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Archive for October 13th, 2008

Hmmmph.

Yes, Cruel Wife… I know it is 7:30.  I know it is time to get up.  Give me a few more minutes, K?

Yes, Cruel Wife, don’t yell, I know it is 8:05.  Thanks.  A few more minutes, all right.

Yes, Cruel Wife I know it is… WHAT???  It’s TEN TO NINE?  WHYDIDN’TYOUSAYSOMETHING?  I’m LATE.

Followed by a 17 second shower, shave (half the face – the left half), shirt-shoes-socks-pants-tie, remove socks and shoes and put on socks first, pants go on the bottom half… brush teeth… yech, what’s that new toothpaste… neosporin?  In the truck, backing up, forget the tree because trees can be replaced, onto the highway, and it’s off to work at a high rate of speed.  At work by ten.

Late, but no one cared. Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  If I were on fire there’d be no one in the world who’d pee on me to put the flames out.  Glad to have run over senior citizens getting to work on time.

Work.  Translate complex assembly to spreadsheet format so we can track our errors to the grave, after they have been discovered.  Lunch… three New York Peppermint Patties (ok, five).  Dessert… another pot of coffee.

5pm.  Need to leave by 5:30 to get home by 6:30 at the latest to care for the kids whilst Cruel Wife sells cooking utensils to a bunch of chain-smoking blue-hair ladies with knit shawls that look like they were made out of cat fur yarn but really are just shawls coated in cat fur.   Thing is, the odds are against them serving kool-aid spiked with LSD, which is kind of a bummer considering how these things go – discussions about bowel movements, perms, the price of bananas, and that cute young man running for president… what’s his name?  Oh yes, John McCain.  Glad it’s her doing these things.

Driving down the freeway to the back-road route home.  Doing 77mph.  Sun’s in your face and just staying between the lines gives you the firsthand knowledge of what an ant must feel like under a hot sun and magnifying glass – your brain sizzles quietly to the sound of screaming retinas.  A hand held up doesn’t help the glare through the bug spattered windshield but that doesn’t matter – they’re really just there to take your mind off of the spiderweb cracks.

Look in the rear-view mirror on the off-ramp and realize that the blue car is a state trooper – and it dawns on you that the sound you hear is the siren.  Shit, he’s not passing you, he’s on your tail.  Locking the brakes and wrenching the wheel to the side is a time proven manner of impressing the cops so it seems like it is warranted here.  Thirty feet of shredded smoking rubber later your vehicle comes to a shuddering stop in a cloud of petroleum toxins.

The trooper edges up to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door.  He looks agitated.  He looks angry.  And he definitely does not look like he has a sense of humor – either on the job or off it.  Perhaps it was crushed when he was a child.  We just don’t know.  Without preamble the trooper submits a request for proof of insurance and registration and it is here that you sense that there will be no banter, no witty repartee, no friendly camaraderie.

A quick fumble through the glove box and frantic examination of the official-looking card confirms that your proof of insurance card is a year old because the new one is right where it belongs – on the desk at home, where it can’t get lost.  The officer is granted access to the proof of insurance card – gotta hold back that registration because of the shaky hands thing going on.  One baby step at a time.  Don’t show fear.  They can smell fear you know…

Sudden flash of insight… When asked if he had the siren on for a while he answers through clenched teeth “Yes.”   Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  Insight #2:  The open window and rushing air is enough to cause one’s hearing aids to clamp down on the outside noise – all outside noise.  Showing the officer the hearing aids helps his composure, and the groveling part can never hurt.  Much.  Hard to fake microelectronics on spur of the moment.

Officer reaches into the glovebox, pushing the heroin kit and baggies of weed aside so he can get at the registration.  It’s wet because of the spilled beer on the dash, but still readable.  He takes all the personal information and politely requests a small powwow back at his vehicle.  If the officer wishes to palaver at his mode of transportation who are you to argue? First thing you notice is that the guy could be your younger brother, by about ten years, perhaps your son.  Ok, so that has you off balance.  Like you weren’t already.

Lots of questions are thrown out.   Where do you work? [Insert Town Name].   What do you do? Aerospace Engineer. How long have you worked there? Ten years.  Ten long years.  Ten long heart wrenching goddamned years.  Ten years of … oh.  You don’t want to hear that, do you? You have hearing aids. (Not a question, that.)   Huh?  Yeah. You read lips? Hell yes.  But the only reason I couldn’t hear you with the aids was that they can cut out on you like when I had the window down.  What’s that?  My WINDOW TINT? Window tint has to go. No shit? No shit. Hell yeah, I can get rid of it.  No problem. Officer gives long look.  Long long look, suddenly mentions how his dad has a hearing aid and a cochlear implant.  Does he like them? The officer says Nah, not the hearing aid, he says it makes things sound like shitYou laugh a bit hysterically, over the top for the situation. Yeah, they work better than the old box kind though.

After the conversation comes to a close, we hug for a few seconds, he gets in his car and drives off.

Driving home.  20 mph under the speed limit.  Suspicion is that the cop was going to nail some ass to a wall for speeding but has opted to give an early Christmas present.  Scraping tint is a whole lot cheaper than a ticket.  Spot two more sunny-weather patrol cars out working on a tan and boosting township revenue.

Home.  Home crap home. Kids nowhere to be seen, dog chewing on dress shoe.  Cruel Wife jumps up, grabs tools of her trade and says “Good luck with the kids” and runs out the door.  The kids, hearing the door and noting that they did not exchange goodbye grief-rituals begin rending garments and gnashing teeth… followed by hysterical wails and blubbery weeping.  Dog switches to left dress shoe.  Cruel Wife runs back in for a happy reunion quickly followed by a second attack of separation anxiety from the youngest child, Destructo-Boy.  Defib paddles sorted the problem out.  Dog forcibly removed from shoes.

Boy on back of couch, removed forcibly.  Boy activates ice dispenser with no glass.  Boy writes all over face with pen.  Boy is discovered a few minutes later around the corner with the dish sponge in his mouth, sucking on it.  Boy spends 20 minutes making weird faces with mouth and looking like he wants to retch. Two very long hours pass with endless permutations of the Boy’s antics described above and it is time for bed.  Toothbrushes are apparently sorted not by color, or size, or by image printed on the handle but by how worn the bristles look.  Check.  Write that down:  GirlHead insists that brushes sorted by bristle wear.  Must’ve missed that in the Book of Good Parenting (which I do not own).   Bedtime stories  – Frog and Toad and The Cat in the Hat.  Boy falls asleep in your lap and the location of his elbow explains why there is no feeling whatsoever anywhere in your groin anymore.   GirlHead tries the Little Girl Smile of Smiting and rolls a critical hit – daddy does not get a saving throw.

Lights go out. Time for a bowl of chili, loads of cayenne pepper, pepper jack cheese, and mustard.

Time for House…

Thus endeth a day in the life of the Lemur King.

Note:  I really was late for work.  No one cared.  No lunch, just chocolate mints.  I really did get pulled over.  No heroin, weed, or beer was anywhere near my truck or me at any time.  I did not hug the officer goodbye.  Yes the pup chews on my shoes while I am wearing on them.  It’s kind of affectionate. Yes, the boy put a days-old used dish sponge in his mouth.

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Update:  I like my kids and I have a hard time understanding the Nebraska Dump-Your-Kid-Off-No-Questions-Asked Law (Safe Haven Act).   Pretty damn pathetic if you ask me.  Then again, I don’t know the kids either.  Usually though, the acorn don’t fall far from the tree.

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Update:  Regarding the redistribution of your wealth…  Obama:  My Plan Will Spread the Wealth Around

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Oh I can feel the love…

McCain supporters march in Manhattan.

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Things to expect with an Obama victory.  Or even without it…  Michael Barone speaks regarding a liberal thugocracy.

“I need you to go out and talk to your friends and talk to your neighbors,” Barack Obama told a crowd in Elko, Nev. “I want you to talk to them whether they are independent or whether they are Republican. I want you to argue with them and get in their face.” Actually, Obama supporters are doing a lot more than getting into people’s faces. They seem determined to shut people up.

…later …

These attempts to shut down political speech have become routine for liberals. Congressional Democrats sought to reimpose the “fairness doctrine” on broadcasters, which until it was repealed in the 1980s required equal time for different points of view. The motive was plain: to shut down the one conservative-leaning communications medium, talk radio. Liberal talk-show hosts have mostly failed to draw audiences, and many liberals can’t abide having citizens hear contrary views.

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Speaking of liberal open-mindedness, take a look at what the EU is doing.  Limiting MP3 players to 100dB.

[EU spokeswoman Helen Kearns] said regulators would look next year at lowering the EU legal limit of 100 decibels for MP3 players.

Apple was forced to pull its iPod player from store shelves in France and upgrade software on the device to limit sound to 100 decibels.

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Note:  I managed to make a statement that was caught by Allen and I want to put it up front – the kind of individual who I had in mind when writing this was the individual who suddenly decides they are the conscientious objector type only when faced with being called up.  Allen is very right to point out that there are examples of genuine and honorable conscientious objectors and it should be recognized.

Obama is dizzying himself running around doing contortions while chasing his tail.

Women should register for Selective Service. But he does not approve of a draft.  He’s been taking lessons from the Great Prevaricator, WJC.

“And I think that if women are registered for service — not necessarily in combat roles, and I don’t agree with the draft — I think it will help to send a message to my two daughters that they’ve got obligations to this great country as well as boys do.”

How’s about we take a peek at “Selective Service”?  We’ll humor Wikipedia and pretend like it is factually trustworthy… in this case it is.

The Selective Service System is the means by which the United States administers military conscription. It entails registering all males between the ages of 18 and 25 with the system for the purpose of having information available about potential soldiers in the event of war.

The description on the Selective Service website (government):

The legislation under which this agency operates is the Military Selective Service Act. Under this law, the mission of the Selective Service System is twofold: to deliver untrained manpower to the armed forces in time of emergency in accordance with requirements established by the Department of Defense, and to administer the alternative service program for conscientious objectors.  It is in these instances that my “ought to have the balls” statement should not and cannot apply – Thanks Allen – LK

Huh.  So, Selective Service registration essentially has two purposes – one, to gather information for a draft. The second is for conscientious objectors who wish to live here and partake of the freedoms in this country but are too lily-livered to ever follow through with doing their duty if it required actual fighting or service.  (Yeah, I feel pretty strongly about this – if your neighbor is man enough to go if/when he is drafted – and possibly die in doing so – you ought to have the balls to do it, too.  THAT is why I honor and respect veterans – draftees or voluntary servicemen.)

Obama goes to say:

But he did say women should be expected to register with the Selective Service, comparing the role of women to black soldiers and airmen who served during World War II, when the armed forces were still segregated.

“There was a time when African-Americans weren’t allowed to serve in combat,” Mr. Obama said. “And yet, when they did, not only did they perform brilliantly, but what also happened is they helped to change America, and they helped to underscore that we’re equal.

In no way is there a correlation between blacks and women in combat.  NONE.

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