Safe Or Squashed?

Remember that earthquake in California 10 or 15 years ago? There was some kind of double-decker highway that collapsed, trapping people in cars crushed down to the size of paint cans. There's one spot on my drive to work where a stop light leaves me stuck under the highway. I can't decide which I would prefer, to be squashed by the supports, or be trapped in the little space between them.

Charmed

I know, you think this is going to be a post all about witches and sisterhood and the mythical power of three.

No, it's not.

It's about The Man! Yeah, Man.

I don't remember if I wrote about his latest trip into sales. Before I met him he used to be a salesman. He was good at it, too. He can bullshit people into buying anything. A couple of months ago he decided just being a storm spotter wasn't enough. He wanted a badge to make it look more official.

So he talked to his buddies down at the police station. They gave him the name and number of the person they order their badges from. He called this guy up and tragedy of tragedies, his computer wasn't working, he was too busy with other shit, and wasn't going to order The Man a badge. But that turns out to be good news. He asked The Man if he would be interested in getting into the badge business and ordering his own damn badge.

Why yes, yes he would. That started the whole Vertrees Express Badges extravaganza. I've worked my fingers to bloody stubs putting together that web site and I'm still not finished. So far we've spent I don't know how much money on office equipment, uniforms (Yes, God help me The Man has uniforms now that make him look amazingly like a police officer. The fine line between displaying his products and impersonating an officer got even more blurry when The Man pimped out his van with police lights and a regular extravaganza of antennas), and demonstration badges. I thought things were going to calm down now, but no.

The Man isn't in the best of shape physically, so he wants to be able to carry a gun. For protection. Because there's just that much crime here in greater Cudville. His nephew has a concealed carry handgun license, so he gave The Man the phone number of the guy who ran the course he took to get his license. Turns out this guy is as big a bullshitter as The Man. They talked and talked. When The Man told him about the badge business the teacher asked if he would be interested in selling automatic weapons to local cop shops. Turns out one of the few people in the area that has a license to sell automatic weapons is sick and retiring, so now the cops are going to be desperately searching for someone to sell them weapons. The teacher said he knew one police station in the area wants to buy 10 automatic machine guns. What they need them for in this area I don't know.

I was kind of skeptical at first. Until I found out we could make $10,000. And I don't mean they would pay $10,000. I mean our profit would be $10,000. Hello federal automatic weapons license.

Just to get ready for selling these guns and making tons of money we had the teacher come out and give the class so we can carry concealed weapons. The entire Cud household passed. Unfortunately, The Girl is too young for a Missouri permit. That's not the complete tragedy it sounds like because Missouri will honor permits from any state, and it just so happens that Maine will give you a license through the mail. Even if you don't live in Maine, have never even been to Maine, and never plan on ever going to Maine.

Now my wish list for Christmas is headed by a snub nosed Smith and Wesson 38 with a little inner-pocket holster.

And bullets. Lots and lots of bullets.

Cash For Perfectly Good Cars

This is turning into a real political rant-fest around here. Now you get to read all about my feelings on the Cash for Clunkers program.

I think it's horrible killing all those perfectly good cars. There was nothing wrong with most of them. The people who could afford to go out and buy a new car, even with the rebate, weren't driving piece of shit cars. And how much better did the gas mileage have to be? 3 or4 gallons or something? How are the dealers supposed to know what gas mileage your car gets? You could have a car you hate that gets 40 miles a gallon. Are you going to tell the salesman that?

You betcha.

What they should have done, if they had bothered to ask my opinion, was take all these 'Clunkers' and give them away to poor people. If you made less than $40,000 or $30,000 you would get a coupon you could take in to the used car lot and get a free car.

Everybody's happy.

The Sky Is Falling

Every time I see those people screaming and carrying on at town hall meetings it reminds me of the children's story about the little chicken running around yelling that the sky is falling, the sky is falling. They're so worked up I don't know whether to feel sorry for them or be amused by them.

I understand that they are doing this because they truly believe what they're saying. At least I like to give them the benefit of the doubt. I'm sure there are some who would be just as loud and obnoxious if the debate was over crunchy peanut butter or creamy, or should Obama wear boxers or briefs. And Oh, My, God, what kind of idiot would show up at one of these things armed? "Because I can" is not a good reason.

The problem is, from my point of view at least, feel free to disagree, they're worried about the sky falling. Ask anyone who's been in the military, or anyone who's old enough to really remember Kennedy and Martin Luther King, the government is already up to it's appendix in health care. Some of it's working out okay, some could use a little tweaking, but it's not like there isn't already a precedent.

And all this talk about "socializing" health care bugs the heck out of me. First off, what's wrong with wanting to work together, the strong looking out for the weak, the wealthy sharing some of that wealth instead of hoarding it all for themselves and their children? But aside from that, the idea of the government paying for a service isn't so unusual. If it was, we wouldn't have public education, transportation, or parks. You don't hear too many people complaining about the government paying for that stuff, but mention the government helping someone afford basic health care and people act like you suggested serving poached babies at the women's club luncheon.

And then all this talk about death panels. Good Lord. I just want to ask these people what would they do, no matter how old they are, if they went to the doctor and found out they had a fatal illness. Let's say you have an aggressive cancer, and the doctor says you have 6 months to live. You might be able to stretch it to a couple of years or who knows, actually beat the odds, if you're willing to spend the next 6 months having more tests and operations than you ever thought possible, undergoing painful chemotherapy and radiation, loosing your hair and control of your bowls. On the other hand, you could accept the diagnosis and spend the next 6 months doing all those things you put off. Learning to knit, buying that Harley you always wanted, taking your kids for one last big family vacation.

Which would you chose? How would you chose? Wouldn't it be nice to be able to talk about it with your doctor? I don't think some people even know they have a choice. The doctor tells you what treatments are available, and you chose one. The doctor's not going to volunteer a 'no treatment' option. Sure, he might mention how long you would live if he did nothing, but the last thing a doctor wants to do is nothing. Doctors are just so focused on healing, getting better no matter what it takes, they don't consider any other possible course of action. Mentioning the 'no treatment' option would be just so you could see how much longer the different options would give you, not to give you the option of actually refusing treatment.

My father-in-law died of lung cancer. He had chemo and radiation, but I think toward the end he regretted going through with it. It left him weak and sick, unable to enjoy the time he had left. Maybe if he'd been able to go to one of those 'death panels' he might have made a different choice. Our last memories of him might be of a strong, happy man, not a bald, shrunken ghost of the man he used to be.

I Know Who's To Blame

Everybody agrees the economy's in the shitter. Everybody has their own idea who's fault it is. The bankers, the lawyers, the insurance companies. They're all wrong.

It was the damn hippies.

Yes, the hippies. From the 70's. You know who you are. Or were. You let us all down. You spoke big, but it was all words. What happened to caring for the earth? Living in harmony with your fellow man? We could all be happy, sitting in our yurts, eating our free-range goat cheese and organic spinach quiche, but no. You had to cave in to The Man. Now you are The Man. Don't you remember how cool it felt when you thought you could change the world? Maybe now's your chance.

You can keep your yurts and goat cheese anything though. Ugh.

I Heart T-Mobil

We're starting something new at work this week. We used to handle calls from all kinds of phone companies. T-Mobil and Verizon were the main ones. T-Mobil was cool and laid back. Verizon was picky as shit. T-Mobil was just happy that we give out right numbers and speak English. Verizon wanted us to say all kinds of stuff that nobody cares about. When was the last time you had a great day because somebody told you to? Do you care what street the police station is on? Or where the dispatch office for a taxi company is? Like you're ever going to drive there. They deliver, so to speak.

Now we've switched over to just T-Mobil, and basically the only things they want us to say is 'Hello' and 'Thank you' and then hang up. I thought it would be so great not to have to flap my jaws quite as much, but you'd be surprised how hard it is not to say all that stuff once you get used to it. Of course, it's only been one day. I focused on cutting out just one thing, not saying the streets, and didn't worry too much about the rest of the changes.

Whole Lotta Tard

Usually I'm pretty politically correct. On the other hand when I see someone or something (I'm looking at you, Snoopy) doing something stupid I say he's got a whole lotta tard in him. The other day I had some tard in me. I set my alarm for 9am. At least I thought I set it for 9. And no, I didn't set it for 9 pm. Turns out I set it for 8. I didn't notice what time it was, so when it was quarter to 9 I left for work. After all, I knew I was supposed to leave at quarter till. I saw the big hand on the nine and didn't pay any attention to the little hand. I was working for about 15 minutes when one of the manager types came over and told me to stop working. What a tard.

That's about as good as the other day when I stopped at a gas station on my way to work. They must have had a lot of drive-offs because all the pumps were pay in advance. So I went in, got a soda, paid for my gas, and walked out, congratulating myself on a job well done. I was about five or six blocks away when i realized I hadn't actually pumped the gas. I probably would never have realized what happened if I hadn't been running on fumes because what tipped me off was the fill engine light coming on. That's odd, I thought. I just filled up. Then the lightbulb went off.

That frazled me so much that when I got to work and noticed they were having a blood drive at work I decided to go ahead and run down and give blood on my break since it was just down the stairs from where I work. Turns out 'run down' and 'give blood' don't really fit in the same sentence. You have to read this little booklet, sign something saying you read the booklet, sit in a little room and click on a computer screen proving you read the little book, then answer questions from a nurse about the questions in the little book.

Everything was going fine up till that point. I could tell I was never going to make it in 15 minutes, but I decided I was already there, I would just keep going. Then the nurse lady said she had to stab my finger to test my blood to make sure I had enough iron or something. She stabbed me with the little poker, then squeezed my fingertip to make sure a nice big healthy drop came out. Blood shot out of my finger like a gyser. I swear, it shot a stream of blood three feet in the air. That lady was lucky she didn't get a face full of it. Now, I admit, it wasn't like I had been decapitated or anything, it was just this little stream, but it was a stream, not just a few drops hurtling through space.

The look on that nurse's face was priceless.