Occupy This!

The "Occupy Wall Street" protesters have listed 13 proposed demands from their website.

http://occupywallst.org/forum/proposed-list-of-demands-for-occupy-wall-st-moveme/

I have read the above list of Demands from this group and was so shocked by its lack of reason and understanding I was forced to jot down a few notes on each. My thoughts are in italics beneath each demand in turn. Enjoy.

Demand one: Restoration of the living wage. This demand can only be met by ending "Freetrade" by re-imposing trade tariffs on all imported goods entering the American market to level the playing field for domestic family farming and domestic manufacturing as most nations that are dumping cheap products onto the American market have radical wage and environmental regulation advantages. Another policy that must be instituted is raise the minimum wage to twenty dollars an hr.

This will increase dramatically the cost of goods here. Everything from clothing to video games will cost more to purchase, and though the purpose is to increase domestic manufacture the demand is shortsighted. For as the demand for a $20 minimum wage per worker will cost American business’ more to produce any new products and bring them to market. Any benefit derived from a tariff will be totally consumed by this secondary demand and will only destroy the ability of domestic manufacture to compete. Even if the tariffs imposed were so prohibitive as to allow a “level playing field” i.e. an isolationist policy, for American business we would be faced with such an increase in cost of goods that most of the items made would remain on the shelf as nobody would be able to purchase them. This in no way will “produce jobs” but rather reduce them as employers and owners will be forced to eliminate positions and consolidate tasks if not shut down outright, due to the costs imposed upon them by the wage requirement and the lack of sales due to the increased price of manufacture materials and labor.

Demand two: Institute a universal single payer healthcare system. To do this all private insurers must be banned from the healthcare market as their only effect on the health of patients is to take money away from doctors, nurses and hospitals preventing them from doing their jobs and hand that money to wall st. investors.

I personally cannot begin to fathom the thought process that came up with the above reasoning. It is evident that whoever wrote it has never looked at health insurance or the basic concept. Health insurance is paid for by individuals and companies in small increments called “premiums” which in turn are put into a pool to pay the costs of Doctors and Hospitals who care for the insured when they fall ill. The payment of benefits almost always exceeds the individual’s premium contribution as the cost of health care is so high. The consumer can chose how much coverage he/she wishes to purchase which dictates what the insurance company “covers” and what it does not. This presupposes that the individual works for a living and that they pay into the system instead of simply sitting on their ass waiting for a hand out. The effect on the economy of creating a state run monopoly of the Insurance industry will do nothing to create jobs in the private sector; as a matter of fact it will eliminate thousands of employees nationwide due to banning the insurance industry outright. The only outcome of this monumentally stupid demand will be that the State will control all aspects of health sort of like in the Soviet Union and that friendliest of regimes Nazi Germany.

Demand three: Guaranteed living wage income regardless of employment.

 How am I as an employer to keep my company profitable and my workers, for which these protestors say they advocate, motivated if I have to pay a floor sweeper more than the job is worth? Let me explain: Floor sweeper who I used to pay $8:00 an hour now has to get at least $20.00 if not more. Where is that extra money going to come from? My first thought is “sorry Manny but you are off to the unemployment line” my second is I will have to reduce the salary of someone else who brings higher value to my company with their labor to “save” the job of Manny the uneducated push broom guy. Let’s say I like Manny and opt for option two, what do you think my reducing the salary of my top sales person will do to his overall productivity? Would any of the people milling about in protest be willing to give up 10-20,000 dollars a year so Manny can happily keep sweeping? They might say they would but when the paycheck came up short they would be furious. Not to worry though as I don’t see too many of the “Occupiers” who have had to work too hard if ever for their bread.

Demand four: Free college education.

Question: Who pays? I’m already taxed to the hilt where is the money going to come from China?

Demand five: Begin a fast track process to bring the fossil fuel economy to an end while at the same bringing the alternative energy economy up to energy demand.

 I actually have advocated for this before but as the author undermines the concept by removing nuclear power from the mix in demand number seven I see this being an unobtainable goal. As usual “feel good” rhetoric rather than practical application takes the fore,

Demand six: One trillion dollars in infrastructure (Water, Sewer, Rail, Roads and Bridges and Electrical Grid) spending now.

Good idea but anyone read the news of late? You know the small bit about the US being in debt and that our unfunded liabilities are scheduled to sink us in a few years? Where is the money coming from?

Demand seven: One trillion dollars in ecological restoration planting forests, reestablishing wetlands and the natural flow of river systems and decommissioning of all of America's nuclear power plants.

Mo Money, Mo Money, Mo Money! seriously hippies I know that reality and the boring old concepts of basic economics are beneath your notice, but you have to know there is no magic cash box for such a project. As to Nuclear power see above demand number five.

Demand eight: Racial and gender equal rights amendment.

Please read the current US Constitution and its various amendments. If you can do so you will probably find that these demands are already part of our system.

Demand nine: Open borders migration. anyone can travel anywhere to work and live.

Right, so not only have you proposed that wage increases across the board for business’ but then you turn around and say that Illegals can come here and work for the same wage? Ahem…. Let me tell you how that will work out. The migrant will take the $20.00 job and offer to do it for $10.00 and as an employer who is in business to make a profit the savings in labor being halved would be an opportunity which could not be passed up. Essentially the demand will replace existing employees with the influx of this new “legal” labor who will be happy to take the salary offered and in so doing will undermine the concept of “the living wage” so passionately put forth in Demand number three. I have to ask two things; 1. What fucking business school did you go to? And 2. How is replacing the American worker with a foreigner helping to create jobs and a living wage for our citizens?

Demand ten: Bring American elections up to international standards of a paper ballot precinct counted and recounted in front of an independent and party observers system.

 Seriously? I cannot even respond to this we are not Syria!

Demand eleven: Immediate across the board debt forgiveness for all. Debt forgiveness of sovereign debt, commercial loans, home mortgages, home equity loans, credit card debt, student loans and personal loans now! All debt must be stricken from the "Books." World Bank Loans to all Nations, Bank to Bank Debt and all Bonds and Margin Call Debt in the stock market including all Derivatives or Credit Default Swaps, all 65 trillion dollars of them must also be stricken from the "Books." And I don't mean debt that is in default, I mean all debt on the entire planet period.

Outside of the pure fantasy of this statement and its globally devastating effects, there is only one thing I can say. “No matter what you or the government says about forgiveness, if you owe me money you will not be forgiven the debt. On the contrary, I will beat you, your friends and family down until I get paid with interest. I know a couple of nice lads who need work Sean and Tommy, and I am sure they could find a way to get you to pay up. Just give it a try I have a couple hundred I can loan you right now ;)”

Demand twelve: Outlaw all credit reporting agencies.

Say goodbye to that shiny new vagina on wheels (Prius) you have been eyeing because without any credit or reporting you will have to pay cash up front for it. By the way as you increased the tariffs by eliminating Free Trade the price just went up to around $90,000. You best buy more Birkenstock sandals because you’re going to be kicking it on down the road afoot.

Demand thirteen: Allow all workers to sign a ballot at any time during a union organizing campaign or at any time that represents their yeah or nay to having a union represent them in collective bargaining or to form a union.

 I assume this includes at bars while impaired by the twelve drinks the Union rep bought you, or at the Hospital after Vito and Tony have had a nice chat with you about how “healthy” it is to be in the Union. Good plan there.

Conclusion: Contrary to the Movement’s claims I have pointed out in my notes not one of these Demands will create Jobs, but only increase unemployment, hardship, and destitution worldwide. The folly of the occupation and its followers lays in their failure to understand the most basic concepts of economics. I.e. ignorance.

The intellectually inept moron who devised the 13 Demands for the Occupation should be dragged out into the street and kicked until he cannot reproduce, thereby saving the gene pool from further contamination of his stupidity. Outside of that my personal demand is this; all of the Hippies milling about aimlessly in protest should be dispersed with tear gas and horse troops. That way they can have a bit of drama to go along with their ignorance. “Occupy This!” deadbeats. You know where my hand is.

Parlor games.

To defame and deride those who strive and achieve a measure of success is but an act of small minds consumed by envy. It serves no purpose but to create false divisions within society, and which the crafty politician, uses to further his/her employ. Rather than focus upon the problem at hand that being the need for fiscal responsibility, they play parlor games of rhetoric, leaving the common man at the mercy of the cruel reality of economic facts. You know of which I speak, “one cannot spend beyond one’s means for long before a pauper he becomes.”


I beg any of you to try and refute this.

So the train wreck of the Budget discussions has been filled with dramatic poses, virulent words and the dance of one upmanship.

“We must tax the Rich or granny will go hungry”, or so some contend, pointing crooked fingers at their foes laying out a blameless red carpet for themselves and their compatriots. Speaking to cameras, disconnected from the woes of their working class constituents, they scream about how it’s the fault of the wealthy that you cannot buy bread. Invoking the spirit of Vladimir Ilyich fist raised, they proudly proclaim their allegiance to your plight.

Amidst all this false posturing, and noise, one truth remains: Our children and grandchildren will pay the price for our current indolence and cowardice. We shall leave them with a legacy of broken dreams born of our failure to be honest.

Sláinte
Allen R Butler

The Saga of the Seven Peas.

The tale I am about to tell, happened in a time long forgotten, an age in which life and its lessons were simple rather than complex.

It was a warm summer’s evening in 1973 when I, as a wee lad, was playing stickball on Longfellow drive with my friends, it was getting on in the day and we all knew that soon we would be “called” home to dinner. The pace was picking up in anticipation of our game being cut short. There was no such thing as cell phones back then and the act of calling was simply that. Mothers throughout the neighborhood would step out on the porch and yell their children’s names when it was time to come home. Every house in our blue collar neighborhood had at least three children if not more so there was a lot of shouting going on between 5:00 and 6:30pm. Poor Mrs. Dugan had seven kids and she just about made herself hoarse each night with the litany of names she shouted. If you as a kid were out of earshot inevitably a sibling, friend, or neighbor would let you know that “your Ma is calling.” And off you’d run so as not to be late for dinner. Being late was a bad thing and when you were it was accompanied by a harsh lecture of how you had disrespected your Ma and that you were a selfish little brat in that you made everyone wait to start the meal.

Better to avoid that all together and be on time, it just wasn’t worth the hassle.

I had just hit a slashing single to left and hustled to first base,(the telephone pole in front of the Martin’s house) when the first call came. My friend Curtis had let the ball get by and this allowed me to advance a runner home. Cat calls were made and laughter at Curt’s error. The whole street echoed with “You Suck.” And “Where’s your skirt?”

“It was a bad Hop!”

“With all the Hopscotch you play with the other girls that should have been easy.”

“Carrie, Jimmy, Allen!” my Ma’s voiced boomed across the neighborhood and I heard my brother and sister in the distance reply “coming”. From the sound of their voices I could tell they were a few streets over. I asked my best friend Glen to take my spot on base and said I’d be back after dinner. Curt, angry and embarrassed over the teasing said:” what? You have to go now? Why doesn’t your family eat at normal times like everyone else?” In kid language this meant my family wasn’t normal thus we were “less than”. Those were fighting words for sure and I couldn’t let him get away with it, if I did then all the other kids would have thought I was weak and start picking on me too.

My temper rose and was tempted to go on the attack right there and then, but I knew that wouldn’t work out to my benefit. Like I said, being late for dinner was a bad thing and I had all summer to “Get him Back” as we were wont to say. I did have to save some face though so I looked over at my mouthy friend and said:

“I have to go Curt, but don’t worry I’ll be back and be sure to come find you and your dress soon.”

So with the sound of “oohs” and laughter from the other kids at the burn ringing in my ears I started to race home. Cutting through yards and jumping fences I made it to our small house in no time at all. Whisking through the back door into the kitchen I saw our small table was already being set by my brother Jim and my Sister was helping get plates ready.

“what are we havin?” I asked. I was pretty famished having missed lunch earlier, and sat down in my regular seat.

“Meatloaf” Ma said “And you need to go wash your hands before dinner”

“Ahhh c’mon, I wasn’t doing anything dirty”

“Go wash up you look like you’ve been rolling in the gutter all day and change your shirt while you’re at it.”

Of course she was right, my jeans were covered in dust and my white tee shirt had a smear of unidentifiable grime across the chest that I had picked up somewhere playing outside. For a kid of eight demands like washing up seemed to be “stupid grown up rules” which were created only to make life miserable, and served no other logical purpose.

Grousing under my breath I headed for the bathroom.

After changing and washing just my hands, though my face needed a good scrubbing as well, I made my way back to the kitchen where I was quickly recruited to set out glasses and help get drinks. Somehow amidst this swirling activity my mother found a face cloth and managed to wipe my face clean, even as I tried to dodge and get away.  There was a definite method to the madness of getting dinner on in the cramped quarters of our tiny kitchen and everyone played their part no matter how small. Everyone that is except my father, who only came in once everything was all set up and ready to go.

With my stomach growling we finally all sat down.

Now my father always sat at the head of the table and my Ma at the other end. The kids had no assigned seats but we pretty much made up our own arrangements. Carrie sat mid table across from Jim and I who were situated to my father’s right or Ma’s left however you prefer to look at it. She got the extra room because she was “the oldest”, because she was a girl, and because we couldn’t fight her for the seat.  “You didn’t hit girls period”.

The meatloaf was already on the table along with the large bowl of obligatory potatoes which was a part of almost every meal I ate from age two to thirteen. And then, while I mentally tasted the steaming plate of greasy meat like substance before me, Ma with a quick flourish of her hand thumped a large bowl of peas on the table and sat down.

I was crushed, and a sense of doom flooded over me as I anticipated having to endure the cruel torture of consuming this most hated of vegetables. You see Peas no matter how they were prepared or hidden in some concoction simply made me wretch. The very smell of them made me shiver and combined with their taste and texture I knew I was in for a tough battle. There was no getting around eating them either, for the rule in my house was you ate what was on the table.

My head began to swim as I watched a large dab of butter melt into the green mass before me.

Ma started filling plates and passing them around the table while talking about her day with my Da. I cannot recall what they were discussing because my eyes were completely focused upon the enemy in that bowl, the one who had time and time again defeated me, leaving my sorry self, planted at the table till the wee hours of the morn while I stubbornly refused to submit. Oh yes! I viewed the consumption of peas in no less a light than the struggle of liberty against tyranny, freedom versus slavery, or good against evil. (I was a bit dramatic back then).

So it came to my plate, with a quick look and a small wink in my direction Ma scooped up half a spoon of the green bastards and sent it on down to me. God bless her! She had given me the least of anyone knowing my aversion and was trying to be sweet. I gave her a smile at the gesture and began quickly eating the meatloaf in huge chunks.

I gobbled everything in my hunger and even managed to stomach the majority of the peas through a variety of tactics. You could swallow them whole one by one, shovel a bunch in, close your eyes, chomp down and experience the gooey paste and try and get them down before you puked. Or you could try to hide them in the potatoes but no matter what tactic or strategy one used every bite, was followed by a dry heave and large gulps of tap water so as to wash the taste out of your mouth.

It was a monumental struggle, one which would make Homer’s Iliad pale in comparison and after what seemed a lifetime I had the enemy down to but seven. They lay there on the corner of my plate, staring up at me defiantly tiny green eyeballs filled with poison and puss. With that nasty thought, my inner strength failed and I knew I couldn’t go on. The seven peas had won.

“Clean your plate boy” my father’s voice commanded.

“I’m full and can’t eat another bite, can I be excused Ma?”

“No eat those peas then you can go.”

“But Ma I ate everything else, the guys are waitin’ on me.”

I heard my Da sigh heavily in annoyance as he said; “What did I just tell you? Clean your plate! We don’t waste food in this house ever! I don’t work hard every day so you can throw my money away in the garbage. A Vietnamese kid can eat for a week on those seven peas boy so you should be thankful for what you got”

This was a bit of a lie on his part because as far as I could tell my father hadn’t been working all that much the past few months, and as to working hard I had yet to see an example of it to date. And his line about someone living off those nasty green balls for a week, well even as a child, I knew that was a stretch. Perhaps it was this lie which emboldened me to dig my heels in and take this contest of wills a step further. Or maybe it was my fear of what those seven little green Martian parts were going to do to my insides if I ate them and so I pressed on to the utter surprise and shock of my siblings.

Figuring that the poor Viet Minh bastard needed them more than me, I pushed the plate towards my Da and said:

“Pack em up.”

There was a blinding flash of white light as I felt the back of my Father’s hand strike my left eye, sending me ass over teakettle onto the floor. My brother and sister both gasped and then began giggling at my foolishness. I lay there for a moment looking up at the ceiling, legs dangling over the upturned chair listening to their muffled mirth. My eye began to sting and water, and I knew that I was going to have a mark on my face. “Well that was stupid Al what did you expect would happen?” I thought. It seemed a lifetime laying there letting the thoughts race through my wee head, though in reality my time on the floor was but a second or two.

I did not cry, or wail, for I knew deep down I had crossed the line and it wouldn’t do any good. Best thing for it was to get up and say nothing, no point in pushing the old man further with any more wise ass remarks. So that is what I did, I stood up pulled the chair back into place, sat down and ate those seven damned peas like I was starving Ethiopian on a CARE package. When I was finished I looked my father directly in his blue eyes with my good one and waited for his assent to leave the table. No emotion, no fear, I was ready for whatever may come at any moment. It was up to him to determine the punishment for my impertinence, so I waited.

Finally he nodded to me and I returned the gesture and rose quickly, it could have been worse, much worse and I thanked God silently for blessing me with his mercy as I left the house to find my friends to resume our earlier game.  And as I walked along the pain in my eye beginning to subside I replayed the event in my mind and smiled. “I had guts” or so I thought at the time and that was something. Then with an evil smirk on my face I decided not to go back and play stickball after all, but rather go find Curtis and show him exactly how “gutsy” I was.

Cheers
Allen R Butler

A toast to the destitute.

A quiet rage fills me lungs, one I am unable to voice to effect. Viewing the wreckage of an indolent life, with all of its supposed pleasures I shiver and the hairs raise upon me neck. No lasting glory built upon drunken dreams for to eulogize, simply a ramshackle shanty, crumbling in on itself neath a cloud filled sky. What folly or twist of mind could bring a man to love such a place? Was it that whiskey took his sight, or perhaps the dreams so embraced to thwart off the pain of destitution, have yet to dissipate?

A glory to poverty and all its whiles, I drink for they who endure,

Be they victims or fools, to health I tip me glass.

For though your shoes fit me not and your minds be dark,

You make me feel, which I’ve not done in many a day.

So as the trees rustle in the wind, and the grass sways

As the world turns and life marches on everywhere

A pint to ye who remain steady amongst the refuse listless.

A toast and a cheer for ye who have heard none before,

Standing alone amongst the wreckage of your fear,

The torn fabric of your soul screaming out its mournful din

It’s for you I drink and sing, drowning out your folly.

Sláinte

Al

A Lesson learned.

The following story is true. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent for the primary participants were anything but.

Standing on the corner of 231^st street and Godwin Terrace in the Bronx, my best friend Jim and I where passing the time with a few beers, watching the pretty girls go by. It was a fine summer afternoon in 1985, and we were not disappointed by the scenery. Everywhere you looked there were fine women walking along in summer shorts or dresses, enjoying a bit of sun as they went about their errands. Bantering back and forth and smiling we made rude comments to each other, trying to up one another with every opportunity, as young men are apt to do.

All started with the compulsory “ooh” which was really a sigh of pain upon each sighting. Actual physical pain in that we both knew that the goddess espied would never be ours. The “ooh” was also a form of sonar. A sounding of direction so that one could take a bearing off the bow and the other look outs could get a visual.

“Oooh, yeah… look at that Al!” Jim said quietly as a girl of about twenty sauntered into the Baskin Robbins across the street, wearing but the skimpiest of tank tops and shorts that hugged every curve. Long black hair pulled back in a ponytail swaying in rhythm with each sultry step.

Overall not a bad way to spend a bit of time when you think about it and it didn’t cost us anything but the few bottles of beer we had in a bag at our feet. We could’ve gone to the pubs but who wanted to be inside on a day like this? The corner was all ours, no one in their right mind would have thought to try and take it, and as we stood beside that dingy mailbox we knew we had the best seats in the house.

Simply stated; life was good!

Suddenly our peaceful pursuit was assaulted by an overpowering stench that rolled up like a wave from Broadway to our right and a block away. Every person in the neighborhood instinctively covered their nose and mouth and looked about for the cause of this distress. Faces bunched up in disgust and many a “God damn” was uttered. Then as quickly as it began the hideous stink was gone.

“Jaysus, Jim what the Christ was that?”

“Probably a garbage truck rolling down Broadway”

“What are they haulin’ bodies? Besides it’s Saturday since when do those guys work weekends.”

“I don’t know, but they’ll be outta here soon, and the girls will come back around, Oooh look at that one, damn.”

Sure enough my friend had spied another fine specimen of the fairer sex swaying up 231^st St. headed for one of the two delis on the block. Jim’s wolfish leer and funny smile said it all and I laughed hard enough to get a few looks from passersby.  All quickly returned to normal and our pastime began again in full. We would try and fake one another out occasionally with a sonar ping on a “Torn Sneaker” (an ugly girl) or a “Moped” (fun to ride when nobody sees you), which only made the time more enjoyable as we laughed louder with each incident.

A few minutes later as I reached down and opened another bottle, the wall of stench came crashing up the Terrace like a tidal wave from behind, and I almost retched. The odor hung so solidly in the air about us that I began to think a sewer line must have burst. We quickly jumped around the corner so as not to be in direct line of sight of the disgusting phenomena. Not that it did much good but we had to do something other than just stand there. The sound of windows slamming shut accompanied by curses in Italian, English, and Gaelic, echoed up and down the entire block.  A NYPD patrol car from the 50 precinct drove by and the cops inside were frantically rolling up their windows and swearing loudly.

“This is fucked up”, I growled as the street began to empty at a rather quick pace.

“It’s that damned truck it must be circling the block”

“If comes down this way I’m gonna kill the fuckin’ driver there’s no need of this shit. They’re running all the sights off!”

And then again like a bad dream, the smell was wafting away, dissipating in the heat. Looking down at my opened beer I wondered if its contents were now somehow contaminated and I blew into the top as a childish attempt to push any of the evil air out of the bottle. Jim was feverishly sniffing his shirt trying to determine if the awful smell had penetrated the fabric. Sure enough I felt like I needed to wash as well. The whole situation was deteriorating fast, and my temper rose, for what but moments before was a pleasant way to spend the time, quickly became a physically painful endeavor filled with little promise.

People began stepping out of doorways as the air cleared and the bustle of the neighborhood began anew, everyone seemed to be chattering and complaining about the stink. Only now the girls walked a bit more briskly, and their body language bespoke of determined effort rather than playfulness. I scowled openly in my anger at the annoying situation, and began to think of moving on over towards the park or St. John’s church on Kingsbridge Avenue. Not as prime spots as our corner, but good all the same, Yet as I thought about it, if that stench was coming from a circling city trash truck, the son of a bitch would pass those areas too and we’d be back where we started. The best we could hope for was for the damned truck or whatever it was to keep heading down west 230^th St. and away from the neighborhood.

Looking over at Jim rubbing his nose in irritation I could see he was thinking the same.

So with a nod we decided to stick it out and try to recover a bit of our previous devilish composure and began scanning the streets, cracking jokes, and poking fun. In no time we were back at it and were blessed with the sight of not a few beautiful women. Now one would think that two hoodlums drinking on a street corner would repel the pretty girls, as it is not a glamorous scene by anyone’s standards, but in 85 we got more sweet smiles than scowls. I remember thinking how good it was to be alive. What more could one ask for what with sun, beer, pretty girls and a bit of money in your pocket?

I was just mentally thanking god for making the awful stench source go away when from up on Kingsbridge avenue came the most horrendous block of stink yet, and it nearly knocked me over.

Rage bubbled up to the boiling point as my eyes began to water and I frantically looked for the truck, the driver was surely gonna pay for ruining my afternoon with his fucking garbage. All I needed was a truck number and I’d find the bastard. Yet I didn’t see anything but an empty street, cars parked along the sides but not even traffic. The smell was getting stronger, the sickly sweet smell of summer in the city, mixed odors of exposed sewage, and human sweat, compounded a hundredfold.

“Jim where’s the Truck I don’t see it? Did you see it drive by?”

“Uhhh Dude it’s not a garbage truck but a guy”

“What? Get the fuck outta here no one smells that bad. Did you see the truck or not?”

“No truck dude its him” and my friend pointed up the block to a man who can only described as a Gregory Rasputin clone. Dressed in clothes so dirty they shimmered in the sunlight, hair down to his waste greasy and unkempt, he stood before a pizza parlor street window begging for a slice. I felt bile surging up the back of my throat as the realization hit home that a single human being, was so filthy that he could clear out an entire city block with his stench.

The day was a bust, there would be no more sightseeing as all with any sense of smell had beat a hasty exit from the scene. The poor restaurant owner was screaming at the shamble of humanity at his window to go away. I still remember to this day thinking “that shop must be really horrible to be in what with the Pizza ovens throwing out their heat, stifling the smell within its small confines.”

“We should take that thing out” I said quietly as  Jim and I popped back around the corner to Godwin Terrace and started to gather up what was left of our beer. We were shocked, disgusted and angry beyond reason.

“Yeah, we should” Jim growled his ire was up as much as mine, “but these are new shoes, and I don’t want to get any of THAT on em. Let’s get outta here I can’t fucking breathe”.

Just then I noticed a small red haired woman of about fifty marching towards Jim and me from down on Broadway. Her face was beet red and I could see quickly she meant business. Up she came all five feet of nothing blue eyes blazing enough fury that we stopped dead in our tracks in awe. This little dervish came to a halt directly in front of us and gave a scornful look towards the bag Jim held. Then her piercing eyes rose to meet ours in turn. Raising her boney right hand she pointed at my chest forcefully enough that we both backed up against the apartment building chagrined.

“That’s what Drinkin and Drugs will do to ye Bhoys!” She said in a very southern Irish lilt.

Some strange power forced our eyes downward to our shoes and out of our throats came a sheepish “yes ma’am”. She stood there a second more looking into our faces each by turn then nodded in satisfaction and marched away stomping each step like a drumbeat. Jim’s eyebrows rose a bit upon the lady’s departure and I was dumbfounded. What could we do? This little fire eyed woman was correct in every way, there was no arguing with her assessment of the greasy homeless bastard up the block. The stink was getting worse and a quick peek around the corner confirmed my suspicions that the disease bomb was on the move and shuffling our way.

My friend smiled at me as we began to beat a hasty retreat from the corner, and said “Well we may be drinkin’ but we aint doing drugs so we’re safe.”

“I bet her husband is the happiest man alive”

A quick laugh and a joke or two later and we were off the block and headed to the pub for a round, at least it wouldn’t smell in there. But that wee woman’s warning rang in my head the night through and the vision of another human being so wretched haunted me as well. Although I did not heed those words when it came to the liquor, for to this day I like a fine glass, any thought of doing drugs was swept away and I believe that woman’s lilting wisdom, random and angry, made my life better. I know not her name or family, nor did we ever see her again, but from time to time, when I am standing in the sun sipping some fine Whiskey, I remember that day and thank her quietly for a lesson learned.

Allen R. Butler

Little Fat B@#$%&*"S

Now not to come off as an old stodgy type who longs for the days of yore, but as I look about me today I have to say, the kids of this new generation are way too fat. I refuse to say large, weight challenged, big boned, or any other sugarcoated phrases that are used these days in our non-offensive and politically correct society to describe fat children. They are fat, and no matter how much of a nice sheen you try to put on their round faces, the fact remains our kids are simply that.

This ever widening girth has become such an “issue” that even our Congress has had hearings and passed laws in an effort to pare it down. The First Lady Michelle Obama is on her own personal crusade (funded by the taxpayer of course) to educate the people on the benefits of a healthy lifestyle.  Thousands of books with millions of words have been written about “Childhood Obesity”, programs have been created to “solve” the problem along with new businesses and industries, such as counseling and fat camps. Billions of dollars, along with countless man hours by like minded folks trying to better the health and welfare of the future generation, all for nothing!

You see the problem with fat kids isn’t going to be answered by talking to them about their feelings or, shutting down fast food restaurants. Those actions may make some of the adults out there feel better but the hard reality is that talk is as cheap as a happy meal and given a child’s lack of reasoning skill pretty pointless. If you, as an adult, are really trying to explain to a seven year old that the crappy hummus sandwich you’re choking down is “better than” a piece of delicious chocolate cake then you are going be on the losing end of that fight quick. Cake tastes good and hippie paste does not that is the extent of a child’s reasoning ability and they are going to look at you and think “what an idiot” for even trying to suggest otherwise. (Well at least my childish mind would)

Taking a fat kid to therapy is equally useless. Are feelings important? To a point yes, but the only weight loss benefit that can come out of a session with Doctor Hocus Pocus will be when he gets Timmy Tub O’Lard to start crying about how he just can’t stop eating Snacky Cakes and Cheesy Poofs. And as Timmy blames the world for his condition, at the urging of the good doctor, the water loss through his tears help him shed a few ounces, but that is about it. They will sit there for an hour and blubber away and at the end promises will be made, to eat better and to exercise.

“I’ll eat more salads, Dr. Pocus I promise”

“That’s a good lad there Timmy, see you next week, and don’t forget to tell your Ma to bring her checkbook OK?”

The children of today aren’t fat because of feelings, or because MacDonald’s makes Big Mac hamburgers, our children are portly because they and their parents are lazy.

I grew up in the 1970’s when every damned meal was saturated in fat, cholesterol, calories, and salt. Red meat was a hearty staple along with pounds and pounds of starchy potatoes, yet the children of my generation weren’t anywhere near obese. For the most part we were thin as rails no matter how much candy we gobbled down or how many cokes we drank at the drug store. We would be treated to fast food on weekends and man did we put it away, I actually impressed a few adults with my capacity to eat large quantities of food in a single sitting.

The reason we didn’t blimp out and need some whack job to propose an intervention was because our parents, instead of writing checks to therapists or emails to Congress, actually took responsibility for themselves and their children. They incorporated the power inherent in their position and said NO when the kids would push the boundaries, as kids are wont to do.

They had rules and enforced them such as at dinner you had to “Clean your plate”. Essentially everything on the plate before you, including vegetables had to be eaten before you could get up from the table. I tried to negotiate this rule but once and came away with a great story “the Saga of the Seven Peas” for my efforts and pain. The end result was that I ended up doing as my parents asked anyway. Wasting food was a sin and there was no way my father was going to pay good money for any scrap to be thrown away.

There also was no such thing as substitutions, like sandwiches. If you didn’t like what was for dinner and absolutely wouldn’t eat it, well then, you went to bed hungry. My dear brother actually advocated for a substitution one summer evening and Ma’s response was: “this isn’t a restaurant and I’m not your waitress, you’ll eat what I give you and like it or go without!” That was the last time any of us three kids thought about magic sandwiches flying out of the icebox to rescue us from succotash.

Along with taking charge and making us eat what was provided, our parents promoted an active lifestyle. Not by driving us to the mall to shop or putting a damnable DVD in the player so we could vegetate and fatten up like cows. No they simply threw us out of the house at every opportunity available. By saying “go out and play it’s nice outside.” They pushed us out into the world and we found ourselves walking, biking, playing ball, and even scrapping with the other kids. With each passing moment as we utilized our boundless youthful energy and imaginations, we burned away calories at a very rapid pace. We grew stronger, faster, and healthier with each adventure or game played. There was no strict boring exercise regimen laid out by Doctor Phil or any other horseshit peddler just parents being firm and children doing what they do best “having Fun.”

I’ll say it again: The children of today aren’t fat because of feelings, or because MacDonald’s makes Big Mac hamburgers, they are portly because they and their parents are lazy.

Today’s parents are more concerned with looking for an easy way out of their own personal responsibilities and trying to be friends with their kids, than for the real safety, health, and welfare of same. This ends up being the burden of the child in that he/she becomes a large lazy blob with no ambition but to watch the boob tube or play video games, and eat cookies all day.

Well I personally am sick of it all, and refuse to give merit or attention to any of the countless excuses that these fatties put forth in their defense. For it is evident, the solution to the roundness of our children lays not in carrot sticks, therapy, and blame laying, but in the simple rules and responsibilities of our own upbringing.

So Timmy, put down the snack cakes, get off the couch, and just go outside and play, and parents, for Christ’s sake grow a pair.

Cheers
Al

A polite thought.

Society creates boundaries by which most men live. It lays out the scope of acceptable behavior and the consequences of misbehaving. This is done for the betterment of the whole. Yet to achieve such a state the individual must relinquish some, if not all, of his Natural Rights. This act of subjugation creates a sense of security as men begin to adjust their behavior so as not to threaten others, and over a period of time these customs of polite behavior become sacrosanct.

However, I have found that the sanctity of polite customs, being oft times in complete contrast to man’s inherent nature, needs be breached from time to time. For, there are those who will hide beneath the veil of custom and with a sense of security attempt with words and deeds to diminish their fellows. Using guile and malicious intent they manipulate society’s endless desire for restraint to contest and cause discontent.

When faced with such behavior, it is then beneficial to confront the offending party and make clear unto them that though you may have given over your Natural Rights, you still fully possess the savage instinct of your species.

The rules are oft times false in that they create a sense of security that does not really exist.

Cheers

AL

Obese kids

I have been working on a piece that addresses the bulk of our youth today and found this rather funny clip about it. This comedian thinks like I do most of the time yet I rarely if ever speak out loud such thoughts. maybe that is why I don't have the money he does.

Enjoy
AL

Happy fun time is over.

" break time for the US Congress again"



The current federal fiscal budget or lack thereof, has many Americans in a bit of snit these days and who is to blame them? The seemingly endless back and forth, between parties, the rhetoric and fear mongering, let alone the outright lies coming from our leadership is disheartening.

My personal concerns surrounding the current budget mess are great and numerous. Perhaps because there is no real budget to speak of at this time I am feeling a bit irritable, however, more so than this small and seemingly minor detail what has irked me more than any line item or proposal, during this whole debate is the overwhelming notion that those who have achieved success (the rich) need to be punished in some way. That any proposed budget or amendment that does not Tax the rich is faulty for surely they need to pay more and that their wealth should be given to others.

 I cannot get my head around this type of vilification for, is not the American Dream based upon the notion that a man no matter his station in life, here in the United States  with a bit of industry, frugality and wit can achieve success and wealth?

Has not that very dream been the cornerstone of our collective conscience since the seventeenth century?

The simple fact of the matter is that the majority of Americans, DO NOT PAY TAX, and the paltry sums the Federal Government takes from them are returned. Our major contributors, those who already carry the most water when it comes to revenue are those deemed “Rich” and somehow their success has become something to scorn. It is a paradox no? One that has a cruel consequence in that it discourages innovation and ambition. For why would a man try to be the best he can be, to achieve wealth and create jobs only to have it taken from him by the government?

The best and easiest way to fix the financial mess we are in is to STOP SPENDING the bloody money to garner votes. To trim the massive size of Government itself and to let the driving forces of our economy get on with the task of doing business. Let the innovative and industrious spirit that is inherent in our society grow, not by government intrusion but rather an absence of it. History shows that when the government loosens its greedy hand the economy florishes and so too does the standard of living for those who are willing to work. If Congress and the President were to focus upon these small things, they could have a decent budget fleshed out in no time at all. A plan for the future that would not be based upon a false “Class warfare” or an “Us vs. Them” mentality.

Lastly, though our President, and his followers are quick to vilify those who make over $250,000 per year, they are deaf dumb and blind when it comes to pointing out the failure of General Electric to pay a single red cent in tax last year. I can only wonder at this as GE was/is a huge supporter of the President and his friends in congress. So is it only Corporations and individuals who are in the highest tax bracket, that do not have a friend in Barack Obama who are to be vilified and all those who actively support him are exempt?

I can only assume you can all understand how much of a foolish and dangerous game that is no?

I think it is safe to say that what the American people would like to see is less talk and more work.

So to Congress and all of Washington I would announce “Happy Fun Time is over!” and "get back to work, to delay further is not only irresponsible but I daresay borderline negligent.

Cheers

Allen R. Butler

Stupid Aryans, Hitler is dead!

"I hate Illinois Nazis" ~ Jake Blues

Some years ago in 2003, the depressed city of Lewiston, Maine was the scene of an Aryan rally. It was a small, closed door affair held at the Armory and the 200 or so attendees basically spoke to themselves. The state police contained the crowd of 400 counter protestors outside with skill and patience making only one arrest of a person for disorderly conduct.  After the little Nazi's were done speechifying they made a hasty exit out the rear doors of the facility into waiting vans and disappeared from the landscape.

 

Back to their homeland, Illinois.

Like most Mainers at the time I was wee bit irritated that these people had the audacity to come here and try and wave swastikas around. Having had a grandfather who faced the perils of the North Atlantic on a Destroyer tender, then the Nazi guns at Normandy as an LST driver during WWII, these little jackbooted clowns got under my skin. So I began looking into some of their beliefs and basic ideology, in an attempt to better understand my enemy.  For, I learned long ago that knowing and understanding what your foe believes, what motivates him, is a weapon far more powerful than any rifle or blade. It is with such information that one may not only disarm his opponent, but so too manipulate and control him. If you control the battle you win, simple as that.

Thus was my reasoning when I began, but shortly into my simple research I realized that I had given the Aryans, Separatists, Nazi's, whatever you want to call them, too much credit. For, essentially they are lacking in wit, intelligence and strength. Outside of the prison gang, the Aryan Brotherhood, these groups have no real organization or direction.

Aryans simply preach the following: Whites are superior to every other race, that Adolf Hitler was "the greatest white ruler to have ever lived", and that every other race, religion, or belief system is wrong. Their sacred duty is to secure a place in the future for white children. Sadly many disenfranchised and angry people buy into this nonsense, usually the young and poor.

Well I have news for the Nazis that may come as a shock. "Hitler is Dead".

He died in 1945 broken, defeated, and so doped up on drugs if he hadn't have killed himself he probably would have died of an overdose. This happened many years before the dim-witted Aryans of today were born, and as it is evident that most of them can't read I doubt they will get this message, however there it is. The messiah, to whom they pledge their undying devotion, was nothing more than a murderous drug addict. Hitler did nothing to promote humanity merely to destroy it.  Furthermore, the only world of Nordic supermen he created was in his little mind. It is to such a weak and petty being that our modern Nazis bow before, relishing in the fantasies of Goebbels's propaganda machine while ignoring the facts.

Some Aryans, those who can read that is, will tell you that they were inspired by two books, "the Rise and Fall of the Third Reich" By William Shirer and the Holy Grail of Nazis worldwide "Mein Kampf" by everybody's favorite dictator and mass murderer, Adolf Hitler. Mark Hale, one of the organizers of the Lewiston rally, who did not get to speak due to being arrested on suspicion of soliciting the murder of a federal judge, has been quoted as stating such on numerous occasions.

 I have to wonder at this.   For having read both books fully I am unable to make the correlation.

First, the Rise and Fall of the Third Reich is in no way flattering or lenient on Hitler's society or war machine. The author was a journalist who above all things despised what the National Socialists had done to Germany and his anger can be found within many of the book's passages.  He called the founders of the movement Misfits, Hacks, Tramps, and Degenerates.  He described Ernst Roehm as a “blocky homosexual with piggish eyes."  Shirer pulls no punches throughout his 1141 pages so I wonder what kind of inspiration do the American Neo Nazis derive from it? Do they aspire to be pig eyed degenerates that use drugs indiscriminately? It appears for most of them that is the extent of what they have achieved.

I doubt sincerely that Mark Hale or any number of little "Fuhrers" did anything more than place the book on the shelf and look at the ugly black and white swastika on the binding.

Mein Kampf on the other hand is not only one of the most ridiculous and nonsensical books ever published, but also one that is physically painful to read. As I dragged my mind into the ravings of its crazed author, searching for the evidence of inspiration for the Nazis, I became angry and sick. Of all its talk of Zionism, International Jewish conspiracies and the like, not one single shred of evidence was ever produced. Each chapter is merely an over glorification of Hitler's role in building the party which concludes with an accusation of conspiracy and a hint that the next chapter will explain it all. Only it doesn't.  The reader turns the page and is sunk back into the sick world of the bohemian tramp and his story. On and on it goes like the TV get rich quick infomercials of the 1980s in which the smiley real estate guy keeps alluding to the information but never gives it.  At least with the infomercial the sales pitch to buy the "Be a millionaire" book at its end gave you some relief. Not so with Mein Kampf.

So if the Aryans of today really believe there is some type of Jewish world domination going on they must be getting their information elsewhere, for Hitler's book in no way spells it out.

Thus determining that neither book, if read, would lead to the conclusions professed by the Aryan leadership and that their messiah was an insecure, murdering drug addict, I cannot find a single part of the Aryan movement that rings true or is worth following.  They lie, and purport to represent the hardworking American people, while they carry symbols and chant slogans that are contrary to the American ideals that our founding fathers expounded.  It is their right yet even so I want to scream every time I see or hear these little Nazis.

Hitler is long dead, thankfully so, and no amount of modern day goose stepping and flag waving, will ever change that fact.

Get back into your hole you Stupid Aryans and Shut Yer bake!!!

Cheers

AL



Broken Spirits.

"Broken Spirits" that is what I call those who live their lives without ambition. Persons who simply have given up for whatever reason and who cannot or will not try to better themselves. I wonder at times; can much of this state of desperation be attributed to ignorance, a lack of understanding that poverty and squalor needs not be the norm?  If it is from ignorance then I must wonder, are these hapless souls blind as well? For here, more so than any other nation on earth, the ability, and opportunity, to transcend and break free of economic and social bonds exists.  This is a well known fact, one that draws hundreds of thousands to our shores each and every year. They seek the opportunity to succeed, which in many cases is nonexistent in their homeland.

Foreigners know and accept that here in the United states, with a bit of frugality and industry they can better not only their lot in life, but that of their children as well. Yet it seems many of our very own citizens, born and raised here, have no knowledge of this fact, even though the evidence is before their eyes. They despair and lament, in place of striving and working for a better plight. They sit back and accept the drippings from the public table, the very scraps of society’s labor, and think of nothing else, bound as surely as if they were in chains to the state and that which it meets out.

I speak not from an ivory tower, for I have been amongst the disenfranchised, I have known the hunger and desperation that comes from living hand to mouth. Yet even as I made my way through the dimly lit hallways and darkened streets that only those people know, I understood that such an existence need not be. That there was and is something better out there for anyone who has the fortitude and determination to strive.  This is America; this is the land of opportunity and freedom, the nation that inspired the world with its success and liberty.

The American Dream lives, and is achievable, for I am a testament to that truth.

It saddens me so to watch so many of my fellows shuffle along listlessly, desperate, fearful and blind, for in reality there is no point in such behavior.  The Broken Spirits need only open their eyes, to see that the dream can be theirs, that they do not have to be beaten down and forced into a state of despair perpetuated by the dole. If they simply could look up from their worn shoes and television sets, and understand that the success which lays beyond their dark corner could be theirs, with a bit of determination and grit.

In America; “Every man can be his own master, no matter the station to which he was born.”

Would that more folks understood that.

Cheers

Allen R. butler

Ya wearing me out.

"Ya wearing me out!" ~ James R. Hoffa



My mind, is assaulted by the constant turmoil surrounding the issues of Collective Bargaining and Government Unions, and I have begun to adopt a most undignified and surly pose. The protests in Wisconsin and now here in our very own State of Maine have put me on edge, so much so that I am beginning to feel a bit worn out by it all. There are only so many times one can listen with patience, to the arguments put forth by the emotionally driven protestors before one is forced to snap.  I mean really could not have the Union leadership come up with some decent well thought out platforms besides; “it’s not fair, save the middle class, and, we don’t get Social Security?”  I do believe that if I was dues paying member of these Unions I would be asking for a full refund. For, the slogans, chants and arguments are not only weak, but pitiful, and if their purpose is supposed to elicit some feeling of sympathy in my breast they have failed miserably.

Last week’s little rally at the State House in Augusta did not endear many of the government workers, who so boldly carried signs and screamed about proposed reforms of the State Pension Program, to the general public. I have yet to speak to a single person who feels the least bit sympathetic towards the Unions or their workers in this case, and considering the rather liberal nature of this state, that is unusual to say the least. Why might this be? Well maybe, just maybe, it is because the truth, that pesky little point the Union bosses don’t like, is well known to the rest of us mere citizens.

How can someone; who three years ago watched their 401K swirl down the toilet along with the entire economy, and who will have to work well past 65 to make it up, feel bad for those who are guaranteed a pension at 65, instead of 62? A pension, by the way, which includes full health coverage? Sorry, not many eyes will well up over that my friends because here in the dreaded private sector, such a retirement package can only be dreamed of. Personally I would kill to have a shot at such a deal.

“Ahh, but you get Social Security “says they.

To which I reply “On what Planet are you living?” Social Security is defunct; everyone knows that the program is one of the greatest ponzi schemes in American history. By the time I even think about retirement there will be no funds available because every dollar going into the pot today is spent before the government even takes it. There is no big savings account in Washington D.C with my name on it waiting for my golden years. I have another two decades until I reach 65 by which time Social Security will be Bankrupt and we all know it, well we should, it’s horrible how the bothersome facts always seem to rise up at these times. The only difference between the public and private sector when it comes to Social Security is that the private sector pays money for benefits they will never receive and the public sector pays nothing.  Oh and as the government employees will receive FULL Health care coverage and the rest of us will have to PURCHASE our own, I am really starting to wonder what exactly it is they are braying so loudly about?

Maybe they really do feel that the proposed Budget will “Destroy the Middle Class” and somehow the Government Unions will save it. But this begs the question: What middle class are they talking about? The middle class that has to work every day to make ends meet, the one that does not have time to go to rallies mid week? The middle class that has endured the brunt of this economic downturn, who have watched jobs dry up, retirement plans, and dreams wither on the vine, while State government grows? The middle class who pays the taxes that fund the programs and departments for which these protestors work? Are those the folks the Unions want to save? Or is it that only Public workers can be considered middle class and those of us out here who are taxed as such don’t count?  If I no longer count as middle class then I suppose I can look forward to a break on my State income filing next year, I’ll be sure to hold my breath while I wait for that to happen.

I could go on forever with this as the Unions and their members have given me so much to work with but I think the point is made.

Our Public sector employees do not know, or understand how oh so very good they have it. They don’t seem to see that those who pay for their benefits are facing hardships far greater than a mere extension of retirement dates. They are out of touch with reality and as they cry and wail about the supposed pain they are suffering, the rest of us look on and think, “Shut Yer Bake.”

Cheers

Allen R. Butler

Government Unions; How it works.

As my next post will be about this very topic I thought that this video would be a nice introduction to the issue.

Cheers
Allen R. Butler

Take the money and run!!!!

OK so Libya is in revolt, the protests started some two weeks past have turned to violence and bloodshed. Those opposed to the Libyan government openly carry arms and have been so bold as to take over two cities in the east of that country. Something unheard of two decades ago, plays out on our televisions and computers as the people of that land call for change.

Yet even though the rest of the world, through the technology of the internet, can see what is going on, Libya’s Leader Muammar al-Qaddafi, denies the existence of any rebels. He has stated that his people love him and that those who are causing all the trouble are foreign Al-Qaida operatives, in other words terrorists. He has vowed to crush the foreign led uprising as it exists to “fight to the last man or woman”.

It is evident to me that Mo-Mo, has lost a bit of good old common sense over the forty one years he has ruled Libya. The basic lesson of power is lost on him and sadly that fact will cause many to die.

Power, like everything is fleeting and you only have as much power over anyone as they give you. Be that an individual or a nation. Once people no longer decide to grant you power it no longer exists, it is that simple. And even if Mo-Mo believes he can through force, retain the power of rule he will be sorely mistaken, because even if he wins his bloody war he loses. The world is already lining up against him, the UN (Useless do Nothings) has begun investigating possible crimes against his people, Leaders across the globe are urging him to step down. So if he subdues the rebellion what will be the world’s reaction?  I can guarantee one thing Mo-Mo will be facing a court of inquiry at the very least and a worldwide embargo at the worst. Even his friend Hugo Chavez will likely walk away if that happens.

No Mo-Mo should simply “Take the money and run” before it’s too late.

Take your Billions of dollars and buy a nice island somewhere, live a life of luxury and leisure, maybe write a nice memoir, Titled “Warm and fuzzy: my life and rule in Libya.” What more could a man want? I sure as hell would be happy to retire to some warm place where I need not worry about anything but what the chef will be preparing for the evening meal. Hell, I bet Mo-Mo could even do a bit of consulting work with the new government if he left on decent enough terms. Get out now while you have the chance, this is a lose/lose situation and there is only one way out for you and yours.

So Mo-Mo, leave off giving interviews and Shut Yer Bake!

Take the money and RUN!!!!

Cheers

Allen R Butler

I have Returned

It has been some time since I have written anything, or had the desire to write anything for that matter, however due to pressure from various people I have begun anew.

This new Blog “Shut Yer Bake” will focus on the lack of Common sense in all aspects of the human experience.  I will also be throwing a bit of fun stuff here and there such as music or amusing video that happens to cross my path. The title is of Norn Iron (Northern Ireland) origin and it translates to ~Shut up, be quiet, shut your pie hole etc. This was not chosen to discourage comment and debate but rather as a shot at all the people out there, politicians, actors, and the like who seem to talk incessantly about nothing. To them I say “Shut Yer Bake!!” for the noise has become too much.

If you are sensitive, or upset easily by harsh words, viewpoints, or opinions then I would suggest strongly you move on and seek another web page to read from. However for those of you who can stomach a little vitriol in your diet, give us a try, you just may find a few tidbits of humor, and thoughtful stimulation.

Thank You

Allen R. Butler