sometimes interchangeable terms.

However, in school parlance, I wondered what it meant if you earned a “B”, or God forbid, an “A”.

If a “C” is “Normal,” based on fundamental vocabulary principles, a “B” or “A” would have to be considered “Abnormal.”

I guess the new grading system would look like this:

A = Very Abnormal
B = Abnormal
C = Normal
D = Not Quite Normal
F = Fast Food Service Bound

I used to get a lot of A’s and B’s on my report card, so this revelation explains a lot.

“Normal” has never been a term used very often in my direction, so this system actually fits.

While I’m not altogether comfortable with the new description of higher-than-average grades as “Abnormal,” I still prefer it to the grading system that seems to be in use these days by some of the more liberal school systems which insist that no child’s fragile psyche should be damaged by something as stress-inducing or judgemental as tiered grades.

For example, I’ve heard that a number of California schools have implemented the following grading system:

A = Wonderful
B = Wonderful
C = Wonderful
D = Wonderful
F = Wonderful

I’ve often wondered how a valedictorian would be chosen at schools using such confidence-building grading systems, and whether the process involves names being drawn from a hat.

But even this scale is better than some progressive schools which have completely done away with grades altogether, as well as tests and homework.

We used to have an institution like this where I grew up.

It was called the penitentiary.

The difference is that, instead of receiving a cap and gown and a diploma, the alumni who graduated from that particular institution received $50 and a bus ticket.

Which is still way less stressful than failing Ms. Stoeri’s 11th grade Chemistry class.

Poor Britney

I never thought I would find myself saying something so ludicrous, but here it is:

I feel sorry for Britney Spears.

One minute she’s making a kajillion dollars shaking her bottom on MTV clad in a schoolgirl skirt that wouldn’t pass muster in any classroom in America, dating a Back Street Boy (or was it an N’Syncer…I always get those two boy bands confused, but it’s okay because they’re nearly interchangeable) and lip-synching her way up and down the pop charts.

She was the envy of every female between the ages of Barney and Stridex, and the erotic dream of every male between the ages of Barney and Metamucil.

Now she’s just a tired-looking makeup-challenged SUV-driving new mother.

Recently caught on film behind the wheel of a mom-mobile with her unstrapped new baby in her lap, Spears has become the whipping post for the tongue-clucking set.

Even U.S. Transportation Secretary Norm Mineta has joined in the Britney bashing, calling her “irresponsible.”

Old Norm and the rest of the political correctness patrol need to get over themselves, and get their noses out of Britney’s business.

To be honest, I’ve never much cared for the pop princess, or the poor sartorial and moral example she’s set for our teens.

But she’s getting a bad deal in this instance.

First, let’s give some credit.

At least she was actually with her child, instead of phoning in her motherhood from a tour bus or movie set like so many of today’s Hollywood moms who choose to procreate because they aren’t responsible enough to qualify for a pet adoption at the local pound.

In the video of her alleged misdeed, Britney looks unkempt, frazzled, desperate, and panicked.

Trust me, it has nothing to do with paparazzi.

All new mothers look like this.

It’s an impossible job, with long hours, lousy pay, a thankless employer, and a demanding boss (the baby) who doesn’t believe in coffee breaks, showers, or uninterrupted sleep, much like working for Donald Trump.

The unions should quit trying to organize casino workers and kindergarten teachers and instead focus on getting better working conditions and pay for new moms.

But more importantly, Britney hasn’t done anything heinous or extraordinarily dangerous.

Have a talk with your own parents, the ones who grew up in lead-painted cribs and eating mud pies, and ask them about their first driving experience.

Most of them won’t discuss their awkward attempts trying to parallel-park the family Vista Cruiser.

They will light up with the memory of sitting on their dad’s lap and hanging onto the steering wheel with both hands during a family trip.

Helping dad “drive” the car is one of the most precious bonding moments in a kid’s memory.

Today’s children have been cheated out of this treasure by air bags and a politically-correct society that would rather have kids strapped in like cargo because they MIGHT, theoretically, perhaps, in one out of a million instances, possibly suffer a potential injury in the unlikely event of a rare 20 mph fender bender.

This is the same group of zealots who also think Ritalin is a better child-rearing tool than dad’s firm hand.

Personally, I would rather endure 100 crash-induced head injuries than be politically stripped of that magical moment when dad let this four-year-old sit in his lap and take the wheel.

Britney’s baby is probably too young to be able to remember this moment in years to come.

Fortunately, thanks to home movies courtesy of CNN and Fox News, the kid will be able to relive this bonding moment before he’s old enough to get his first nose piercing.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

It’s official.

Today is my last day as the sports editor for the Desert Valley Times.

After two years with the newspaper, I have decided that it’s time to move on.

While there are different kinds of love…love for your spouse, love for your children, love for your 1974 Camaro, love for your dog, love for your job…there is one universal truth about all forms of that particular emotion.

It hurts when you and your beloved part ways.

While I’m stoked and enthused about my new projects, which I’ll mention in a moment, this is a sad day for me.

I love writing. I have loved being a public figure. I have loved being “in the know,” helping people, telling the truth.

But like a love affair gone bad, a lot of the fun has gone out of being a part of the DVT.

It started back in October, when one of my Workman Chronicles columns was killed by the editorial staff because it was going to bring more heat on a family member.

There was nothing wrong with the article itself…not particularly inflammatory or controversial, it was just addressing a topic (Homeowners Associations) that was causing problems for someone in the business.

In protest, I decided to pull the Workman Chronicles, Hard At Play, the Phantom of the Cineplex, and all the hard-news reporting I had done up until that point.

All of these “extras” were above and beyond my job description. I just did them because I love to write, and wanted to make this the best small newspaper in the state of Nevada.

While dozens of readers expressed their disappointment, particularly in the absence of the Workman Chronicles, the editorial staff was unmoved.

But even more important than the censoring of my own article was the ongoing suppression of real news in the community.

Things have happened in this town that are intentionally not reported, or are muted to keep a positive face.

There have been shootings that weren’t investigated or properly reported by the newspaper, not to mention dozens of other activities that have gone unpublished.

And the continuing, unwavering support for the construction company and botched road project currently underway on Mesquite Blvd., in spite of the almost-universal anger from the citizenry, is beyond comprehension,

For the first year of my involvement with the DVT, I refused to believe that was happening. In fact, I had publicly and repeatedly insisted that it just wasn’t so.

But for the last year, I’ve seen it happen too often to ignore.

The DVT will put a “ground-breaking” for a new business on the front page with a 500-word story (often one not even written by newspaper staff), but will bury the 150-word story of an attempted murder on page six.

Things got worse.

In December, I was asked to do online radio broadcasts for RadioMesquite of the VVHS basketball games.

Since I was a sports broadcaster about a hundred years ago, I agreed to do it.

But first, I asked for and received permission from my supervisor at the newspaper.

A month ago, I got an e-mail saying that I had to quit broadcasting because RadioMesquite had been deemed a “competitor” to the newspaper.

This was the last straw for me.

I decided that I could no longer continue to have my name associated with an organization that had failed at its job so miserably, and had such little integrity.

Which brings me to now.

On Monday, in addition to running Computer Help, a company dedicated to computer tutoring, training, troubleshooting, and repair for individuals, retirees, and small business, I will be joining the staff of Mesquite Local and Radio Mesquite.

This company is in the process of developing an online daily newspaper.

They insist that they are dedicated to telling the truth, no matter how ugly or painful.

I don’t like harping on the negative. By nature, I’m a pretty optimistic, positive person.

But more than anything, I believe in the truth. I insist on it. I don’t like spin, and I hate obfuscation, especially when things are hidden “for our own good.”

I have been assured that MesquiteLocal will print the truth.

I’ll also be more involved with RadioMesquite, helping to develop new talk shows and other radio programming to go along with our continuing broadcasts of VVHS basketball and baseball.

So I’ll still be around, although preaching to much smaller congregations.

Fortunately, all signs are that the congregation is growing.

But most importantly, I will be able to contribute, uncensored, to an organization that values respect and honor.

So buckle your seatbelts, because we’re on our way!

School District Split

There is a move afoot to split up the Las Vegas School District.

(Yes, I know they are technically the “Clark County School District,” but trust me, the LVSD title is more accurate.)

There are certain bureaucrats who believe the bureaucrats at the school district have become unresponsive to the needs of the students and communities.

This is known as “pots calling the kettle black,” or whatever cute euphemism you were raised with.

The LVSD is the fifth-largest school district in the country, although Las Vegas is only the 29th largest city.

They get their extra muscle because they also own Mesquite, Boulder City, Henderson, and a few other outlying areas.

The word “own” is used advisedly, because that is how the district treats these municipalities.

It’s not surprising that someone has pointed to this governmental wooly mammoth and said that maybe it should be changed.

“Broken up” is the term they’ve used.

What IS surprising is the silence coming from Mesquite.

Once upon a time, there was a group of people who decided they were tired of being picked on, ignored, lied to, bullied, and insulted by their ruling authority.

They weren’t treated as badly as Mesquite is treated by the school district, but they decided not to just sit back and take it.

It was called the Civil War.

After the way this burgeoning desert community has been disregarded and disrespected by the school board, you would think the residents would be ready to light the torches and sharpen their pitchforks for the coming debate.

But then, there were probably fence sitters in 1863 who really “didn’t want to get involved.”

Overall, residents of Mesquite have been conspicuously silent on the issue, although they would benefit the most from such a divestiture.

As one of the fastest-growing cities in the U.S., awaiting the addition of 10,000 new taxpayers in the Pulte development, not to mention the enormous construction project pending just across the Lincoln County line that will bring hundreds of new students, this is a community that needs its own school district.

And if the state gives the Mesquite School District a proportional share of the tax and gaming revenues currently wasted on the gluttonous Las Vegas version, school money would not be an issue.

Best of all, the people of Mesquite would finally have a say over how their schools are run and their children taught instead of lumping them in with an urban protocol that is becoming less and less attractive with each passing year.

And yet, the silence continues.

It’s hard to believe that an oppressed populace that has to beg for every scrap and morsel of school district largesse would be so neutral.

Maybe I’m overreacting.

It’s not like they’re talking about changing the slot machine comp points at the Oasis or something equally earth-shaking.

So the status quo will continue in Mesquite.

We’ll have to take what they give us, and go to the city council for anything we really need for our kids, like sports field lights or tennis courts.

And I’m sure we’ll get used to dealing with children who become more and more worldly and politically correct with the curriculum and standards mandated by a city where prostitution is trumpeted on lighted roaming billboards.

So let’s move on to something more important.

Have you heard they’re raising the price at the buffet?

Real Parents Are Waiting

To the parents of the youngsters wandering around the Virgin Valley High School gymnasium during every basketball game, I’d like you to write down this website address:

www.adoption.org.

If you’re not going to be a parent, then dammit, do the decent and honorable thing and give your kids to someone who will!

Once again, as has been the case all season, youngsters as young as two are permitted to race up and down the bleachers, crawl under the bleachers, throw things, climb over seats and other spectators, and occasionally toddle onto the playing court during the game.

And the murmur that ripples through the crowd at various times is always the same: Where the heck are their parents?

Here’s the answer:

These kids don’t have parents.

Oh, there’s someone in the stands who gave birth or donated a seed, somebody who pays for their food and clothes, and someone who was proud enough to paste their name on the kid’s birth certificate, but that’s about the end of their involvement in actually raising a child.

Aside from the fact that these obnoxious little tykes are interfering with other spectators, are making the most noise possible to distract from the game, and are in general practicing for an adulthood of rude behavior, their parentally challenged guardians are living in a time vacuum, dating back to the 50s when it was actually safe to let your kids roam in a confined building.
This is a new century, filled with pedophiles, child-snatchers, and other kids who get joy out of tormenting smaller, more helpless human beings.

Why would you put your child in harm’s way and allow them to play in places you can’t monitor?

Even worse than those who allow their offspring free rein to annoy and tempt fate are the useless adults who dump their eight-year-olds at the door then go on with whatever it is that they deem to be more important than taking care of their sons and daughters.

Like feral dogs in the wilderness, these mongrels prowl the gym in packs, not showing the least bit of interest in the game while they search desperately for some way to slake their boredom.

I recognize that our little town is woefully deficient in offering day care facilities, but here’s a news flash:A high school basketball game isn’t a day care facility either.

Don’t foist your poorly-trained problems off on the rest of us to raise while you go pull that slot machine handle or hang out with other poor excuses for parenthood.

If your youngster isn’t a student at the high school, he or she should not be “dropped off” at a basketball game, or any other sporting event at the school.

The administrators have enough on their plates just keeping their hormonally-virulent charges in line and out of the dark corners of the campus during a game.

They shouldn’t be expected to do your job, too.

I know you want to get the screeching little monsters out of your hair for a couple of hours (look at how it’s being raised, and it might offer the solution to WHY you are so eager to dump them), but it’s not fair for you to get them out of your hair by tossing them into ours.

And to those “parents” (and I’m using the term loosely here) who think it’s cute to let their little ones race up and down the bleachers and onto the courts, give the website a try.

I promise that there are couples anxiously awaiting a chance to do what you appear to be incapable or unwilling to do:

Be a parent.

Turnout Turnabout Is Fair Play

There is a California loon (which is a lunatic from the Golden State, not a warbling lakeside bird, although they both tend to squawk, flap their wings, and make a lot of noise without any meaningful result) who has started a campaign to get U.S. Supreme Court Justice David Souter kicked out.

Not kicked out of the Supreme Court:

Kicked out of his home.

He is angered by Souter’s vote which has enabled municipalities to force people out of their homes under the eminent domain rule to make room for “better-use” construction that will increase tax revenues for cities.

For example, an old man can be forced to leave his ramshackle home of 40 years if a new developer wants to build a shopping mall that will benefit the city with higher taxes.

No, I’m not making this up.

It is now the law of the land thanks to Kelo vs. City of New London, Conn.

But not satisfied to carp and whine like a certain online journalist who shall remain nameless (but his initials are Morris Workman), Logan Darrow Clements has managed to get enough signatures in Souter’s hometown of Weare, New Hampshire to have an item placed on the ballot where voters will decide whether to give Souter the boot under eminent domain to make room for a theoretical Inn.

(Like New England needs another bed and breakfast.)

I think the Red Sox have a better chance of winning the pen-

(I guess I’m going to have to come up with a new “Hell Freezes Over” metaphor now that the Sox, both White and Red, have actually tucked a World Series under their belts).

Anyway, there is obviously no chance that a Supreme Court Justice will lose his home in an eminent domain case.

First, he knows too many lawyers, who could effectively bottle up such a case until one of the Olsen twins is old enough to become a Federal judge.

Second, while it would be poetic justice for a Justice to receive such justice based on the injustice of one of his rulings, the truth is that there really hasn’t been much true justice in the world since Charles Bronson hung up his shootin’ iron.

The guy who shot President Reagan is walking the streets these days.

(He’s not technically free, still getting to spend most of his nights in the comfy psychiatric abode provided by taxpayers, but his doctors have ruled that Hinckley poses no threat to society now that Reagan is dead and Jodie Foster hasn’t had a hit movie in a while, so he’s allowed to leave the facility for a few days each month.)

The animal who brutally beat a Navy Seal to death then dumped his body on the tarmac during a hijacking back in 1985 is now a free man.

He wasn’t technically released by the U.S., but by our “good friends” the Germans.

Even the doof who shot the Pope back in 1981 has been released from a Turkish prison.

Shot the Pope! And he’s a free man!

(Although I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when it comes time for him to make his case to St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. How do you explain shooting a Pope to a saint?)

Personally, I think the Supreme Court ruling which allows cities to evict people to make room for another J.C. Penney is one of the most shameful laws on the books.

And while I think I have a better chance of winning the World Series than Clements has of displacing Souter, I applaud his Don Quixote imitation.

Most will call him a fool. Or a loon.

I just wish our country had more fools like him.

Curse Works

It doesn’t happen often, but every decade or two I get it right.
This weekend was one of those rare occurrences.
Upon the conclusion of the NFL regular season, I espoused a curse on all of the lazy, dishonorable football teams who chose to lay down in their last game of the season because they had already clinched their playoff berths.
I specifically cited the Patriots, my favorite team up until then, for resting their starters in a season-ending game against the Dolphins, a game the Pats ended up giving away through their sloth.
But I reserved my greatest vitriol for the Indianapolis Chokes.
This is the team that collapsed under the pressure of the “perfect season,” going belly up against a San Diego team that didn’t even make it to the playoffs.
Then they took the next two weeks off, leaving their starters on the bench for a loss against Seattle and a four-point victory against the Arizona Cardinals, a woeful semi-pro team that couldn’t beat most high school squads.
The result is a Colts team that didn’t show up for four weeks, including their coveted “bye” week earned by coasting to the end of the season after winning 13 straight.
The death of head coach Tony Dungy’s son was tragic, but it’s an insult to his death and the NFL to point to that as the reason the team didn’t bother to show up for the last two games.
It turns out that there’s more to my curse and prediction that neither team would make it to the Super Bowl than just fan frustration.
Anyone who saw the Colts lose to the Steelers on Sunday watched an inept Indy team that was enormously out of sync, even noticeably rusty in the first half.
It was vindication for my statement that an NFL team should never lay down, not even with the playoffs in the bag.
The chemistry was shredded, the momentum was gone, and the Colts looked like they were playing their first game of the year after an extended pre-season.
There are so many intangibles that go into the making of a champion.
It’s not just about X’s and O’s, or the front line’s combined body mass.
It’s involves pride, ego, momentum, confidence, rhythm, habit, routine, luck, and even a little bit of kharma.
The Colts, and to a lesser degree the Patriots, squandered all of those things by taking it easy as the regular season wound down.
Meanwhile, Denver, the other AFC bye team that actually started their stars in the season finale, won handily over an uncharacteristically slothful New England team.
And the Steelers, the team that dismantled the Colts in the division playoffs, were another team which played their starters in week 17, in spite of the fact that their big-name heroes were dinged up and injured.
The management of this weekend’s two losers defended their actions by claiming they didn’t want to risk injury to their star players.
Well they are to be congratulated.
They are now the healthiest two NFL teams to be sitting at home during the conference championship.

Publikin Backlash

A wise man once said that the easiest way to get through life without an argument is to never discuss politics or religion.

I swear to God the guy was probably right.

I’m about to open up an ugly, smelly can of worms that will polarize readers, offend members of both parties, and in some bizarre way contribute to global warming.

(I’ve often thought that if the environmentalists would just shut up about it, the reduction in hot air from their silence would eliminate the Earth’s rising temperature.)

For my Republican friends, I think that snapping sound you just heard was the crack of a camel’s back being broken by the last straw.

The straw’s name is Abramoff.

Back when Brother Clinton was in office, the ‘Publikins couldn’t stop wringing their hands and salivating at the prospect of the 2000 elections.

After eight years of White Water, Gennifer Flowers, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, Not Inhaling, and finally Monica-gate, the elephant party was practically wetting their pants in anticipation of capitalizing on all of Big Bill’s improprieties.

(They could have cashed in on Clinton’s follies sooner, but the likable lug kept bailing himself out with such annoyingly unimportant political tactics as maintaining a vibrant economy, balancing the budget, reducing the deficit, and not invading any Middle Eastern countries whose names start with vowels.)

The payoff was enormous.

A country which had tired of the obviously deficient collective morals of the donkey party (I didn’t make that up…the logo for the Democrats is an ass, and was the logo LONG before Clinton got into office) decided that conservatism had to be better.

So we elected a Republican president.

Sort of.

There are zealots in the Democratic party who are still secretly counting ballots in Palm Beach in hopes of finding spelling errors.

We’ve been unable to confirm the rumor that they have engaged psychic John Edward in hopes of proving that, while someone may have punched a hole in the card for Bush, a quick mindreading session indicates that the person really meant to vote for…whoever that Democratic candidate was in 2000.

(It’s been a while, and I can’t remember his name. Which just confirms the old saw that history never remembers the losers.)

The backlash continued, as Americans also voted in a ‘Publikin majority in the house, the Senate, and the first season of American Idol.

(We’re not sure Kelly Clarkson is a ‘Publikin, but that frizzy-haired goofy guy named Justin just HAD to be a Dumocrat.)

So the U.S. got their conservative majority across the board in hopes of improving the honor and integrity of our government.

Then questions began to arise about whether the new top dog actually showed up for his National Guard duty in the 70s.

To show that his military record was above reproach, Mr. President went right out and bombed Afghanistan.

(Sort of like a guy that has his sexuality challenged then goes out and shoots small furry animals with a high-powered rifle as proof of his machismo.)

Most Americans applauded the attack on Afghanistan.

After some turban-turd knocked down our twin towers, we needed to kick SOMEBODY’s ass, and they looked like a good candidate.

During the fracas, Top Dog promised to find Osama Bin Laden, the head baddie.

Apparently, Bush hired the same detective agency that O.J. Simpson used to find Nicole’s “real killers,” because nobody has seen hide nor hair of either offender.

A few years later, Bush apparently received some intel from that same detective agency about some weapons of mass destruction.

With his popularity numbers fading and another election just around the corner, Mr. National Guard decided to drop bombs on somebody else.

Once again, like Bin Laden, we didn’t find the WMD’s.

I’m not saying Bush is a bad president.

I’m just saying that he sucks at “hide and seek.”

Americans have been growing tired of repeated incidents where our elected leader said we were going to do something, then we didn’t.

“We’re going to find Osama Bin Laden and bring him to justice…”

“We’re going to find those weapons of mass destruction and bring somebody to justice…”

“I did not have sex with that woman…”

(Whoops, wrong president.)

Now in the old days, to say we were going to do something and then not do it would be called a “lie,” but political correctness precludes the use of such terms in the 21st century.

(GORE! That’s the guy’s name! The one who Bush beat in 2000. I knew it would come to me!)

Anyway, it isn’t just the President who is having problems with honesty.

That ‘Publikin congressional majority has turned out to be a pretty bad idea as well.

First, Speaker of the House Gingrich got caught with his Newt in a place it didn’t belong.

Then Tom DeLay, the House Majority Leader, was indicted for playing patty-cake with his PAC funds.

In September, Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist was accused of pulling a Martha Stewart, selling stocks based on insider information.

Now, it turns out that a lobbyist named Jack Abramoff has been playing a real-life version of the board game “Monopoly,” but instead of buying properties, he’s been buying up Congressmen and Senators.

(I’m not sure how you put a red hotel on a Senator, but Backslap Jack could figure a way.)

Apparently, Mr. Abramoff had a particular fondness for ‘Publikin officials.

Current House Speaker Dennis Hastert has admitted to accepting green (as opposed to the orange, yellow, and blue money used in the board game version), although he won’t admit he did anything to earn the grease.

Tom DeLay was apparently so deep in Abramoff’s pocket that he could scratch Jack’s knee on command.

With Abramoff pleading guilty to charges earlier this week, then agreeing to blow the whistle on everybody he ever bribed, er, made contributions to, ‘Publikins are scrambling like high-heeled waiters on the iced and canted deck of the Titanic after the iceberg.

Over the next few months, you’re going to see more high-speed foot action in the nation’s capitol than ABC’s “Dancing with the Stars” as lawmakers try to tango around the truth and save their jobs.

But I suspect the American people have had enough.

I’m not much of a betting man (I actually started the season believing the Cowboys would make it to the Super Bowl), but I’d be willing to lay a sizeable wager that America won’t be featuring a one-party system in the House and Senate after the next election.

I’m also convinced that we’ve seen our last elephantine president for a decade or two, unless the ‘Publikins are smart enough to finally let John McCain, Congress’s last honorable man, stand on the ticket.

Or the donkey’s are dumb and stubborn enough that they insist on nominating a more testicled Clinton in ’08.

Those caveats aside, the GOP should brace for the deserved House cleaning that is on the way.

And learn how to spell “minority” in their next mythical “Ethics” class.

No Finish League

If a baseball team decided to run up the white flag on 1/16th of their season, they would give away 10 games.
If a drywall hanger decided to call in sick for 1/16th of his year, he would miss 16 days of work.
If a NASCAR driver chose to coast for 1/16th of the race, he would consistently finish in next-to-last place, right behind Dale Earnhardt, Jr.
But nobody seems to mind that the NFL’s elite teams regularly take a dive for at least one of their measly 16 regular-season games.
This weekend was an abomination and a slap in the face to football fans, as team after team showed up with only half their starting lineups on the field.
The most egregious offender was the Indianapolis Colts, who phoned it in for two and a half games after their “perfect season” was ruined by the San Diego Chargers.
While Tony Dungy is usually a class act, it was a classless display by a team that was destined for greatness and is now destined for infamy as they will soon become another example of teams who chose to write off the end of their season to keep their athletes healthy, then bungle their shot in the playoffs.
On Sunday, my own beloved Patriots followed the example, pulling Tom Brady after the first half and handing the game over to the Miami Dope Dealers.
Had Brady remained in the game, New England could have finished a mediocre season (for them) with a big win.
The NFC West saw a similarly pitiful display by a professional team when the Seahawks rolled over for the hapless Green Bay Packers.
The Chicago Bears, the crappy, lucky, untalented and embarrassing kings of the NFL’s most inept division, the NFC North, followed suit by giving their starters a breather, giving up an easy win to the Vikings.
In fact, the only class act of the weekend came from Denver, who showed up to play in their 23-7 whipping of the Chargers, in spite of the fact that the Broncos had long since clinched the AFC West title.
Jake Plummer played the entire first half, in spite of being roughed up early.
John Lynch, the outstanding safety for Denver, espoused the spirit that more NFL owners and coaches should embrace.
"In my mind, every time you get an opportunity to play in the NFL, you owe it to yourself, to your team and to the people who pay to watch the game, to play hard," said Lynch, whose high school coach was in the stands.
Unfortunately, too many of the “winners” in the NFL want to act like losers, phoning it in during the last weekend of the season.
So this season, for the first time in years, I won’t be rooting for the Patriots.
And while I buried the hatchet on my hatred of the Indianapolis Colts this season while they were pursuing the “perfect season,” the hatred is back.
They were a cowardly organization when they snuck out of Baltimore back in 1984, and they’re a cowardly organization now.
The Panic Ponies choked against a mundane Chargers team three weeks ago, and they’ll cave in the playoffs again this year, just like they did last year.
And while they don’t have the talent of some of this year’s other contenders, I will cheer for the Broncos every step of the way simply because they are the only team in the 2006 post season, along with the Pittsburgh Steelers, with the heart, honor, and respect for their fans to play every game of the 2005 schedule.
Go Broncos!

Clean Slate Day

Today is my favorite holiday.

I’ll admit, Christmas is nice.

It would be better if you could eliminate the obligatory waste of life-minutes in your nearest wallet-emptying facility (also known as Wal Mart, or Target, or any other store where money disappears faster than elephants in a David Copperfield concert).

I’m fond of Thanksgiving as well.

What could be better than a day dedicated to football and overeating?

(Heck, who am I kidding, I get that every Sunday from September through February).

Easter isn’t a big day at my house, mostly because it doesn’t usually translate into a day off from work.

(How sly was it for somebody to schedule a holiday on a Sunday, when everybody’s off already? Where was the union when the powers-that-be were concocting this idea?)

It’s also one of the more confusing holidays, since it tends to hop around the spring-time calendar each year, and continues to use bunny rabbits laying multi-colored chocolate Easter eggs in an inexplicable tribute to the resurrection.

But my favorite is New Year’s Day.

While most of the American holidays celebrate something from the past, New Year’s Day celebrates the future.

It is the one day devoted to my most cherished ideal:

Hope.

Every time December 31 rolls around, people stop and make resolutions, a burning flare of hope in a darkened sky of despair.

“This is the year I lose 20 pounds,” they exclaim while finishing off the last drumstick from the Christmas feast.

Then they light up a post-meal cigarette and proclaim “this is the year I give up smoking.”

New Year’s Day is also the moment when we collectively take life’s proverbial Etch-A-Sketch, hold it upside down over our heads, and shake away the mistakes and regrets of the previous year.

In my vernacular, January 1 is “Clean Slate Day.”

No matter how badly you’ve botched the previous 365 days, “Clean Slate Day” marks the chance to start over with an empty score book.

It’s fitting that the turning of the page on New Year’s Eve is denoted by the dropping of a ball in Times Square.

Regardless of how many times you “dropped the ball” in the year past, now is your chance to start anew.

I’m excited about 2006.

It’s an unexplored adventure waiting for me to get in the boat.

It will be filled with changes and new opportunities and fun and heartbreak and all of the things that make life worth living.

And I’m going to do it in a body that’s 30 pounds lighter.

As soon as I’m done with the last of the New Year’s Eve cheese sticks and chicken wings.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Wal Mart Woes

The problems keep piling up for America’s largest retailer.

These days, Wal Mart must feel like they’ve got a target on their back (no pun intended), as they continue to get hammered in the courts.

It started earlier in the year when several Wal Mart stores got jammed by immigration police for using illegal aliens on contracted cleaning crews.

Apparently, the feds believe it’s okay to sell lettuce picked by illegal aliens under a blistering sun, but border jumpers cannot be permitted to do a clean up in aisle nine.

They’re also being sued for various wage law violations.

It seems that it’s against the law to pay minimum wage to people who ARE from this country.

Of course, the folks doing the suing weren’t unhappy with the paychecks when they agreed to take the job, but somehow they realized a few years into their blue-vested career that it’s Wal Mart’s fault they can’t land a better-paying job.

Now, it’s the EPA’s turn.

It seems that Wal Mart has been using their own trucks to ferry hair spray and bleach and charcoal from their distribution centers to their various stores.

Nobody, not even the feds, seems to have a problem with that.

The rub comes when they put the same items into the same trucks to take them back to the same distribution center when the items don’t sell.

When the items don’t sell, they are no longer products.

They are called “hazardous waste.”

According to the federal investigation, these items must be loaded onto special trucks (translation: exorbitantly and unnecessarily expensive trucks) to be returned to the distribution centers.

Wal Mart has always used the haz-mat trucks to take hazardous returned goods to a special disposal facility.

But our wonderful government (too bad you can’t display disgusted facial expressions in a written document) has decided that the haz-mat trucks must back up to every Wal Mart loading dock to transport that incredibly dangerous White Rain.

Once the feds finish beating up our country’s biggest purveyor of discount goods, and succeeds in adding a few more cents to the cost of nearly everything in the store, they’ll be on the lookout for the next big Wal Mart violation.

Don’t be surprised next year when the big W gets jacked up for unlicensed laser beams in the check-out lanes or stock-boys filling racks with Star Wars toys without wearing a Darth Vader mask.

Every day, people gripe about businesses and jobs going overseas.

Meanwhile, the one company which continues to hire Americans (at least for positions that don’t require toilet scubbing), fights inflation with low prices, remains headquartered in this country, and tries to keep this sluggish economy going, must continuously battle the very government they prop up with their enormous corporate taxes.

Doesn’t it make you proud to be an American?

NFL-Free Network Lunacy

It’s hard to believe that I’m old enough to remember the “Heidi Game.”

For those too young to remember Joe Namath back when women were debasing themselves trying to get a kiss from him, instead of the other way around, the “Heidi Game” was the 1968 football game between the New York Jets and the Oakland Raiders.

The Jets were leading 32-29 with 1:05 remaining on this November day.

Following a timeout, one of the eggheads at NBC thought it would be a good idea to switch the broadcast over to the movie “Heidi” instead of back to the end of the game.

In that 1:05, the Raiders scored two touchdowns and won 43-32.

The outcry from enraged football fans reverberated through the halls of the Peacock channel for years to come.

But it seems the doofus brigade at NBC spent too much time in front of the boob tube and not enough time in the classroom, because they never learned what my seventh-grade civics teacher used to pound into our heads daily:

Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.

(Back then, I thought it was a more-than-subtle warning that if you couldn’t remember when the War of 1812 was fought, chances were good you would be taking his history class again next year.)

NBC has apparently forgotten the wrath and punishment meted out for incompetent networks who think they can pull the plug on the gridiron altar.

A few years back when the Fox network got into the game of bidding for NFL broadcast rights, pushing the cost nearly to Ralph Kramden’s figurative moon, CBS decided they could do without John Madden et al.

Within three years, CBS was at the bottom of the ratings cesspool while Fox found legitimacy on the broadcast landscape.

Three years ago, NBC made the same boneheaded decision, believing the Olympic snooze-fest would be enough to keep them sailing along in first place on the winds of Seinfeld and Friends.

Now, Seinfeld is gone.

Friends is gone.

NFL is gone.

And NBC is in the toilet ratings-wise, their best show barely beating the 3 a.m. kitchen knife sale on the Home Shopping Network.

It’s no accident.

Without football, particularly in the critical November sweeps, a network cannot stay afloat.

CBS, which is now in first place and boasts six of the top 10 shows on television, has learned their lesson.

NBC would be without a single top 10 show if not for “Law and Order: Ad Nauseum.”

So now ABC wants a reminder of life without the NFL.

Like Fox, ABC was the ugly stepsister of the network triumvirate for years until they scored a major coup with Monday Night Football in 1970.

Before long, the American Broadcasting Company was finally acknowledged as a real network.

Next year, the dorks at ABC are going to try the NBC dance, giving up their rights to a 35-year football institution.

Yeah, that “Desperate Housewives” thing is going to fill the gap nicely.

Not.

Mark your calendar, and tell everyone you heard it here first.

In 2010, NBC is going to bid about 80 kajillion dollars to get the NFL back on their network, and will throw in Al Roker and a small country to be named later in order to seal the deal.

ABC will try to mortgage Euro-Disney and put Minnie Mouse on a Las Vegas street corner wearing Daisy Dukes and a see-through Simpsons T-shirt, but it won’t be enough to lure the NFL back to their lame excuse for a network.

Meanwhile, Fox will continue to pay Terry, Howie, Jimmy, and JB obscene amounts of money to keep the NFL’s best pre-game show alive, and will finance their salaries by continuing to show night after night of insipid prime-time cartoons so they don’t have to pay real actors.

They may be stupid at Fox, and believe their audience is as well, but they’re not insane.

Too Damn Cold

Okay, whoever failed to pay Mesquite’s heating bill is instructed to immediately make amends with the appropriate utility company and return our desert oasis back to it’s intended condition of searingly hot.

For those who haven’t ventured outside the warm confines of their personal abode in the last week or two, let me give you a weather report:

It’s cold.

No, wait, that’s not accurate.

It’s way cold.

Hmmm…not forceful enough.

It’s damn cold.

Getting there, but not quite right.

It’s “I’m not a frickin’ Eskimo, I hate ice on my lawn, and I’m going to strangle the next idiot who asks ‘is it cold enough for you?’” cold.

There, that about sums it up.

The current cold snap is endangering Mayor Bill Nichole’s popular claim that “we play golf 12 months a year.”

That may be technically true, since there are some golf lunatics who will actually swing a nine-iron while wearing a winter parka.

But if you are a golf purist who accepts the standard definition of “golfer” as “someone clad in loud polyester pants and mismatched polo shirt swinging a lightning-conducting rod at an elusive white ball,” then what those guys in the carts are doing can’t be construed as “golfing.”

“Freezing their Titlists off” would be the correct term.

Aside from the personal inconvenience of bundling up against 35-degree temperatures in what is supposed to be the burning desert, this stretch of North Pole artistry has deprived local residents of their favorite pastime:

Calling their friends up north and bragging about the nice Mesquite weather.

The conversation loses some bragability when your friend in Brainfreeze, Minnesota replies “35 degrees? It was up to 38 here. Of course, you wouldn’t know it while lounging in front of this nice fireplace. By the way, is your air conditioner still making that awful noise when you try to pry the thermostat up to the ‘Almost Livable’ setting?”

It’s a cruel irony that, all summer long, Mesquetians hunkered down in their homes and cars, afraid to stand outside more than 10 seconds for fear of spontaneous combustion.

Now, it’s a fear of having body parts flash freeze and snap off on the way to El Rancho.

Face it, we’re not equipped emotionally or sartorially to withstand this climate.

Most residents gleefully sold their winter clothes and fur-lined underwear when they abandoned their previous warmth-challenged address to make room for all the new shorts and t-shirts that our Easy-Bake Oven existence demands 10 months out of the year.

Now, no matter how many “Wolf Creek” polo shirts you put on, hypothermia is going to win.

And regardless of what the song says, Jack Frost is not “nipping at your nose.”

He’s kicking our butts.

Being A Touron

No matter where you live, there is something nearby that warrants your visit.

It could be the world’s biggest snot collection, or something similarly disturbing, but every area has something that they hold out as a “tourist attraction.”

I live near an entire city that is one big tourist attraction, and could qualify as the world’s biggest snot collection.

It’s called Las Vegas.

If you visit or live in such a locale, you have obviously encountered one of the “lost souls” who obtain four-wheel bumper cars (also known as Hertz-mobiles) then proceed to run into other bumper cars, public fixtures, and pedestrians while gazing at the fake ship in front of the Treasure Island casino and uttering the words, “ooh, a boat!”

These visitors are known as “tourons.”

It’s a contraction of two different words that I am sure you can figure out.

I’m not insulting these visitors, because their visits and their money are critical to the survival of Vegas and my own beloved town, and because every human being in the U.S. of A. has been one at some point.

Recently I put on my “touron” hat and visited Nevada’s “Valley of Fire,” a beautiful desert landscape of red-tinted hills and canyons outside Logandale/Overton.

(The residents of this burg insist that Logandale and Overton are two different towns, but I would challenge anyone outside of their zip code to identify which is which.)

The first thing I would like to point out is that there is something inherently wrong with a government collecting money for God’s handiwork.

The state of Nevada hammers visitors $6 a carload to view this particular collection of rocks.

I’m sure their argument would be that they have money invested in the road and the 4,281 signs pointing the way to pristine “natural” locations.

(Like most states, Nevada doesn’t catch the irony in putting up manmade signs to identify natural phenomena).

As a taxpayer and nature liker (I’m not a nature “lover” because I still prefer humans to trees and believe that the Sierra club has elevated whining to an art form), I would be just as happy to see the roads allowed to return to dirt trails and the signs turned into campfire kindling.

Of course, if the state did that, how would our friends from the “Land of the Rising Sun” get their tour buses out to the “beehive” in time to snap three or four hundred pictures before returning to the black jack tables?

For the record, the red vistas are gorgeous and fascinating, well worth the cost of a couple of rolls of film.

But not worth the $6 shakedown by the state.

To add insult to injury, you are expected to “self-pay,” which means you fill out an envelope, put in your money, keep the stub, and insert the envelope into the slot of a locked metal pipe.

No humans are involved in collecting your money.

Instead, they post people on each end of the park to check for your stub (“Your paperz, pleeze!”) in hopes of catching violators and collecting the big jackpot, which is a hefty fine for stealing glimpses of stuff you already own as a taxpayer.

(Only a government could come up with a system like this.)

If you are planning a visit to the greater Las Vegas area (or even the not-so-great Las Vegas area, also known as Pahrump), I highly recommend a visit to this natural wonder.

And feel free to fill out the envelope, keep the stub, and “forget” to include your cash.

I won’t tell.

Thanksgiving Day Parade

“Welcome to DBC’s coverage of the annual Spacy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
“First, we’d like to take a moment to offer our thanks for the many blessings we have received, namely the opportunity to show three hours of non-stop commercials under the guise of a parade.
“Now, before we actually get to the parade, we’re going to cut to our on-the-street hosts who are going to banter and pretend they like each other, which is probably the best performance you’re going to see today.”
“Thanks, Hal. I’m Brat Lower and I’m here with Fady Borinc to bring you an event that epitomizes the American spirit, namely lots of commercials.
“If you look over our shoulder, you’ll see a big yellow float.
“Ignore it. We’re going to.
“Instead, we’d like to interview Razz Matazz, who is starring in the upcoming movie ‘Gone With The Wind 2: Rhett Gives A Damn.’
“Razz, it’s great to see you here.”
“Thanks, Brat. Come see my movie. I’d like to say more, but I can’t really carry on a conversation without a teleprompter, so…come see my movie.”
“There you have it folks. Now, we’re going to take you to a pre-recorded song and a stilted dance number by frozen performers to promote a tedious Broadway show nobody in the rest of the country is ever going to see, but it will entice locals to flock to the theatre, so here is the cast of ‘Everyone Should Be Les Miserable.’”
Following a tiresome presentation where the “singer” offers the worst lip-synch job since Ashlee Simpson’s visit to Saturday Night Live, Brat and Fady throw it to an anorexic weatherman, ignoring the irony of a guy with an eating disorder celebrating a holiday built around feasting.
“Thanks, Hal. By the way, you’re really looking good since that surgery to remove your large and small intestines, stomach, spleen, liver, and a kidney. Happy Thanksgiving, my friend.
“Okay, we’re going to take a 15-minute break to show you a real parade, which is the endless cavalcade of commercials lined up to empty your pockets and fill ours. We’ll be back when we run out of sponsors.”
Following 20 minutes of commercials for such holiday products as Depends and Crapital Won, encouraging you to overspend again this holiday season, Brat and Fady return.
“Behind us, you can see a gang of people with instruments from some school, but we have more important stuff to show you, beginning with an excerpt from this Tuesday’s new comedy ‘Bite Me In A Bikini’ right here on DBC.”
After a three minute clip of a girl in a swimsuit explaining all the ways her CEO dad is a moron, Brat and Fady return to the screen.
“Looks like a winner, wouldn’t you say, Brat?”
“It sure does, Fady. Speaking of winners, I love the snow and skiing that comes with every winner season, which leads us to talk about the Winner Olympics, coming up somewhere in Europe.
“Fortunately, you can catch every uninspiring, boring moment of the Ukranian curling team and plenty of folks who aren’t Americans winning the gold right here on DBC.”
“Okay, Brat, we were going to send it back down to Hal, who’s standing by with the stage manager for the Rolling Stones, who we couldn’t get on our show because our producers have a rule against inviting anyone who actually has talent.
“However, Hal’s currently being blocked by some fat guy in a red suit riding a fake sleigh, so we’ll wait until he moves along before sending it back to the street.”
“Right you are, Fady. So, while we have this extra time to fill, let’s continue to ignore the big balloon Underdog floating by and talk about your kids. How’s that rehab coming along?”
The next 10 minutes are filled with inane stories about past holidays that you know are made up by writers from dysfunctional families, which are basically vignettes ripped off from “Miracle on 34th Street” and Ralphie’s “A Christmas Story.”
We hope you enjoyed this year’s broadcast.
Our accountants sure did!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

War Is Bad

Here’s the latest news flash:
People sometimes get injured and, gasp, even killed during war.
I know, a startling revelation that has some do-gooders absolutely apoplectic.
The word comes from a report on last year’s battle in Falluja, that nice Iraqi resort where things were oh-so-rosy before those nasty Americans with their white phosphorus weapons showed up.
The report accuses Americans of having the temerity to actually kill people who were shooting at them with rocket-propelled grenades.
According to the report, which was prepared by someone in the U.S. Army, soldiers used white phosphorus incendiary devices during last year’s battle to close the terrorist convention center that the city had become.
But a number of international groups are claiming foul, insisting that it was somehow improper for Americans to use the devices to clear out spidey-holes and tunnels.
Apparently, the politically-correct method of clearing such places is to march a parade of soldiers into the cave until those hiding inside run out of bullets, or the cave entrance becomes so clogged with dead American bodies that the insurgents become trapped in the cave.
In a touch of irony, those yapping the loudest claim that it violates international law to use such weapons in civilian areas, although there doesn’t seem to be any rule against combatants dressing like civilians, hiding in civilian homes, using civilian vehicles to blow up targets, and using civilian neighborhoods as their base of operations.
So again, the Americans are wrong, and the kindly folks who blow up buses and restaurants filled with women and children are the good guys.
Even though, as one American general pointed out (he’s an American, so how can he be trusted?), white phosphorus weapons have been used in battle by legitimate armies for nearly 100 years.
Part of the outrage comes as the devices are being erroneously touted as “chemical weapons” because phosphorus is a chemical.
If we’re going to use that benchmark for hanging the dreaded “chemical weapons” tag on a munition, then I guess all items of war must be classified as such.
Bullets are propelled by gunpowder, which is a chemical.
Rocket-propelled grenades are powered by chemicals, and use chemicals in the explosion process.
For that matter, it means that the chemical H2O and sodium chloride must be also be banned (water and table salt).
Nobody disputes that getting burned by white phosphorus is not a pleasant experience.
But exactly what part of war can be deemed palatable?
American body parts strewn all over the boulevard after a car packed with cheap explosives goes off in a downtown area?
Bullet holes in boys from Birmingham?
Civilians getting dragged from their vehicles, beaten, shot, burned, and hung from a bridge?
(If I remember correctly, the bodies hanging from the bridge is what spurred the American assault on Falluja).
Personally, I wasn’t in favor of invading Iraq.
But while we’re there, I don’t recommend conducting a “war by the numbers,” particularly using the playbook from countries which regularly wind up on the losing side of such conflicts.
War sucks, from top to bottom.
And as soon as the bastards with the RPGs and roadside bombs stop waging it, we should give it up, too.

Pregnant Men

Scientists in California have discovered some fish off the coast of SoCal.
Not a big deal unless you’re a fisherman with a seaworthy boat.
But these fish are unique.
They are male fish that can produce eggs.
They have labeled the creatures as “intersex” fish.
Of course, like most eco-whackos, they couldn’t resist blaming it on pollution or treated sewage water.
I’m certain that, before the week is out, they’ll find a way to blame it on global warming.
But the guys in white coats are missing the point.
Males that can produce eggs.
If Darwin was right, and you extrapolate the theory that all life began in the sea, that means we will eventually have land mammals capable of carrying a fetus.
That’s right, pregnant men.
(Okay, we’ll wait while you women finish applauding, whooping, and cheering.)
This has been a dream of women for years who have tired of hearing husbands invoke the politically correct and mentally deficient remark “we’re pregnant!” at parties when telling friends of an impending birth of a future middle linebacker.
While “we’re” pregnant, only the woman is saddled with an extra 40 pounds, daily nausea, cravings for food groups that were never meant to be combined, and of course the “joy” of childbirth that basically involves passing a watermelon through a garden hose.
Don’t get me wrong, men go through three out of four of those things, but it’s usually referred to as “being single.”
Pregnant men would be Mother Nature’s little payback for centuries of female suffering.
Imagine bloated and lactating CEOs in maternity business suits trying to conduct a board meeting.
Or the guy in the hardhat pouring cement and trying to hold down this morning’s oatmeal.
Then there are the social considerations.
If men were able to conceive, which is a feminine trait, would they face discrimination?
Would a whole new line of bigotry arise, with derisive slurs like “Look at that preg over there!”?
Would pregnant men get paid less than non-pregnant men?
And of course the most important question, would football uniforms have to be redesigned?
Obviously, it will take a few eons for these questions to become valid.
But just the notion of millions of men insisting on “safe sex” to avoid a pregnancy that would interfere with his bowling commitments is worth a few laughs.
Like a female comedian once said, if men got pregnant, not only would the “morning after” pill be legal, it would be free!

Gender Equity Still MIA

Back in the seventies (back when you could advertise cigarettes on television, a time fondly referred to as “the good old days” by tobacco companies), there was a brand of smokes aimed at female smokers.
The jingle’s tagline was “You’ve got your own cigarette now, baby, you’ve come a long, long way.”
First, for our younger readers, a jingle was a catchy song that extolled the virtues of a particular product, like “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke.”
Advertisers don’t use jingles anymore, instead opting for old Led Zeppelin tunes behind ads for Cadillacs.
Obviously, we weren’t particularly hip or sophisticated back in those dark ages, since most of us didn’t get the irony of a line that heralded the arrival of the fairer sex as a legitimate part of the political landscape, while still referring to women as “baby.”
Anyway, the point is that, in spite of this cancer-causing proclamation, women really haven’t come that far in the world of sports.
This is evidenced by the continuing examples of bad behavior by athletes of both sexes, but the vast disparity in the way they are treated.
For men, you can be involved in the murder of two human beings and still find a place in the Baltimore Ravens defense.
For that matter, coke dealers are welcome on the other side of the ball in Baltimore.
And don’t get me started on the Terrell Owens saga.
Baseball players can take illegal steroids like kids eat Fruity Pebbles and still be voted the league batting champion.
In fact, you can tell Congress that you’ve NEVER used steroids, then just grin and wink when you get a quickie ten-day suspension for having steroids in your system.
You can beat your wife, get caught driving drunk, assault fans, slap around camera guys, and smoke every flavor and variety of marijuana known to man and still get nothing more than a temporary forced vacation.
But let a cheerleader have just one alleged sexual encounter with another cheerleader in a bathroom stall, and they’re off the team for good.
This doesn’t sound fair.
Don’t get me wrong, I think that the cheerleaders in question should lose their job for embarrassing the team (even though they were off-duty at the time).
But I think the same standard should apply for every other member of the team.
If you get popped for a drunken orgy on a Minnesota lake, you should be on the unemployment line before that boat reaches the dock.
If you choke a basketball coach, the only court you should ever see again is the kind featuring a guy in robes.
To be fair, the Carolina Panthers organization is a little better than many of their NFL brethren, since their most famous transgressor no longer plays for the team.
However, Rae Carruth’s absence from the Panther lineup has more to do with the North Carolina penal system than the team’s standards.
The true test will come when Carruth comes up for parole.
If the team is waiting outside the prison walls with a contract laden with incentives for the number of non-pregnant guys with helmets he can take out the next time the Panthers play the Giants, you’ll know that the double standard lives even in a place named Charlotte.

Singing Mice

I recently read an article where researchers claim certain breeds of male mice can sing.
This immediately led my fractured brain to two questions.
First, which government agency paid for such a study?
And second, what kind of music do they sing?
I suspect it will take more of the first to answer the second.
If I had to lay five dollars at the parlay window, I’d bet they sing heavy metal.
Initially, I considered the idea that rap music would be their favored genre, but equating rap with vermin is just musical prejudice on my part.
Besides, the researchers actually used the word “sing,” which means it couldn’t have been rap.
Country music would be appropriate, but then I realized that the researchers indicated it was the male mouse that did the singing, and everyone knows that country music has become the province of female singers like Shania and Faith and that little girl who plays Dorothy in her Wizard of Oz video.
The idea that the little cheese-snatchers were into show tunes crossed my mind, but researchers put the kibosh on that notion.
The guys in the white coats claim the mice sing to woo female mice.
If testing showed that the male mice were singing to woo other male mice, it would be show tunes.
(To my gay friends, take your politically-correct outrage bonnet off your head and sit back down. This topic was addressed on “Will and Grace,” which is my arbiter of all things that are permissible to be stereotyped as gay. After all, “Just Jack!” wasn’t a blues review.)
An argument could be made that they sing pop music, but researchers didn’t mention anything about the mice lip-syncing, and not one of them danced a jig off the stage after being caught with “backing tracks.”
Some of the darker, more alienated mice might turn to singing alternative and grunge music, a fact which will be confirmed as soon as tests come back indicating the presence of heroin, or when one of the mice manages to shoot itself in the head with a shotgun.
My apologies to any of you Kurt Cobain fans who take exception to this image.
I guess a case could be made for opera, but none of the mice they studied wore tuxedos or Viking armor.
No, I suspect the little varmints sing heavy metal.
The scientists mentioned that the sounds are rhythmic and vary in pitch, but aren’t intelligible.
That kind of defines heavy metal music.
(Ever listen to old Ozzy Osbourne records? I enjoy the Prince of Darkness’s music, but after 30 years, I still don’t have a clue what he’s saying. Of course, I’ve watched nearly two dozen episodes of the TV show “The Osbournes,” and I still have the same problem.)
And for all their noisy bluster, heavy metal artists always manage to land the gorgeous babes.
I mean, Tommy Lee is one ugly head banger, and he took Pamela Anderson on a honeymoon boat ride.
It has to be the music.
My theory will be confirmed once the scientists discover tiny little mouse tattoos on their subjects that say things like “Born to tease cats” and “Mouse Traps Suck!”

Two-Part Disappointment

I have an important message I want to impart.
I believe it to be timely, topical, cogent, and worthwhile.
It will probably be funny, highly entertaining, socially meaningful and politically incorrect.
And I’m going to share this message with you.
Next week.
Frustrated?
This is the way I always feel after investing my valuable couch-potato time on some piece of network television tripe, only to discover just before the plane crashes or the killer is unmasked that the show is the front end of a two-parter.
I hate these “To Be Continued” offerings.
I’m particularly outraged when the networks hide the fact that the show will be a two-parter the way an Amway fanatic hides the fact that the “get together” he or she wants you to attend will actually be a recruiting pitch.
(To my Amway friends out there, I’m sorry to insult you by comparing you to a lowly network television executive. You have my apologies, and I need two gallons of that special biodegradable toenail soap on page 482 of your monthly catalog.)
On Sunday, I got sucker-punched on two different networks.
I was actually torn between two shows that were scheduled for 9 p.m.
The first was “The Crusades” on The History Channel.
I had been looking forward to that show for nearly a week, hoping that by watching, I might finally understand why the Muslims hate me and my country so badly.
It turns out that 20 minutes into the show, (which, to be honest, was even more dull and boring than my ninth grade history class, where I should have paid attention when my teacher was going over this topic nearly 30 years ago), the History Channel made the mistake of running a promo for part two.
I immediately switched over to the other 9 p.m. offering that had caught my interest, a CBS catastrophe-of-the-week made-for-television movie called “Category 7: The End of the World.”
I waited through two hours of REALLY bad acting, terrible casting (Randy Quaid and Shannon Doherty hooking up? I haven’t seen chemistry that bad since I dropped my Mr. Professor Chemistry Set on a concrete floor when I was 12), insipid story lines where people were more broken up about old flames and jealousy over past relationships than they were about the tornadoes that had killed thousands and threatened to wipe out D.C., and INCREDIBLY bad writing.
At the end, with the hurricane heading for our nation’s capital, where terrorists had just kidnapped the first born children of wealthy socialites fleeing the hurricane’s path while the torch from the Statue of Liberty was about to crush Randy Quaid while hugging Shannon Doherty (see what I mean about the writing?), the piece of crap ends with “To Be Continued.”
I feel so betrayed.
It’s particularly frustrating when you realize that the director could have eliminated the inane threads about old relationships, worn out pilots flying worn out airplanes, gorgeous eye-candy Gina Gershon as the head of FEMA and her bizarre relationship with her teenage “son” who looks old enough to be her uncle (right…all of those federal bureaucrats are gorgeous, like Janet Reno), and a televangelist played badly by James Brolin, and reduced the two-parter to a digestible two-hour flick.
In fact, he could have taken out most of the cheesy special effects about tornadoes hitting the great pyramids, and the devastation in the city of Buffalo (that’s right, the storms hit all of Earth’s important population centers…Cairo, Hong Kong, Detroit, Chicago, New York, Miami…and Buffalo) and whittled it down to about a half hour, which would still be too much for such a lousy movie, but at least the audience wouldn’t want to commit hari-kari because they had wasted two hours of their lives on this drivel.
I hate two-part movies.
All of them.
I’m not fond of sequels either.
But to foist this bad TV fare on a nation for two consecutive weekends is a sure sign of the Apocalypse.
And I hope there’s a special chamber of Hell for the TV executives who have lured innocent people into their lair without warning of an impending two-parter.
I have a lot more acid and hate for CBS and their ilk, but I’ll save it for the second half of this diatribe, to be continued next week.

Hell In A Handbasket

Originally published in The Spectrum in November, 2002

A news flash for you: The World Is Going To Hell In A Handbasket.
I remember my first encounter with that statement.
At 8 years old, I overheard my paternal grandfather punctuating a long-winded diatribe with “the world is going to Hell in a handbasket”.
I don’t remember the topic which inspired the statement, but I do recall the imagery.
In 1969, I had grown up with supermarkets, which involved wheeled shopping carts.
I didn’t understand what a “handbasket” was, but since it was apparently the vehicle in which we were traveling to Hell, I figured it couldn’t be a good thing.
My grandfather got out of the “Hell In A Handbasket” industry when they planted him in 1972.
He won 2nd place in game that was popular back then, called “I’ll Bet I Can Smoke 3 Packs Of Cigarettes A Day Without Dying of Cancer”.
(Unfortunately, the only people I ever met who won that game were those who got hit by buses.)
My dad inherited the “Hell In A Handbasket” franchise, and business was booming.
According to him, the Democrats and the Commies (which is redundant, because he believed the terms to be synonymous) were responsible for Nixon’s implosion.
We had lost the war in Vietnam.
And Hippies were ruining everything.
Being children of the 1960’s and 70’s, most of my friends disagreed with my dad’s philosophy.
They thought he was just too old fashioned, and that the world was really a wonderful place full of new ideas and opportunities.
We alI tried to maintain that optimism through the 1980’s, when “greed was good”.Now I’m in my 40’s.
Most of the things I read in the news confirm that my grandfather and father were right.
I’ve adopted their philosophy, although I’ve updated the vernacular.
“Hell In A Handbasket” has been replaced with “That Sucks!”, but the sentiment remains unchanged.Kids today have taken my former place in the heirarchy, convinced that I’m just old fashioned and out of touch.
They see nothing wrong with the fact that “Ozzie and Harriet” have been supplanted with Ozzie and the Osbournes.
(It’s ironic. Back then, I insisted to a parent that Ozzie qualified as “music”. Today, kids insist Ozzie qualifies as a parent.)
Schools without armed policemen have become as foreign to them as the old one room schoolhouses were to me.
And Constitutional Rights are as relevant today as the Magna Carta was in the days of disco.
Every generation has “H.I.A.H.B.” as a rite of passage.
It is usually bestowed with the confluence of the first gray hair and puberty-bound offspring.
Of course, in my humble opinion, I believe the handbasket now has shuttle rockets attached.
Everything in society is moving at warp speed, including our impending demise as a species. I am not crotchety, nor a fuddy-duddy.
In today’s words, I am simply “politically incorrect”.
Typical.
Even my status as a *@&!%$# has become a kinder and gentler insult.

Early Christmas Beef

It seems that every entity with a cash register and a tax ID number is currently offering their Christmas wares.
For those of you who are calendar challenged, let me give you a hint: It’s barely November.
Every year, it seems that stores trot out their Christmas merchandise earlier and earlier.
Next year, I’m expecting to see dancing Santa Claus figures next to the fireworks display at Wal Mart.
I understand that stores want to hurry their biggest selling season, but I’m tired of wading through shelf after shelf of Christmas wrapping paper and fuzzy red stockings while looking for the suntan lotion.
By the time of Santa’s annual arrival, I am nearly sick of the entire holiday.
Christmas carols over shopping mall sound systems have become equivalent to nails raked across a holly-tree-green chalk board.
The guy with the fake beard and jolly belly has become like a member of the family, since I’ve seen him more often than my Uncle Harvey.
For Christmas, I may buy my kids an electric stomach pump to save them from that overdose of red and white striped candy that they’ve been munching for the last 75 days.
And I’m going to apply for a hunting license so that I can legally shoot Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer every time that annoying Rankin Bass special comes on my TV.
(I don’t know what the bag limit is for Rudolph, but I figure I can easily use up a carton of 25 shotgun shells in one Christmas season.)
Since there are no signs that the retailing industry can rein themselves in, and our legislators are once again asleep at the switch and completely useless, I guess we’ll have to rely on that favored American pastime to get some control over this insanity.
Somebody is going to have to sue somebody.
I suspect the turkey people may be first in line at their favorite neighborhood bar (and I don’t mean the place where you can get rum-laced eggnog).
It’s reaching the point where people don’t have any money for their Thanksgiving Day bill of fare, since they already blew it on Playstation 16 and Ashlee Simpson’s latest sing-along production.
Or maybe the ACLU can file discrimination papers, since the Christian holiday of Christmas is obviously infringing on the rights of ghosts, goblins, and Freddy Kruger wannabes.
Personally, my money is on the Sierra Club lunatics.
Once they find out how many artificial trees have been cut down from the artificial rain forest, leading to artificial erosion and loss of artificial habitat for stuffed rabbits and teddy bears, it’s likely that an injunction will hit the Christmas industry so fast that it will make their ornaments spin.
Really, I’m not a Scrooge, and “Bah Humbug” is not part of my daily vernacular.
However, I’m getting tired of being forced to pass out frankincense and myrhh to trick or treaters because the Halloween candy, which was put on shelves in August, was pulled out of the store in mid October to make room for that adorable little zucchini nativity scene.
A movement has started aimed at putting “Christ” back into “Christmas.”
I’d be happy if they could just get Christmas back into December where it belongs.

Price Gouging

Every time the wind blows hard, some politician stands up and makes menacing remarks about the legal woes that will befall anyone who dares to gouge victims for things like ice, water, plywood, generators, and bourbon.
(For any of you who have actually gone through a category three hurricane, you know that liquor is an important survival commodity).
I’ve never actually heard of someone doing time for charging $6 a gallon for drinking water after a catastrophe, so I guess our “justice expectation meter” shouldn’t be too surprised that gouging on a mammoth scale will never be a crime.
I’m referring to the recent admission by Exxon/Mobil that they set a new record for third-quarter profits, earning $9.9 billion from July through September.
Remember September?
When leaves were falling?
Along with trees, buildings, and Volvos?
If I remember correctly (and I should, since I haven’t endured any hurricanes since moving to Nevada, so my bourbon supply is nearly untouched), the oil companies claimed that they were nearly wiped out by Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita, which damaged oil refineries, oil platforms, and just about everything except stock options.
And yet, with less product available (according to them), they managed to set a new record.
Does anything sound odd to you?
Of course, the oil companies insist that they didn’t gouge.
I’m sure they set a new cha-ching record thanks to a sudden rash of drive-thru oil changes.
Or that there was a nationwide rush on silencing rusty door hinges.
It couldn’t possibly be that they were charging $3.30 a gallon for gasoline that they bought, shipped, refined, and stored at 90 cents a gallon, then took advantage of a panicked country that bought the petroleum line of impending gas rationing and potential legions of gas pumps wearing “out of gas” signs.
Fortunately, our sitting president is a former Texas oil man, so he knew exactly what to do.
He did what he does best.
Nothing.
(Before my Republican friends start calling for my head and other critical body parts, let me remind you of Mr. Bush’s “actions” and how they turned out. To be honest, I prefer his inactivity.)
So now, mysteriously, the price of gas has gone down.
Some.
Trust me, we’ll never see gasoline under $2.50 a gallon again in my lifetime, but we’re to the point where we’re referring to $2.75 as “reasonable.”
But I suspect that will only last until the next natural disaster.
And it doesn’t have to involve hurricanes.
I’m sure that Exxon and Texaco and the rest of the oil bandits already have their marketing departments working on ways to capitalize on other temper tantrums by Mother Nature.
For example, don’t be surprised if the next California earthquake is accompanied by oil companies lamenting the rupture of some mythical pipeline that will disrupt petroleum distribution for months.
A series of twisters through America’s heartland will be responsible for ripping up oil derricks all through the Midwest, devastating our oil supply.
And the first serious Alaskan snowfall will be the causative factor in shortages all over the country, as critical pipelines will freeze and oil tankers will be harbor-bound by ice floes.
They’ve found a new way to suck deeper into our wallets.
And if the oil companies are noted for anything, they’re known for how much they suck.

Spammers Win This Round

Okay, Gang, I'm sorry to succumb to the evil bastards who have no soul but plenty of bandwidth, but the spamming has become intolerable.

Therefore, I've been forced to invoke the "word verification" feature on this blog, which will require that you type in a word to post a comment.

I apologize for the inconvenience, but I figure it's the lesser of two evils: impose word verification, or continue to serve as the repository for every scumbag spam on the planet.

Hopefully, this will be a temporary situation, until the spammers get tired of hitting the roadblock, or some genius figures a way to filter out the crap.

Again, I'm sorry to add this pain-in-the-behind extra step, but those of you simlarly afflicted will certainly understand.

Thanks for your patience and loyalty.

Stocks Don't Cheat People...

It’s time for us to ban all investments.

We need to shutter the New York Stock Exchange, layoff everyone from the American Stock Exchange, and retrain stock brokers and analysts for exciting new careers in the food service industry.

I say that because there is simply too much cheating in our financial industry.

Such rule-bending has received celebrity endorsement over the last few years from such high-profile offenders as Martha Stewart.

In Martha’s case, I still don’t understand how it’s a crime to sell your stock in a company when your friend, who happens to run the company, tells you things aren’t going well.

For example, if my friend at the Wal Mart knew that the price of a cordless drill was going to be reduced by 75 cents next week, and he kept his mouth shut when I told him of my plans to buy a drill this afternoon, well, he wouldn’t be getting any more Christmas cards from me.

But maybe I just don’t get the whole idea of stock market investing.

After all, I still own 200 shares of Enron that I purchased a couple of years ago using my “bounce” theory of economics.

My theory was that a company as huge and integral as Enron would eventually rebound.

So I bought a couple hundred shares at $9 each.

(This was long before I became a newspaper writer, back when I used to actually have money.)

Last week, Enron was trading at 20 cents a share.

It bounced like fresh Play-Doh.

Enough said about my investing prowess.

Now, it seems that United States Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist is on the griddle over a Martha-esque escapade.

According to reports, Dr. Frist (yes, he’s a surgeon, which means he honed his budget-cutting techniques on appendix patients years ago) sold stock in his family’s hospital company, HCA Inc., just before the stocks tanked.

Martha got a heads-up from a friend, and she went to jail.

Dr. Frist probably got the inside scoop over apple pie at mom’s house one Sunday.

So you have two pretty smart people, well known in the U.S., who have allegedly been caught with their hands on the “sell” button.

(Although, in another indictment of the American society, some of you are scratching your heads saying “Bill who?” regarding the fourth most powerful man in the world’s most powerful country, while everyone knows the name and story of a lady whose most notable accomplishment is a perfect pineapple upside down cake.)

I’ve decided that maybe the gun control nuts are right.

They have insisted for decades that handgun murders shouldn’t be blamed on the person actually pulling the trigger.

It’s the gun manufacturers and sporting goods stores that should be hanged.

Using their logic (an oxymoron if ever there was one), Frist and Martha shouldn’t be the scapegoats.

It’s those nasty old stock manufacturers and traders.

Let’s go after them.

Oh sure, you’ll have lobbyists and stock lovers like the soon-to-be-formed National Stocks Association claiming “stocks don’t cheat people, people cheat people,” but such rhetoric doesn’t seem to be doing the NRA any good, either.

I say that if we eliminate stocks and the stock market, there won’t be anymore stock cheating.

(I just re-read that sentence, and it actually sounded logical, which scares me.)

Until the federal legislature tires of pointing fingers at each other over who is to blame for a category four hurricane and enacts valuable legislation outlawing the trading of stocks, we’ll have to look out for each other.

I don’t care what the Stock Exchange Commission says.

Friends don’t let friends buy United Air Lines.

But if you insist on playing the stock market, then I have 900 leftover Bethlehem Steel shares I’d like to offer you.

And don’t listen to those financial idiots who might tell you that Bethlehem Steel went out of business two years ago.

I still think it’s going to bounce.

Blog Spam

I guess the blog spammers have found me.
I know I should be honored, that it's a sign of "making it" in the blogosphere.
I should be jumping up and down like Navin Johnson in the movie "The Jerk" yelling "The new phone books are here! The new phone books are here!"
But it's really just a pain in the behind.
I'm constantly amazed at the lengths marketers will go to in order to hawk their sites and products.
It's bad enough that my e-mail "In Box" stays crammed with junk mail, offering me over 400 sources for that ever-important Viagra or Cialis.
Eventually I'll be old enough to need such medications, but I'm sure I'll have a brain hemorrage before I'm able to reach a decision about which of the 400 sources to use.
And to all of you poor rich folks in Nigeria who want me to help you smuggle your $14 million out of the country, I'm the wrong guy to ask.
In fact, I think they should start a club over there for all those unfortunate families.
If they were to pool all of their $14 million dollar inheritances, they'd have enough to buy themselves a decent country.
I think Guam is for sale.
In fact, after hurricane Wilma, I'm sure they could get a discount on the nation of Mexico.
After the e-mail blitz, I get to wade through the electronic War of 1812.
That's the conflict which spawned our "Star Spangled Banner."
These days, every time I fire up my browser, I'm bombarded with "Pop ups bursting on screen."
I use a Popup Stopper, but I have to leave the darn thing off in order to see certain sites that feature legitimate pop-ups (like my Fantasy Football site).
And of course, every site I visit has some form of advertising.
I'm guilty of this myself, since my site is now graced with its first advertiser.
Of course, that advertiser is me, with an ad for my new part-time computer business, so I'm not sure that counts.
And now the sales vermin have infiltrated the blogosphere, pretending to offer patronizing accolades about your blog before offering people a place to find the latest info on a 2006 Buick Lucerne, or intriguing merchandise pertaining to ceramic cactuses. (Or is it ceramic cacti?)
I'm glad they're finding my site.
It means that I exist on some search engine somewhere.
But even if I'm lost in the Sahara desert, I don't relish the vision of being found by the Cialis guy.

*Morris Workman

Shower Warning Device

Once again, I’m lost in a luxurious shower of steaming hot water and silky suds letting my muse whisper in my ear while preparing for another day of journalistic battle.
Suddenly, a stinging barrage of cold water hits my skin like the attack of the ice mites.
Yes, someone in the other bathroom (presumably my teenage daughter with the shower addiction) has started their own shower, robbing me of the precious contents of the water heater.
Without warning.
It made me realize that someone needs to invent a Shower Warning Device.
I’m envisioning a large flashing red sign similar to the “On The Air” light found at TV and radio studios.
You would hit a button before entering the shower, which would light the sign in the other bathroom as a warning to anyone contemplating a shower or flush.
The deluxe model would be automatic, with the sign lighting up whenever someone turns on the shower faucet.
The super-deluxe model would automatically turn off the water to any liquid-control device in the house (other shower, sinks, toilet, washing machines, dishwashers, and refrigerator ice makers) until the main shower was completed.
Following this episode, I was pining for the good old days, acknowledging that the development of the multi-bathroom abode wasn’t such a great advancement after all.
As a kid, our house had one bathroom.
I know the concept is as antiquated as the telephone party line, but it was far more practical.
Like a “poop party line,” only one person could use the bathroom at a time.
It also made it pretty easy for everyone else in the house to realize that a shower was taking place.
If the bathroom door had a decent lock, it also cut off access to the most dangerous burn-inflicting device in the house.
No, not the stove.
With a stove, you knew it was hot.
If you got burned, it was usually your own stupidity or a plastic-army-man experiment gone awry.
The burn inflicting device to which I am referring is a flushed toilet.
(Which could take your showering experience from comfortable to scalding in 2.3 seconds.)
The lock was sufficient notice to the other occupants of the residence that the water facilities were in use, ensuring a safe and enjoyable showering experience.
Unless of course you had a mischievous sibling with malicious flushing on their mind.
Today, with multiple bathrooms, every shower is like a reconnaissance mission in the jungle.
You never know when a surprise scalding or fast freezing is imminent.
It comes without warning, and usually without remorse.
So to any inventors out there who might be tuning in, here is an idea for you to make your first million dollars.
Once you design it and market it, just send me 25 bucks and we’ll call it square.
And if that works, send me an e-mail and I’ll provide you with a few of my $100 ideas, brilliant flashes of inspiration that usually involve advanced plastics and frickin’ lasers.

Baseball Playoffs Around Here Somewhere

I am proud to announce that I finally caught some Major League Baseball.

Not a whole game, mind you.

In fact, not much more than an inning.

And I ended up tuning in not because I was interested in watching a collection of steroid abusers and bawl babies attempting to earn their multi-million-dollar paychecks.

I actually checked it out to see what a record-setting 18-inning playoff game looked like.

I’m glad I did, because there was actually some drama and heroism to be found.

It was the final National League Divisional Series game between the Houston Astros and the Atlanta Braves.

Back when I used to enjoy Major League Baseball, before cheaters like Bonds and Giambi and Palmeiro ruined it, the Braves were one of the teams I liked to follow.

But I also liked to watch Roger Clemens in his prime (which, judging from Sunday’s performance, was about 10 minutes ago).

So the 6-6 battle into the 17th inning was rather intriguing.

Clemens came on in relief for only the second time in his career, pitching three brilliant scoreless innings after the Astros emptied their bullpen.

But in the bottom of the 18th inning, the equivalent of two full games, Chris Burke came to the plate.

Burke, a 25-year-old player for the Astros who had just five home runs during the season, appeared to pose no threat to the logjam.

But a stroke later, the ball was beyond the left-field wall and the Astros were on their way to the National League Championship.

That was pretty heroic.

But the true heroism came after the game.

With Burke and Clemens leaping around the field in celebration, a TV sports reporter began chasing Clemens for an interview.

It was obvious she wanted face time with the big-name star instead of the unknown player who had just hit the game-winning homer.

When she finally caught up with Clemens, Burke started to walk away.

However, the seasoned veteran reached out and pulled Burke back into the camera frame.

A few seconds after the reporter’s first question, Clemens pulled Burke into the interview and turned it over to him, ensuring that the kid would get his deserved 15 seconds of fame.

It was a classy gesture from a guy who has been there so many times before, a guy who took a pay cut to be with a team he believed in and wanted to help.

And while Clemens has the reputation of being a bully and a bad sport, those charges always seem to emanate from his adversaries and not his teammates.

Tomorrow, baseball news will again be filled with cheaters and cheating suspects, superstars who are all about the gain instead of the game, and criminals posing as baseball players.

But for this one beautiful moment, it was about the honor and beauty of America’s misplaced pastime.

New Home

Welcome to the new home for the Workman Chronicles.
Okay, it’s the same old home.
But it’s now the sole repository for these rambling diatribes, since the Workman Chronicles is no longer being published in the Desert Valley Times.
I would like to explain the falling out between myself and my employer, but that would be bad form.
It also might get me fired.
Suffice it to say that my editor and I had a difference of opinion.
I wrote an article uncovering a heinous activity by H-
Whoops, almost spilled the beans.
Anyway, my boss pulled the plug on the article.
So I pulled the plug on the Workman Chronicles.
I like to think of it as a noble gesture, since I felt that to continue putting my best efforts into a publication that lacked-
Darn, almost did it again.
Of course, I guess the other perspective is that I’m being a big baby, and that I gathered up my marbles and went crying home to mommy.
Since I know what really happened, I’m okay wearing that tag.
Besides, my mommy said it wasn’t true.
This entire situation makes me sad.
The Workman Chronicles was my favorite part of the job.
It also evoked the greatest number of responses from the community, both good and bad.
But the reason it got such attention is because it unabashedly faced the truth and told it in a, hopefully, humorous way, even if it cost me popularity points in the community.
(I still have red marks from where the Yearbook kids and their moms whaled on me.)
Unfortunately, that zeal for the telling the truth isn’t shared by-
See, I have to watch that.
Not only is the St. George-owned newspaper my employer, but my boss has access to “paper by the ton and ink by the barrel,” which means he could respond with his own scathing perspective that would reach 7,800 people (according to our latest circulation numbers) while only the 20 or 30 of you who visit this site would get the tr- um, my perspective.
So, until I come up with a new job, or a new distributor for the Workman Chronicles, this will be the only place to find it.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to attend most of the VVHS games and local sporting events, writing about our teams, and giving you the latest scores.
In other words, I’m going to do what one local H** president suggested in a Letter to the Editor, which is stick to writing about sports.
I figure since my editor seems to agree with this guy on most other important issues, he probably feels the same way on this one as well.
So at least somebody will be happy.
(By the way, to Mr. B and the rest of the evil overlords engaged in turning this beautiful city into the unfriendliest place on Earth, congratulations. You win.)
As for me, life will go on.
I’ll eventually find a newspaper or magazine interested in what I have to offer, although it will probably require me to leave the town I have come to love.
If not, I can always go back to earning an above-average living in the insurance or computer industries.
Yes, giving up the poverty and 55-hour work weeks would be a hard call, but it may be a sacrifice I’m forced to make.
Until then, enjoy the Workman Chronicles here on Mesquedia, where $3.95 a month to my internet webspace provider can still buy freedom and truth.

Bigotry For Fun And Property Value

NOTE-This article was rejected by the Editor of the Desert Valley Times

I’ve been thinking about joining the board of an HOA recently.
It’s not that I have some overwhelming desire to bully innocent lawn ornaments or join the garden-hose patrol, but I can see the advantage to being one of those carrying the whip.
It’s also one of the last places in America where bigotry can be practiced without some group with lots of A’s, U’s, and other vowels in their name threatening to hold their breath and throw lawsuits like so many rocks.
Before you get the wrong idea, the bigotry has nothing to do with skin color.
It’s not about anyone’s cultural heritage.
It’s not even a prejudice against a particular religion.
If you listen to the charlatans beating the association board drum, it is a bias against one of the lowest life forms in the human genome, a group of beings so lowly and despicable that they shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe, much less inhabit a building within the gun-turreted walls of a particular PUD.
According to the “prophets,” these two-legged vermin are responsible for declining property values, dead grass, toy proliferation, noise complaints, diphtheria, and global warming.
Unfortunately, the movement is gaining traction as innocent homeowners are taking the bait, convinced that their lives and neighborhoods would be better off without “their kind.”
That’s right, I’m talking about…renters.
To their credit, none of these anti-renter zealots are suggesting that renters be crucified, hung, or put in stocks, but I think it has more to do with the fact that such structures would violate architectural review committee rules.
The bigotry is manifesting itself in “rental restrictions” popping up in the CCR’s of homeowner associations all over the city.
Rental restrictions dictate that homeowners cannot rent out their homes to other people unless they are already doing so.
It also says that new buyers, particularly investors, cannot rent out their home.
In my not-so-humble opinion, I think it’s one of the most un-American rules I’ve heard of since Jim Crow died.
Although you think you own and control your home and property, a board can make a rule that tells you what you can and can’t do with it, and restricts who you can sell it to.
According to the myth which has been proffered in the propaganda pushing for the eradication of renters in our lifetime, the elimination of non-owners will increase your property value.
Apparently, renters are the bane of the residential world, leeches and parasites that drain a community of its escalating resale values and destroy its quality of life.
Of course, the “increasing property value” is the same excuse they use for punishing wayward residents who fail to get their garbage cans in on time, or who don’t get permission before planting rose bushes.
I suspect we’ll eventually see “increasing property value” as the reason why residents aren’t permitted outside their homes between 7 p.m. and dawn, why families will be limited to no more than 2.3 children, and why Subarus and cars built before 2003 will be banned from driving on local HOA streets.
According to several realtors, the rental restrictions are having the opposite effect, chilling property values because up to 40% (depending on which realtor you talk to) of the new home buyers are investors, or folks who intend to rent the property for two or three years until they are ready to retire.
I’m not the smartest person (I’m a renter, so how smart could I be?), but according to the most basic economic principle of supply and demand, if you have six potential buyers instead of 10, meaning less demand, your price must go down.
But I’m more disturbed by the discrimination against the mortgage-challenged.
Before long, I expect to see signs cropping up in stores saying “Non-Renters Only” and little posters above drinking fountains with “Renters” and “Non-Renters” separating the bad people from the good people.
I’m even more disturbed because some of the people voting for this evil codicil were once renters themselves.
They’re the ones who say “I don’t have anything against renters, I just wouldn’t want my daughter to marry one.”
To the homeowners in associations which haven’t yet adopted these measures, I implore you to have a heart, be an American, use some common sense, protect your property values, and vote against these idiotic anti-renter rules.
And to the association board members promoting rental restrictions, I would beg that you stop hating the poor, downtrodden renters, and go back to hating people who paint their fences tan instead of taupe.