Duryl and His OhsweetLordy herd dog

Apparently, there are many of you who like to read a tall tale every so often, judging by the number of page views during the past week. My upcoming book, The House Was Not a Home, has quite a number of similar stories, most of them originating in Ed Briscoe's barber shop. Reg Keetering, the teller of The Man Who Invented Dinosaurs, loved stories and was considered one of the best storytellers in Tehama County. But he had plenty of competition. Darrell (locally known as Duryl) Campbell could as think up some pretty wild tales, at the drop of a hat. Please read and enjoy Duryl and his OhsweetLordy Herd Dog.
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     Dogs were as much of the ambience  of Ed Briscoe’s barber shop as were the human members of the club. The day Reg Keetering told his story about his cousin Maynard and how he invented dinosaurs, there were three.

     Old Tom lay at his master’s feet in the corner near the stove. Ed Briscoe’s constant companion Tex, a mid-size collie mix, dozed in the corner on the other side of the chair. On the rare occasion of Darrell (known to everyone as Duryl) Campbell stopping in for a trim, he brought along his Heinz-mix named Pete. But today there was a very different dog curled beneath Duryl’s chair.

     Red Schaeffer sat shrouded in the barber chair, Ed Briscoe’s scissors busy snip-snipping around his ears. From time to time Red would look at that dog like he was somebody he’d seen before but couldn’t quite recognize. Finally, Red said to Duryl:

     “That’s a right interstin’ pooch you got thur, Duryl. Looks like a cross twinxt a sheepdog and a goat. Just what would a dog lookin’ like that be good fer?”

     “Well, Red, I’ll tell ya,” says Duryl, in his slow, drawl, hitching up and leaning his elbows on the arms of his chair, so as to best tell his own yarn. Duryl was an older man with a full head of wavy gray hair and a clean shave he’d just got in Ed Briscoe’s chair. Like most of the farmers in Tehama County, he  wore bib overalls with a plaid shirt underneath. All eyes and ears in the room turned toward him; everyone knew Duryl could tell as good as he heard. “Ole Charlie, here, is a decen’ent of one of the finest lines of herd dogs thur ever was.”

     “That so?” chuckled Ernie Nance. “What’s he s’posed to herd, goats? Looks to me like he’s got some goat in him, fer sure.” All the men chuckle at the observation.

     “Yessir,” licking his toothless gums to get his story going. “He comes from a line of esceptional goat herders, but it was camel herdin’ they was noted fer.”

     “Camels?” I piped up, “There aren’t any camels around here.”

     “That’s absolutely right, Freddie. But thur is in Egypt. Charlie here’s ‘gyptian, ya see?”

     At this, Reg Keetering snorted his approval of Darrell Campbell’s yarn-spinning technique. Reg had been heard to speak admiringly of the way Duryl captivated his listeners. He felt he was getting a lesson, now, as every face in the place was staring open-mouthed at the older man.

     “Oh, not him directly, you unnerstan’; nor his folks, fer that matter. But, it’s true, ole Charlie here’s a rar’fied purebred ‘gyptian goat and camel herd dog,” he said with believable conviction. It was a sure bet some of the men sitting there didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

     “Yer sayin’ that dog’s got one of them, whatcha callit, pedygrees?” asked Amos Cleary.

     “Abs’lutely he does,” replies Duryl, as if implying otherwise was offensive. “His sire comes from a long line of fine goat ‘n’ camel herd dogs down in Fresno, and his dam sprung from a real nice family down to San Looey Abispo, down by Frisco, that is.”

     “What I don’t unnerstan’,” says Ernie, leaning way over close to Charlie so as to study him up close, “is how he come to look so danged much like a goat and where he got that cocked up ear and screwy looking eyeball.”

     “Whadya call this here kind o’ mutt, anyway?” asks Amos, the most contrary of those present.

      “Wull, Amos, to answer yer question, we orta go back to the beginnin’. That thur that yer lookin’ at, gennelmens, is a genu-wine ohsweetlLordy goat and camel herd dog. Legen’ has it the ohsweetLordy breed was brung about one day, long ago, after a loomin’ catistrophy on the ‘gyptian desert.”

     At this Reg Keetering let out a booming laugh. “I knowed it, goldang it, I knowed it.”

     “Just what was it y’all knowed,” asked Ernie.

     “Soon as Duryl mentioned goats and camels an’ sech, I knowed we was going to Egypt, yep, I knowed it. Go ahead, Duryl,” regaining his composure, “sorry I disturbed ye.”

     “Seems this ‘gyptian family was trekkin’ ‘cross country on thur way to Cayro to visit kin. It was stiflin’ hot, as it usually was on the desert, so they pulled inter one of them oh-ay-susus  to cool off a mite and have lunch. An oh-ay-sus, ya unnerstan’, is a spot whur thur’s a bit of  water and a few date or cokernut trees, whatever it is they got o’er yonner, grow. They had a couple of camels, a batch of goats and a couple of young’uns with ‘em. And an old dog.

     “Anyways, whilst the feller and his missus was unpackin’ the camels – distracted they was, not payin’ no mind to the kids – I mean, whur could they go? – see what I’m sayin’?, stuck out yonner in the middle of  nowhurs, the way they was. Nex’ thang they knowed, the younges’ one of the kids done clumb up a tree; yep, clear to the top of one of them date or cokernut trees. Got hisse’f up thur and couldn’t git hisse’f down. Got stuck.

     “Now, the purents was right stocky folks, ‘gyptians unfit fer climbin’ trees, ya unnerstan’, and the other youngster was too slight yet fer sendin’ on such a terrifyin’ rescue mission. Thur seemed to be nuthin’ they could do to fetch thur baby down from that date or cokernut tree, whatever it is they got o’er yonner.

     “Now, them poor ‘gyptian folks was beside theyse’ves, they was, bein’ stuck on the ground whilst they young’un was up a tree. And they commenced to howlin’ somethin’ fearful. They was howlin’ so loud, they could be heard all the ways to Cayro or Puris, Fraince or sumwhurs far off like that. But all they could do, the purents that is, and the dog, which had taken perticular interst in the perceedin’s, was jus’ look up inter that tree and pray to the Lord – some ‘gyptians prays the same as we do, ya unnerstan’- and ask if’n He’d take it on Hisse’f to save the little feller from bein’ stuck in that thur tree. Thur was no claim the dog was prayin’, ya unnerstan’, but he truly had taken an uncommon interst in the sitchyation.

     “The purents taken to kneelin’down holy like, chantin’ prayers and such; the dog was a-sittin’ thur puzzled like, wonderin’ how the dickens the little critter got up thur in the first place; and the goats and camels standin’ aroun’ chawin’ they cuds , jus’ like cows do, ya unnerstan’, like thur was nuthin’ they could do to he’p the little feller and wouldn’t  bother iff’n they could. Goats ‘n’ camels, like bovines, are like that, ya see – jus’ refuse to git thurselves wrapped up in human goin’s on.

     “Like I said, them ‘gyptian folks was a-kneelin’ and a-hollerin’ up to the Lord to please he’p ‘em git that youngster out’n the tree. Wull, nex’ thang they knowed that ole dog  sashayed o’er to that tree and commenced to shinny up it! And that’s the truth! Yessir. ‘Parently, the critter straddled the trunk of that tree and arm and legged it right on up to the top. Durndest thang them ‘gyptian folks e’er seen, the dog scootin’ up thur the way it did, intensifyin’ thur prayin’ as they was thankin’ the Lord fer lettin’ the dog git up thur, but inside they was wonderin’ what the dog was gonna do now.

     “But that dog had a sing’lar mind about what he was gonna do and he went right into action. He grabbed a mouthful o’ that young’uns back pockets, tugged on ‘em a time er two to loosen his hold on the tree, then slud down the trunk of that tree like a fireman slidin’ down a fire pole. And that thur’s the dad-blamed truth. Yessir.” While we sat and mulled that over, seein’ in our minds a dog sliding down a date or coconut tree with a kid in his mouth, Duryl unloaded a shot of tobacco juice into the spit can at his feet, worked his chaw around to the other side of his mouth, then went on:

    “When he reached the groun’ the dog walks o’er nonch’lant like and plops the young’un down right in front of his mama and papa. Wull! That wuman and her husban’ was so deelighted to have thur baby back safe, they commenced to praisin’ the Lord all o’er agin. “Oh, my Lordy! Thank ya, Lordy!” they was a-chantin’, bowin’ and a-praisin’ all round the oh-ay-sus, they was. “Oh, my Lordy.! Oh, sweet Lordy! Thank ya, Lordy, fer savin’ our baby from that tree o’er yonner.” They kep’ it up till they figgered the Lord was plumb tired o’ hearin’ ‘em a-chantin’ an’ a-praisin’ – which kin be quite a time, ‘cuz, as y’all know, gods have a consider’ble hankerin’ to be chanted at an’ praised about whilst they git ‘round to performin’ a mur’cle.

     “Wull, it was indeed a mur’cle an’ them ‘gyptian folks was just a-brimmin’ with appreciation, they was. The rescue also showed ‘em this was a real special dog they had, and that s’prised ‘em ‘cuz he never showed he was good fer nuthin’ before. They got him to pertect thur animals and themse’ves, of course, from lions and tigers and bederins – them’s rustlers on camelback, ya unnerstan’ – and other pesky critters roamin’ the desert sands, but he’d ne’er showed no talent fer such. Lazy he was and chicken, too, I reckon, ‘cuz they was always losin’ goats to varmints, and the dog had nary a scratch on him.

      “But them ‘gyptian folks was mighty prideful of thur dog now, after seeing ‘im shinny up that tree then slide on down with thur baby in his mouth; they seen sumpthin’ in him they ne’er seed before. They figgered to take advantage of the talent they seed in him and decided they’d start up a whole new breed of dog, one that could climb a tree and with a little luck, maybe they’d end up with somethin’ that’d pertect thur goats and whatnot from them pesky felines and bederins that’s out roamin’ the desert sands. With the recent mur’cle in mind they decided to call the new breed ohsweetLordy, out of respect to God fer heppin’‘em rescue thur young’un.

     “So they gets ‘em a female o’ sim’lar breed, whichever kind it was don’t matter, and coupled ‘em lotsa times, but ne’er had no luck with thur breedin’ program. After several batches of pups, they still hadn’t got one that was perticularly inter’sted in herdin’ goats or climbin’ trees or showed any inter’st in pertectin’ thur persons or that of thur kids.

     “Wull, they got to thinkin’ and come up with an idée that maybe the breed was too genteel fer dealin’ with goats. They began lookin’ fer somethin’ less s’fisticated, and they did; they mixed the strain with a goat.

     “Now, a lotsa folks believe thur’s a mite of problems arisin’ when it comes to crossin’ breeds of anymal that-a-way; in fact some say it cain’t be done, but the truth of the matter is it kin, if you pay close attention to detail. Just how them ‘gyptians got it done ain’t knowed, but the result was the durn finest goat herder anybody had e’er saw. Took to his job real quick and soon had ‘em dancin’ to his tune, he did, and that’s a fact!

     “But that thur ohsweetlordy – they keepin’ the same name they started out with, ya unnerstan’ - goat dog had a shortcomin’ when it come to pertectin’ things. Seems he was feisty ‘nuf all right; he’d git right in thur and tussle with felines and bederins that tried to burgle a goat. Trouble was, he was gittin’ snuck up on by the predators – wudn’t seein’ ‘em comin’ and they was always gettin’ in the fust lick, shanghaiin’ him, and whilst he licked his wounds, the predators was off some whurs stealin’ goats.

     “The ‘gyptians figgered thur problem was all that sand o’er yonner – it being soft underfoot, like it is – made it difficult to hear the buggers approachin’. Theys a quiet lot anyways, them felines and bederins, an’ the ’gyptians figgered ‘cuz they sneak aroun’ at night the dog wudn’t seein’ ‘em neither. What they needed was an ohsweetlordy that could hear predaters creepin’ through all that soft sand and had night vision. Yessir.

     “Try as they might, thur breedin’ program ne’er perduced a dog with any of them traits, but in one batch thur was a pup with a cocked ear an’ a crossed eye. His left ear was stuck straight up and his left eye was always lookin’ out across his nose at what’s goin’ on o’er yonner. This gave the ‘gyptian folks an idée. They trained the dog to circle the herd o’ goats to the right – clockwise, ya unnerstan’. Thataway, he could hear anythin’ sneakin’ in across the desert sands, watch straight ahead with his good eye and, at the same time – with that eye lookin’ out across his nose, the way it did  - keep an eye on the goats, makin’ sure they ain’t wanderin’ off inter the night and gittin’ burgled. Appurently, that thur mew-tay-shun perduced the hot-dangdest burgler-proofin’ goat dog in ‘gyptian history. Yessir, and them ‘gyptians was ‘zooberant. They didn’t know why those traits appeared – one of them mew-tay-shuns, they figgered – that’s somethin’ that pops up when nature ain’t lookin’ – but after that, ever’ litter that ohsweetLordy sired had at least a couple of pups lookin’ thataway.

     “Them ‘gyptian folks was so pure-dee-loo tickled o’er thur new dog they broke out the goat yogurt and the camel jerky and had ‘emselves a big ole celybration – partied way inter the night, they did, stayed up till all hours slurpin’ yogurt and jawin’ jerky. Yessir, them folks was wild with ‘zooberance.

     “But they had some ways to go yet, in gittin’ what they was lookin’ fer. That ohsweetlordy was a mighty fine goat dog but would have nuthin’ to do with camels, ya see. As fer as they was concerned them felines and bederins could pilfer all the danged camels off’n continental Egypt, and they’d be glad to see ‘em gone.

     “But them ‘gyptians was mighty enterprizin’ folks and they thunk up another idée. What they done wuz begin to presentin’ camel meat to the ohsweetLordy at chow time. ‘Stead a chowin’ him down on goat or desert rats or whate’er it is they feed ‘em o’er thur, they took to feedin’ him big, thick, juicy camel steaks. Wull! Them ohsweetLordys wuz pur-dee-deelighted and right ‘preciative. As you might espect, them ohsweetLordys munchin’ on camel steak din’t go unnoticed by the other camels. No sirree, them other camels wuz wide-eyed in their observation of such.perceedin’s and shur didn’t ‘preciate what they wuz lookin’ at. Seein’ thur relatives ate up that-a-way made ‘em right edgy ‘round dogs, as y’all would espect. And, as you might espect, them dogs wuz takin’ especial inturst in whur thur fancy new vittles wuz comin’ from and commenced to eyeballin them camels in a special way. They’d lay ‘round starin’ at them humpbacks, lickin’ thur lips, and that made them camels right nervous and they’d go on and move away from them dogs.

     “Now ohsweetLordys is particularly intelligent anymals and it din’t take long fer them to note that the camels would move away when they wuz nearby. When an ohsweetLordy wuz sittin’ to the west, them camuls would scoot east; when the dogs wuz to the east, the camels went west. That in mind, it din’t take long fer them perticularly intelligent anymals to figure out that when they walked around them camels they’d knot up in a bunch an’ stay put.

     “Wull now, them ‘gyptians had been watchin’ the perceedin’s all along and they agin wuz zooberant. Not only wuz the ohsweetLordy the gosh-blamed-a-mightiest goat dog thur e’er wuz but a camel herder par excellence –that thur means he wuz real good at it. This wuz especial pleasin’ to the ‘gyptians and they broke out the yogurt and jerky and partied all o’er agin.

     “The ‘gyptian folks wuz so durn-tootin’ happy with the perceedin’s, it took ‘em some time before they recollected they plumb fergot thur original intent – perducin’ a breed of dog that could climb date or cokernut trees and save young’uns which had clumb up ‘em and got stuck. And that thur’s why you’ll ne’er see ole Charlie here shinny up a date or a cokernut tree, ner will he show any inturst in that sort of nonsense. Them ‘gyptians plumb fergot to give him the means for such and the lack don’t seem to bother ole Charlie atall.”

     Toward the end of Duryl’s yarn, his brother Dan entered the barber shop and, as there were no empty chairs, leaned against the wall. Dan was visiting from the Bay Area of San Francisco and wasn’t known to any of the other men. He had driven into town to surprise his brother for his birthday, and take him to lunch. It turned out Dan enjoyed Duryl’s yarns as much as anybody and was up for a good joke when the opportunity arose.

     Dan listened to Duryl long enough to get the point of the story. Then, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and looking like he’d just discovered the Hope Diamond in his mother’s attic, he asked, “You mean to tell us that dog lying there is a genuine ohsweetLordy herd dog? I’ve heard tell they’re the dad-gummed finest goat and camel herd dogs in the world. There ain’t very many left, neither. How much you want fer him,” Dan reaching for his wallet.

     “Oh, gosh, mister,” Duryl said keeping the ruse going, “I could never sell ole Charlie. Had a lot of offers, though, but I just couldn’t part with him.”

     “Ah, shucks,” says Dan, sounding real disappointed. “Everyone that has an ohsweetLordy just won’t part with them,” hanging his head in sadness.

     “Hey, wait a minute!” blurted Ernie Nance. “Yer sayin’ that’s what that dog really is? An ohsweet … whachamacallit? And It’s really a ‘gyptian goat and camel herd dog? Wull, dang it all the hell, Duryl, I thought y’all was shinin’ us on!”

     “Yeah,” says Amos Cleary, doubt fading from his eyes. “I’ve had hunting dogs all my life and I never heared o’ any such anymal.”

     The rest of the men in the room sat shaking their heads, not knowing whether to believe the story or chalk it off to the pure bull, for which Duryl was known all around Tehama County. Heck, maybe further off than that.

     One man said, “Duryl, if anyone else told that story, I might believe it – but it’s you, Duryl, and I done swore I’d ne’er believe anythin’ you told me.”

     Dan started toward the door, saying, “Well, mister, if you e’er change yer mind about sellin’ that dog, let me know right off, would ya?”

     With only a trace of a smile working the corners of his mouth, Duryl got up and, with a wave, said “See you gents later,” and walked out of Ed Briscoe’s barber shop, the greatest ‘gyptian goat and camel herd dog in the world right on his heels.

Recalling the Tradition of Storytelling

Folks, there are times when I get really bummed over politics. Politics, politicians, and the do-nothing medinos (media in name only) are embarrassing to the country and us (we are the US); its really a shame there is no way to be rid of the lot of them and start over. Nuf sed.
This week I'd like to change course and offer one the stories from my book-in-progress. I grew up in an area in Northern California rich in the storytelling tradition of the West and South, a tradition which is disappearing, due to people's lack of interest in listening to other people speak. My book , working title, This House Was Not a Home) portrays this tradition as I remember it from my youth in the fifties. Many of the stories have a basis in truth, for some I've had to "fill in the blanks." I hope you will enjoy reading "The Man Who Invented Dinosaurs. I would very much appreciate any comments you may offer.

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                        The Man Who Invented Dinosaurs

    One Saturday morning, toward the end of summer, I was told to go to town to get my ears lowered. It was customary that boys start school with a smart haircut, new shoes, new clothes and a new lunch box. Mrs. H wasn’t planning a trip to town that day, so I rode my reluctant mule Jenny the three miles to the barbershop.

      I tied Jenny to a post beside the building and went in. I never really knew what to make of the place. It was usually occupied by several older men talking about this or that.

     The barbershop was full this morning, some of the occupants were “social club” members, others were ordinary customers. Reg Keetering, who I had heard referred to as the world’s greatest storyteller, was in his usual chair in the back of the room, to the right of the doorway, reading the newspaper. Reg, an older man in his seventies or maybe more, wore a small straw hat everywhere and seemingly never took it off, except, one supposed, in the barber’s chair. His light blue eyes were alert and looked upon his world through rimless reading glasses. He was medium height and spare and somehow managed to look dapper in a plaid shirt under bib overhauls and a trademark bow tie. Reg’s chair was the farthest of six that lined the right-side wall. A wood-burner sat in the middle of the back wall with a couple of chairs close by hugging the left wall. Coat hooks adorned the wall on either side of the seldom used pot-belly. Along the remainder of the left-sidewall stretched a counter with all sorts of lotions, shampoos, colognes and of course the standard of all barbershops, bay rum, needed to make a man look and smell his best. Red Schafer, a large man with red hair and a perennially flushed face, was presently getting a trim in Ed Briscoe’s chair. Linus Bradley lay back in a chair near the door with his feet stretched in front of him listening to Mr. Briscoe’s gossip. Mr. Kepner, a very old man whose first name was either unknown or unused, sat dozing in the chair closest to the stove, Tom, his faithful beagle, lying at his feet. Darrell Campbell (known far and wide as Duryl) sat jawing a wad of chaw. A couple of other men I’d seen around but didn’t know were scattered around the room talking about other people, the news or some sporting event.

     I walked in and was greeted by the men sitting around. I always liked going there for that reason. They made me feel like one of the boys. There were two men in line ahead of me, I was told, so I looked for a place to sit .The only available chair was next to Mr. Keetering. I picked up a magazine off the table in the corner and sat down and began reading an article about animals called dinosaurs. After I’d read for awhile, Mr. Keetering asks, “Wha’cha readin’, Freddie? Anythin’ innerestin’?”

     “It’s an article about dinosaurs. They say they were really big and mean.”

     “That so,” the older man said, hitching up in the chair and leaning forward on his elbows, which meant there was a yarn on its way. “I don’t suppose I ever told you the story about my cousin Maynard?”

     “No, sir.”

     “He’s the one which invented dinersaurs, you know?”

     “Oh, Jesus, here we go,” said Ed Briscoe.

     “What? What was that?” mumbled Mr. Kepner, just waking up. “What about dinersaurs?”

     “I didn’t know that,” playing along. “How’d he invent a dinosaur?” I asked.

     “I ‘preciate yer askin’, young feller. Shows you possess an inquirin’ mind. Curiosity makes fer innerestin’ folks, I always say,” he said in his quick, clipped off way of speaking.

     Conversations stopped: All eyes and ears in the room were now focused on Reg Keetering, all the men present anticipating one of the great storyteller’s tall tales.

     “Now, I don’t want to lead you astray ‘bout Ole Mayn – that’s what I call ‘im, Mayn. He didn’t invent all the dinersaurs, ya innerstan’, but he did invent  … er …te … teray …” snapping his fingers in an effort to remember the name.

     “Tyrannosaurus rex?” I offered smugly.

     “Yup, yup. That’s the one. Teraynosiris rex. Yup, that’s the one allright. You already hear the story ‘bout Ole Mayn, did ya, Freddie?”

     “No sir. I just read it.”

     “Oh, yeah. Well, ya see Ole Mayn was an anymal breeder of sorts. He taken up crossin’ all kinds of anymals in all kinda ways, all the time tryin’ to come up with sumthin’ differ’nt. One time, and I was thur to see it, mind ya, he crossed a pack rat and an elyphant,”

     “Ah, go on,” exclaimed I, mouth wide open.

     “Oh,” he went on undisturbed, “ it wudn’t without diff’culties, mind ya. No sirree. Ole Mayn, shrewd anymal breeder that he was, reco’nized right off thur’d be a mite of trubble, what with juxtaposin’ moosey and tallywacker,” this causing a chorus of chuckles throughout the room. He went on, “He seed right off the pack rat and that packyderm they wasn’t ideally fit fer linkin’ up, the rodent bein’ a mite short-legged fer the task. So what he done was git hisse’f a bicycle pump – one of them hand-pumpin’ kind, plugged the bizness end inter the rear o’ that pack rat and commenced to pump ‘im up. Yessir, and that’s the truth.” He took a second to deposit a long stream of tobacco juice into a can at his feet, thought things over for a moment, then he went on.

     “Now, as y’all might espect it takes a heap a pumpin’ to git a pack rat of a size to couple with a packyderm, so Ole Mayn and me – I was right thur pumpin’ with ‘im acourse – pumped nigh into the e’enin’ afore we figgered that rodent was big ‘nuf to bed with an elyphant. We ended up with a BOH-dacious rat, we did, oh, my heavens, and it matched up jus’ fine with that thur elyphant. We figured we had to git ‘em together quick-like, though, afore the air leaked out ‘o that rat. He wudn’t leak proof, you see, air was shootin’ right out from the same place it went in.”

     “What did you end up with, Mr Keetering?”

     “That thur’s a mighty interstin’ question, young feller. Truth be knowed, we didn’t rightly know what we had. Ornery critter, though. It was only three days old, it et a cheese factory.”

     This last brought on a burst of raucous laughter from the listeners. A couple of weeks before a cheese factory in Gerber, a town twenty miles away, exploded and all but disappeared in the blast.

     “I was wondering what happened over there,” said Red Schaffer.

     “Thanks for clearing that up, Reg,” said Ed Briscoe, his scissors snipping busily next to Red’s left ear.

     “But back to them dinersaurs you was innerested in, Freddie,” said Reg. “Ya see, Ole Mayn was a sportsman of sorts, ta go along with his other ‘complishments. He never went in fer seeking cockbird ner squirrel, nothin’ like that, but he had a keen eye fer frogs, Ole Mayn did. Big’uns, ya unnerstan’,” holding his hands quite aways apart, “he could enter inter frog-jumpin’ contests. He wudn’t at all impressed with the ones he’d been findin’ ‘round about, so he decided to make hisse’f one. Yessir , that’s a fact. That’s the kinda man Ole Mayn was.

     “Fust, he figgered he oughta start with sumthin’ that looked like a frog – he didn’t figger it proper to take somethin’ lookin’ like a gopher er a house cat to frog-hoppin contest. So he went out an’ cotched ‘im the biggest frog he could find. Got ‘im a big’un, too,” holdin’ his hands as far apart as they would reach. ‘Yessir, seen it m’se’f.

     “Nex’, he figgered he needed sumthin’ that could jump, like one o’ them kang’groos. Now, Ole Mayn was confronted by a myst’ry. He wudn’t any too sure if either one o’ the critters he had was buck ner doe. That’s a sityation pioneerin’ anymal breeders off’n come across, ya unnerstan’ – matchin’ moosey and tallywhacker takin’ consider’ble know-how, the way it does. So, Ole Mayn went out an’ got ‘im two kang’groos – one a each – and stuck ‘em in with the frog.

     “Now, y’all er prob’ly thinkin’ he had to go fetch his bicycle pump and pump that frog up some, get his bidness up off’n the floor, but the fact is frogs an’ kang’groos line up jus’ fine. Thur built so’s thur ‘quipment is on the same plane, it seems. Anyways, after a bit, Ole Mayn had ‘im a right han’some li’l leaper. Called it a frogaroo, he did, and that thur’s  the truth!

     “But right off’n the mark Ole Mayn, bein’ spry o’ mind the way he wuz, seed that frogaroo was a turr’ble slothful critter. The thing ud jus’ as soon sit an’ eat as jump a lick, so’s he figgered he needed to breed some aggression inter that frogaroo, iff’n it was e’er gonna do much beside consume Mayn’s groceries, ya unnerstan’. Now Ole Mayn got to thinkin’ about how he was gonna git ‘im sumthin’ that would jump an’ be aggressive ‘bout it. After a spell he went out an’ got hisse’f an allygator, he did, figgerin’ it to be the best thang fer breedin’ feistiness inter his new line o’ leapers. It wudn’t a big ‘un as allygators go, but tempersome it was, snatch the buttons right off’n yer shirt, it would, and that suited Ole Mayn jus’ fine!

     “Afore long the frogaroo, or me’be it was the allygator – cain’t rightly recall which’n it wuz – sprung a li’l baby leaper thang. An’ a feisty li’l bounder the thang wuz, too. Had these big pow’ful leaper legs, a long ole tail to keep it from pitchin’ o’er back’ards an’ a monstrous yapper chock right full o’ snappin’ chompers. Up front, it had these li’l bitty arms that t’weren’t good fer much, which Ole Mayn said he got from the kang’groo, Ole Mayn knowin’ all ‘bout such thangs, ya unnerstan’.

     “Well, he had a real impressive bounder on his hands, and a dad-gum nasty beasty it was, too, all the while a-snarlin’, a-snortin’ and a-rippin’ thangs asunder with them devastatin’ chompers. And all the time hungry the thang wuz. Afore it was more’n a week old it’d et thirty-nine dogs, a hunnert and forty-three cats, seventeen sheep, eleven cows, a whole stack o’ tractor tires and a tool shed. Idled its time away leapin’ way up an’ snatchin’ birds out’n the air, got up s’high it wuz pullin’ down eagles and geese from ‘monst the clouds it wuz And that’s t’truth. A real tyrant the thang wuz, and y’all kin b’lieve that. Yessiree!”

     Mr. Keetering leaned forward to pull his kerchief from a rear pocket in his overhauls. Removing his hat, he wiped the top of his nearly bald head. Apparently, spinning yarns could break a man into a sweat. He took a moment to clean his glasses, as if he had to see well to finish his story. All the while thinking, thinking. After taking a swipe around his neck, he tucked the kerchief back into his pocket. He leaned back into the chair, crossed one thin leg over the other at the knee, then he continued with his story.

     “Now, Ole Mayn, being of ord’ly scientifical mind – and a real hones’ t’gosh wizard he wuz, too – pondered that the name ‘bounder’ wudn’t a snazzy ‘nuf moniker fer his invention. He thought he needed a Latin name fer it, and I wuz mighty honered when he a’cepted m’ suggestion: te … teray …”

      “Tyrannosaurus rex?” I asked again.

      “That’s it! Yes, indeedy, Teeraynoniris rex, rex meanin’ king, ya innerstan’,” showing a big smile for having mastered the Latin language.

      “It turned out, though, that teeray … teerayno …” scratching his head trying to come up with it again “that thang he done put t’gether was sure a right whallopin’ leaper – we had ‘im odds-on ta out-hop any frog in the state – he possessed nary a bit o’ temperment fer org’nized sports. Fust time Ole Mayn taken the big feller to a frog meet, the big feller  ‘sperienced one of the gosh-a-mightiest hunger tantrums and commenced ta chowin’ down on the comp’tition; sumpthin’ like three hunnert frogs he et. Then, still a might hungry, he put down twenny-two spectators, a lem’nade stan’ an’ a touris’ bus. He wuz hot on t’trail o’ the preacher and his wife when he tripped up in a gopher hole an’ pitched headlong inter a bee’s nest. Them bees, and thur was an awful mess o’ the bless’d thangs, came a-swarmin’ outta thur an’ lit inter ole teeraynosiris sump’n turrble, they did. Had th’ big feller just’ a hoppin’ an’ a boppin’ all ‘round, snappin’ at ‘em and thrashin’ them stubby arms, tryin t’bat ‘em away from hisse’f. He wuz a-roarin’ an’ a-slashin’ wi’ them big teeth and flingin’ that tail up, down an’ side-a-ways, tryin’ best he could ter bat them pesky thangs off inter the nex’ county. Ya ne’er seed so many bees in one place in all yer life. They jus’ kep’ a-comin’ and teeraynosiris kep’ a-thrashin’ an’ flingin’. Kep’ it up till he beat hisse’f t’death, he did … and that’s the truth!

      “Now, Ole Mayn, as y’all might espect was heart broke. A sadder man I don’ believe I e’er seed in m’whole life,” Reg looking at the floor to express his sadness. “Thur was nought else ta do, so he buried teeraynosiris,” he said pointing at a map in the magazine, “I’d say right ‘bout the same place they dug that’n up yer readin’ ‘bout thur, young feller,”

     “But,” I blubbered in protest, “It says Tyrannosaurus rex lived sixty-five million years ago!” Saying it like I knew something he didn’t.

     Mr. Keetering didn’t blink an eye: “Wull, ya cain’t believe e’rthing you read, you know.”

Exploring the Liberal Mind II

      Last week I teamed with Dr. Friedrich von Schluegenfluegen in an intrepid journey into the brain of a liberal Democrat. We fully understood the danger inherent in such an endeavor, and were amazed and fascinated by what we saw there. Frightening doesn’t begin to describe our adventure. Our report this week continues where we left off, so fasten your seatbelts, folks, and peruse ever onward!

     We approached an area in which there was an immense rubber piggy bank.

     “Wow, Doctor, look at the size of that pig. What’s that written on the side of it? Wash … Washington … Washington, D.C! Wholly ham hocks, and the piggy’s made of rubber. Why rubber?” asked I.

     “Because it stretches every time conservatives lower taxes and revenues pour in. When liberals think they need more money for something, such as pork barrel projects and increasing welfare payments, the expenditure causes it to shrink again. A flexible pig is essential for the maintenance of the republic. Apparently.”

     “You mean the piggy gets hungry when taxpayer “contributions” dwindle due to entitlement requirements?”

     “No, I mean welfare payments. Social Security and Medicare are also entitlements of a sort, but the payouts are seldom increased. Only welfare and Medicaid payments are increased. Did you know that, according to the Heritage Foundation, 47 percent of Americans are on the dole. That means the rest of us are footing the bill for those who don’t wish to work or can’t find a job. Some people collecting unemployment checks aren’t looking for work, as is required by law. They are happy sponging off Americans who do work. And the government doesn’t care. Taxpayers getting screwed again by people who despise taxpayers.”

     “Yes, it is a sad commentary on a once-great people, to be reduced to being slopped by the pigs in Washington. Did you know farmers say pigs don’t poop and eat in the same area in the place where they live? Looks like political pigs do, though. Do you know there’s a nursery rhyme about liberal Democrats?”

     “Why, no, I’ve wouldn’t believe it possible.”

     “Goes like this,” says I: “This little piggy wanted money, This little piggy wanted more, They kept stealing and borrowing it, Till they had money galore, Then they blew it and raised taxes.”

     “Ha! Yes, a good one! It indeed portrays the mind of a liberal. Say, let’s see what this door has behind it.”

     The area behind the door was crammed full of politicians of all ilks, walking about trying to pick the pocket of decent, hard-working people. They would bump them, using the bump as a distraction. The “theft” occurred every time the lights dimmed, signifying the middle of the night in Congress. Ingenious stuff. The taxpayers were portrayed by actors wearing hard hats and carrying lunch pails although it was obvious other workers were included in the parody. This of course was intended to give credence to the axiom, “when shaking hands with a politician, watch what his (her) other hand is doing.” Amen. The training, I was sure, was a required course for all politicians, as the contents of the next door exemplified.

     This space was peopled (or perhaps politicianed is a better term) by representatives of the piggish folks (easily identified by expensive three-piece suits  and shoes and brief cases made from the skins of animals on the endangered species list) walking about with their hands held, palm-up, in front of them. Others, dressed normally in regular old clothes – taxpayers, that is – were intermingled with the piggish ones slapping paper money into their hands (hocks) and trying to yank it back out again before the piggish one could close his hock (hand), signifying it will be forever lost to taxpayers. This too, could not be construed as behavior characteristic of the piggish echelon only. This would also include the near-piggish, as all types of human pigs who call Washington their sty – I mean home – are in constant need of other people’s money and are absolutely shameless when it comes to getting it. (This is one of a couple of reasons the author would never run for a political office. Begging just ain’t my style.)

     The last door we visited shielded a Coronation Room. In this place federal politicians learn the ritual of being anointed to political office. These princes and princesses of the Senate and House often reserve Air Force flying machines, maintained by you and me, for “fact-finding missions” such as flying their entire families to reunions at Club Med or a private island owned by George Soros. Or joining a bunch of  poker-playing buddies in Las Vegas. Or Curacao. Or going shopping in Tokyo. They have over the years had constructed an underground railroad that shuttles them to wherever they wish to go, including the cafeteria and the barber shop. They also rent limos and pay commercial  airline tickets on the taxpayers dime. They are permitted to cash checks in a bank for Congress, with no funds to cover it. NSF checks are run-of-the-mill. When asked to cover the check, the congressperson tells the bank employee to “buzz off” or words to that effect.

     All of these types of behavior must be handled with a reasonable degree of aplomb. The unethical spending of taxpayer dollars must be done as if it was always so and to do otherwise would be unseemly. Just like princes and princesses abuse the accidents of their births, politicians abuse the results of their election to office by carrying on as though nothing less could possibly be expected of them.

     There are a few more places we could investigate in the empty cavity of the liberal’s head but, alas, deadline approaches and I must get my Newshawk Report to you to read with coffee on Sunday morning. So long till next time and God Bless America!

Exploring the Liberal Mind

                           

     That liberalism is a mental disorder has been pointed out by numerous commentators, most notably radio talk show host and author Michael Savage, who wrote a book with that title.

     However, to my way of thinking, “mental disorder” is too polite a term for what ails these people. Disease, epidemic turned pandemic would be more suitable terms. Endemic pathology maybe? Infection of the mental processes? Appropriate, but a little lame. A fungus amungus? Better.

     I visited a friend of mine, Dr. Freidrich von Schluegenfluegen, a professor of mental pathology at The Rat’s Ass University, a busy think tank focusing on the condition of the liberal Democrat mind, such as it is, for many years.

     “Professor, you said on the phone you developed a revolutionary method to probe the morass of inanity that constitutes the liberal thought process. What have you found?”

     “Your description of the liberal mind, such as it is, is most appropriate, Newshawk. A morass of inanity, indeed. Well put, my friend. Eh, eh.”

“Thank you, Professor. That’s great praise from such a monument of intellect as yourself.”

     “Great minds do think alike, don’t they? What I have discovered is a marvelous tool for probing the human mind. Wandering through the mind of a rational, sane human being is a wonderful adventure. Experiencing the surgings of emotion in a human’s daily life, traversing the mountains, knolls, sometimes the plains and, alas, the dips where intelligence is represented, witnessing the groanings of the elderly mind attempting to grasp the intricacies of texting. It is indeed a wonderful thing. However, passage through the mind of a liberal is fraught with all manner of horror. The ragings of demons, the stormings of  hot, foul smelling fumes make such a journey frightful.”

     “You’re saying the liberal mind is a “hell” of a place to be?”

     “Well put, Newshawk.. Phantasmagorically speaking, it’s a gobbledygook of haphazardly dissociative imagery. One is rocked by constantly changing scenes of decomposing progressive diatribe expressed by ragings over the failure of the system and an overreaching desire to be in control of it.”

     “A desire to be in control of a failed system. Interesting. So how do we experience this phenomenon?”

     “Take this pill. It will shrink us down to a size where we can walk through the ear of the liberal I have captured and strapped down on the table over there. I must warn you, Newshawk, you must be very brave. What you are about to experience makes Dante’s descent into Hell look like a Sunday picnic.”

     “Let’s git ‘er done,” appearing much braver than I felt.

We took the pills and a few minutes later, we began to dwindle in stature until we were hardly larger than a nit. Scaling the side of the liberal subject’s face in order to enter his ear was scary indeed, with no paw holds for a nit-sized mitt. Ear lobe achieved, we scurried in past a large block of unQ-tipped earwax, then into the innerworkings of the diseased mind.

     “WOW,” exclaimed I, “how stupid is this place!” marveling at the interior.

     “Yes, the dumbass décor is throughout  It’s a Hillary Clinton original. Follow me, Newshawk,” the professor whispered.
     ”Why are we whispering?” I whispered. “We’re on the crap side of the ear.”

     “Oh, yeah,” he said, reaching for the handle of a door. “Stand back. This could be dangerous.” He cracked the door open and quickly slammed it, but not before a blast of hot, stinky air gushed through the opening. “Oh, man, you don’t want to know what’s in there.”

     “Come on, tell me!”

     “It’s the Hall of Prevarication. It’s the place from which liberal lies originate. It’s a huge place.”

     “I can understand the gust of hot air,” I said, scratching my head in thought. “But what was that horrible smell?”

     “It’s full of shit.”

     Far be it from me to believe a liberal’s mind might be full of shit, but the evidence could not be denied, so I said, “Where to next?”

     “Over here,” he pointed, sneaking up on another door. Slowly, he cracked it open. This time he stood looking inside for moment, a loud hissing sound emanating from the depths, before he slammed it shut.

     “What’s in there?” I wanted to know.

     “It’s THE Closet,” he replied. “It’s a place of sissified goings-on. As you know, liberals ascribe to an effeminate agenda, based on emotion rather than common sense. This place,” hooking a thumb toward the door, “ is where sissy men are coached to appear less like what they are. It’s a rough schedule for some of them who are flaming sissies; the sounds you just heard were the instructor’s attempts to rid them of the lisping aspect of their behavior.  They also undergo training so their butts won’t jiggle when they walk, causing them to appear just a bit less light in the loafers, if you know what I mean.”

     “Are you saying liberals are closet gay people? (Although there’s nothing wrong with that – necessarily.)

     “Perhaps so, perhaps not so. But if one were to judge them by their behavior, there is little doubt. Without lisps, it’s hard to say for sure, that’s why they must undergo training that renders them lispless and jiggleless.”

     “Makes sense, I guess. Pink in politics, lace and pink in the bedroom. But then, how else do you account for the less-than-male betrayal of realAmerican men, their being against everything real men stand for – guns, hunting, entrepreneurialism,  history of the accomplishments of men , which they rewrite in favor of blacks and women, their willingness to dumb down education so less-gifted childrens’ feelings won’t be hurt, belief in God and on and on. Sissy men and macho women have done much to destroy the culture,” I said, thinking out loud

     “All of which they may not get away with if they were allowed to lisp and jiggle. Let’s go over to that big door over there,” he said, taking the lead.

We strode over bravely, but cowered at the muted roar from within. The professor dared to turn the handle and with a deafening blast the door blew off its hinges and slammed into the wall opposite. A maelstrom of vicious, hot air invective interlaced with profanity instantly filled the brain cavity.

     “What the heck is all that?” I queried.

     “Liberal patriotism. It’s their hatred for America dramatized, sort of..”

     “But it’s such a destructive force. It’s pervasive. It’s … its’ mind-boggling!”

     “Exactly.”

(Stay in touch next week for the next episode of our courageous journey through the liberal mind, such as it is. There will more doorways to explore and a partisan, unenlightened evaluation of the contents.)

Nuttiness Goes With the Job?

The more I see of the governor, the more he resembles a maniac. He’s lost the nice guy look and taken on the look of a cranky despot. Mr. Nice Guy, who did his job well for two years, to Ivan the Terrible, a wacked out pinko-guv, driving unwanted legislation down our throats and getting damned mad when we don’t like it.

Crowmo (not a misspelling) is becoming more like our unpresident. BO, formerly referred to as El Uno – his thoughts, not ours – has been demoted by The Flip Side to El Semi Uno: He just can’t haul the freight of the presidency; he’s half fast. He is an unleader, an uninfluence, a mutzer and real, all around zippo. But he wears really nice suits, and he sure doesn’t mind spending our money on family vacations. Just last week one of his daughters went on spring break to Mexico. She took twelve friends, 25 secret service agents and occupied two jet planes. I wonder how long the average joe would need to make the money that trip cost. The guy has some nerve allowing this kind of thing. It shows total disrespect for the American taxpayer. On the other hand, there is no politician that has any respect for our dollars.

The unpresident’s fit of pique defaming Washington politicians following the rejection of the Senate bill seeking more in-depth background checks on gun purchases was telling. His petulance needed only stamping of feet and hair pulling to complete the picture of a person unfit for the job he unfortunately holds. He didn’t get his way. He whined. He did, however, come across mellow bordering on uncaring about the bombing in Boston. This man’s priorities suck.

Six years ago BO was looked upon as our salvation – the Messiah – the Anointed One. He would unify the country (and you can see how well he’s done; the country has never been comprised of so many disparate parts – so much hatred between the races -  until this great unifier arrived on the scene.  Bo was to lead the country out of the economic wreck it had become under past administrations. Just follow him to prosperity, that’s all we had to do, he said. We can see where following BO has taken us – and there seems to be no relief in sight. The putz was arrogant enough to fly around the world to let foreigners gawk at him, as our Savior. He was supposed to bring respect to the US, after years of our “meddling” in the affairs of others. Instead, the man’s a joke the world over. He promised the most transparent administration in the history of the presidency. Compared to this regime the secret government of Richard Nixon was a picture window. I am still much bugged by the Bengazi affair (and remember ing how “open” that investigation has been.) He fooled everyone. As soon as the campaigning ended and laws became difficult to pass because of the loss of the House, BO began folding himself into a fetal position and allowed minions to run the country. I would be willing to wager a fair amount the unpresident is unaware of many of the laws and regulations dumped on the country by unelected BO’s schmos. That is, after all, how one becomes an unpresident.

For the first four years of his reign the talking heads of the media referred to BO’s mismanagement, his mistakes, his failed policies. I for one did not think that way. I thought that just about everything that was done and seemed to fail, was planned that way. He wasn’t a failure at all. After all, how could a guy given a Nobel Prize become a failure? And, come on, if the guy was really trying, wouldn’t he have succeeded once in a while?

At a time when so many of us are thinking one BO is plenty of BOs, another appears in the form of the pinko-guv in New York. He is another guy who gets mad when he doesn’t get his way. And demands angrily his laws be obeyed. But he didn’t start off that way. There for awhile we thought we had a pretty fair governor. He seemed to be straddling the aisle. Things changed. Now, he reminds me of a diaper – needs changing frequently and for the same reason.

The one issue the pinko-guv is attacking (tongue-in-cheek?) is corruption, which is an issue the unpresident would not dare to go near. The pinko-guv is trying to convince us that he will find a why to keep the politicians he deals with everyday from stealing us blind. (Some of these politicians cater to people who repair the roads around the state. Want to know why? The repair people are lobbying to be allowed to use the thinnest, crappiest asphalt, so the roads will have to be repaved more often. That’s right. I understand Sweden lays a high quality asphalt and needs only to repave every twenty years or so. Shameful, ain’t it?)

 Be nice to have honest politicians, wouldn’t it? My guess is most of these honyokkers became politicians because it was the easiest form of crime they could find. We may want to start asking ourselves why so many politicians are running around loose. Ans: Because the prisons are overcrowded.

Truthfully, I keep hearing about honest politicians; I also keep hearing about UFOs, but I’ve never seen either. I think someday I’ll see a UFO.

(None of this is meant to impugn the honesty of our local representatives – Tom O’Mara. Bill Nojay, Phil Palmesano and Tom Reed are straight shooters and as honest as you’ll find. We here in the Southern Tier are fortunate to have men of this caliber representing our interests.)

An Ethics School for Politicians

                      

One of the aspects of American culture that’s become increasing obvious over the years is the similarity between politicians and rats and, yes, even cockroaches. In some cases its evident that rats are more acceptable creatures than their two-legged counterparts.

Rats have a few admirable traits, such as their wont to viciously defend their territory. Even dogs do this. Bears do this. Badgers do this. Even freaking mice do this. But we have a current crop of politicians who won’t even defend their own country. Current president included. On the other hand, I have not read about nor have I heard of a rat who traveled from country to country apologizing for the shortcomings of his country. Nor have I seen the rat that would bow before another world leader rat We have an unpresident who does these things, and this is how he and rats differ. There are some things not even a rat will lower itself to do..

I think it would be a good idea to demand that our politicians, before they dare accept the office they were voted into, take sensibility training. I’m not nearly as concerned about how sensitive they are, as I am in how sensible they are. What we should do is have the rats teach the politicians the finer aspects of integrity and ethical behavior. Rats can be counted on to do the right thing nearly all of the time. Leave a piece of cheese on the counter, a rat will take it. Leave a piece of cheese in the fridge, the rat will leave it alone. But no matter where you leave the cheese, when a politician is around, he or she will steal the cheese. This is especially true if crackers are left near the cheese. Of course, it is unlikely that neither the politician nor the rat will consider bypassing this combination. So you see there are some areas in which the two species are very much alike. There had been higher hopes for mankind.

One might refer to a cockroach as a cross-over species, but close examination would plainly reveal the similarity between cockroaches and politicians is much more evident than that between cockroaches and rats. This is being proven time after time without the slightest possibility of scientific error. Try it. You’ll see what I mean.

So we need to begin trained sessions to properly civilize politicians. Not just the new ones, either. The older ones are the ones who really need to be taught a thing or two. Most of these need lessons elevating them to the level of rats. They, of course, will be the most difficult to train. A life lived in a realm beneath that of rodents oozes from every pore. Don’t let the overbearing odor of cologne fool you – it’s there for reasons other than to disguise the stench of rat sweat.

My plans for a Politician Polytech in mind, I wrote to Professor Ratmeister at the College of Rodentry Psychology and described my idea. It turned out it wasn’t anything new: People had been trying to instill ethical values and common sense into politicians ever since the first one got caught with his hand in the cookie jar (although it was actually two hands and he was nabbed robbing his youngest child’s piggy bank).

Professor Ratmeister wrote back: “Good luck teaching these rascals anything. These, I believe to be a wholly untrainable life form. I’ll tell you why. I had one here once with the idealistic dream of creating an honest politician. The damned thing hissed and gnashed it teeth when something it wanted to steal was removed from its reach; It crapped all over everything it came into contact with, said it would do one thing then did something entirely different when offered money, said it was a good red-blooded American, but was really a lousy pinko bastard.”

Hey, wait a minute, I thought, even a rat ain’t that bad. It would indeed be difficult for a rat to teach a politician to be honorable if this were indeed true. There would be nothing to build on, for heaven’s sake. The poor rat would have to start from scratch.

Salad Days: Then All Downhill

I must apologize for the lateness of today’s blog. We experienced a power failure this morning and everything on the computer was lost. Luckily, I had it all backed up by Mozy.com; we were able to retrieve the content, except for a part that was not accessible. A chat with a tech at Mozy got me back up. It’s all in the know-how, it seems.

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      As a person just entering my sunset years I am appalled at how much the world has changed since my salad days. And I do mean appalled.

There is little resemblance today to the days of yore, and not only as regards physical things such as space travel, cell phone technology, computer science and the wonders of medical research, but in people. What people want, what people think, what they think is right and proper has changed so much since the moral principles of the salad days set the tone of the day. It seems as though there is no morality today. People think it’s okay to lie, okay to cheat, okay to steal. Actions that were wrong in my youth, but no so today.

There is a lot being made of this business of same-sex marriage. I’m not going to get into a discussion of right and wrong on that issue – I’ve know gays who have lived together happily for 20-25 years; who am I to argue with that kind of success when other-sex couples are getting divorced in record numbers? See what I mean? Things just aren’t what they used to be – more gay people getting married, more straight people getting divorced? What would the god-fearing parents of the baby-boomer generation think of such a thing?

This business of abortion really pisses me off. How can there be so many people caring so little for the 60 million or so unborn humans destroyed in the past forty years? I read there were some who were actually celebrating the fortieth anniversary of RvW. Celebrating? Apparently, there are many more Americans who now believe it’s okay to kill babies than there used to be back in our salad days. That’s not encouraging news. This doesn’t seem like something it would be okay to get used to. Like fat-free diets, say, or the making of we buy being made in China.

Actually, there is something wrong with fat-free diets – they’re unhealthy. There are many healthful benefits to eating foods with fat – steak, butter, pork, cheese. But we knew all that back in the salad days, before the government got involved with what we eat. We knew man cannot live by salad alone. Eh, eh.

Back in the salad days we had, or at least thought we had, teachers with more backbone than they have now. Teachers of yore would have never considered selling out several generations of children in their charge, to the dumbed-down education theories of liberal democrats. No way. We can thank the over-population of women in education for the decline of it. Sorry ladies, the death of the American education system began at the same time you began acquiring higher positions in it.

Whoever – and I’m sure it had to be a bureaucrat – came up with these HIPA laws should be bitch-slapped – and not just once. My wife of more than 40 years cannot legally call my doctor and discuss my health. You cannot call the Social Security Administration and talk about your wife’s account, even when she is sitting right there next to you. Now I can see not being able to talk about someone else’s private information. Say, my neighbor up the street. I have no business knowing that person’s business, just as they have no business knowing mine. I may be wrong (but it’s not likely) but I think this whole thing got started with advent of the AIDS epidemic. My wife was a nurse at the time, and she said it was illegal for a medical professional to notify another in any way that a patient had AIDS. The crackpot politicians who passed this bend-over-and-drop-your-drawers legislation into law endangered not only the entire medical community but their families and friends, all to keep secret that particular group of people had a deadly, contagious disease. But instead of getting rid of this crazy law, it’s become worse, as laws always do when government is involved. I do not recall a time when a law was repealed. Except prohibition, of course, and that only because of the mess the government made trying to legislate something it had no business getting involved in.

It looks as though the time has come and gone to see men who look like real men play tough guy parts in the movies and on TV. And it’s tiresome seeing female actors act tougher than the men who seem forbidden to act manly. Watching women kick men’s asses, shoot straighter, run faster, and figure out who the killer is all the time because they are portrayed to be smarter, even though it’s all pretend, is crapola, but it apparently appeals to women who watch this junk. What’s also bothersome is watching 25-year-old hunks play roles better filled by more mature men. It’s gotten to the point where most of the real men are older. It least they lisp less then the younger set.

Another thing, people used to be more courteous to one another.  How many times has a person in a hurry bumped into you and not bothered to apologize? How many times have you approached a door just behind somebody and he/she couldn’t be bothered to hold the door for you. How many times have you gone to a restaurant where there’s no other customers and you wait and wait to be served? There are many examples of discourteousness that I don’t remember as being a part of the culture back in the day. We can hang this one on the parents who, for the most part, are as classless as their kids.

We have evolved with all of these changes? Or have we?

Isn’t evolution supposed to make us better?

So whadya think? Are we any better?