Sunday, October 8, 2017

A Wild Reception for Columbus


As Columbus Day, the day set aside to honor the great explorer, who is said to have discovered America but really didn’t (he was too late)., approached I began wondering what it would have been like for Chris and his pals when they landed in America that day in October, 1492. What kind of day was it? What sort of inhabitants greeted him? Were they happy to see Chris or upset about him and his crew being there? What if he landed there today? Since, as we all know most anything of importance can be found in the Wimodaughsian Library in Canisteo. I went there and, sure enough, found a DVD of Columbus’ historic landing.  The first scene shows the intrepid captain and his sidekick Amerigo debarking a ship’s dinghy and striding up the beach to parley with a welcoming committee of six rather strangely attired natives.

     “Wha’choo wont here, sucka?” demanded a black resident.

     “I’m Christopher Columbus, the great explorer, and I’m sailing to the West Indies to find gold, spices and slaves for Queen Isabella. If this is the West Indies, then you must be an Indian.”

     “Oo-oo-oo,” crooned a gay blade, “a real queen! I wonder what sheth like.”

     “Naw, man, I ain’t no Inin,” said the black guy. “That there’s an Inin,” hooking a thumb at a short, chubby guy with long hair. “Only they ain’t called Inins no mo’, they called Native Americans.”

     “And what do they call you?” Chris wanted to know.

     “I’m African-American.”

     “Would you now where Africa is?”

     “Naw, I dunno, man. It’s not my thing, ya know?” shrugging. “Somewhere.”

     “Why are you all called different things?” asks Chris. “You all live here together, don’t you?” He looked over each one of the group. “So what’s he?” nodding toward the gay guy.

     “He’s gay.”

     “Is that so? Does that mean he’s a happy American?” thinking he was getting the hang of this diversity business

     “Oh, we can be made happy,” giving Chris an appraising eye but not missing the sword slung from his left hip. “But, alas, we’re not happy now,” looking dejected.

     “You poor thing! One wonders what it would take to make you happy,” remarked the explorer.

     “You don’t want to go there!” sneered a member of NOW.

     “Oh, shusth, you, you woman,” angry now, standing arms akimbo. “We have rights, too, you know!” stamping his/her foot.”

     “Wow,” marveled the environmentalist commie, “ you come across pretty strong for a guy who gets his panties from an egg.”

     “What a drag, man, what rights do you think you have? We the ones that need rights. We need reparations, man,” says the black guy.

     “And we’ll make sure you get them, too,” smirked the chick from the ACLU, “just as soon as we get all the pictures of Jesus out of the schools.”

     “And what will that accomplish?” asks the Catholic captain.

     “Ah, I don’t know,” the chick replied, shrugged her scrawny shoulders, “It’s just what we do. If we didn’t have that to do, we would have to find real jobs.”

     “You make a career of removing from schools pictures of the greatest teacher in the history of the word? What a remarkable way to spend your life,” said Chris. “And what irrelevant matters occupy your mind, my dear,” directing the question to the environmental chick.

     “I was wondering, sir, how many little fish you murdered when you walked ashore a few minutes ago. And there you stand, thoughtlessly swatting at indigent bugs that land on you. It’s not their fault you’re here. A typical white male bully, that’s what you are,” eyes narrowed, a sneer showing a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth appears.

     “Sorry I asked,” says Chris.

     “Hey, Captain,” yelled a mouth from the NOW crowd. “how many women do you have working on those ships out there?” pointing to the Pinta, the Nina and the Santa Maria bobbing in the bay.

     “What do you want to know for?” asked the captain, suspicious of the NAG’S motives, leaning toward her, getting in her face.

     “My group is interested in knowing if women are getting paid the same as men,” spitting the last word, “and that they aren’t being sexually harassed in the kitchen.”

     “If we allowed women on board, Miss Mouth, we would sexually harass them when and where we damned well pleased. I assume women who yammer of such things are attempting to extort doubloons from the people they work for. We respond to that with a good flogging. They never cause us men any trouble after that. Oh, by the way, the space to which you refer is called a galley.”

     “No women on board? What’s the matter, Captain, don’t think women can hoist them sails, coil them ropes, weigh that anchor?” sneering into his face.

     “I’ll bet therth no gay people either,” whimpered the gay Bermudan, “We can hoist and coil and weigh, too,” dabbing some snot off his/her nose and a tear from his/her eye.

     “Lady, the last woman who spoke to me like that ended up as an anchor,” Chris’ face crimson now. “I’m tired of this crap. You!” pointing to the black guy. “Get some men together, chop down some of the those trees over there and build me a cabin.”

     “Whoa, hold on there,” yipped the chick from the EPA. “You can’t be chopping down those trees for houses. Owls and canaries live there. Where will they go?”

     “How about a different tree? There’s a whole forest of them further down the beach.” Amerigo Vespucci chiming in for the first time”

     “Wha’chu mean, sucka, build a cabin? I ain’t buildin’ no damn cabin. No way! My gub’ment check don’t cover no manual labor.”

     “Mine edder. Me no build no damn cabin, edder,” said the Indian guy.

     “This is some bunch of crackpots, Captain,” whispers Amerigo. “We should toss ‘em all in irons, put gags on them mouthy women, chain Tinkerbell there to the bow in case we lose an anchor.”

     The environmentalist wasn’t done yet: “Whatsa matter, MisterConqueror, don’t think owls and canaries should have rights too? And trees?”

     “Trees? Trees have rights?” stammered Chris.

     “And fetuses.”

     “No they don’t!” howled the nag from NOW.

     “Do so!”

     “Do not!”

     “All animals have rights, too,” insisted the tree hugger.

     “Oh, for chrissakes,” howled Chris.

     “So do black folks.”

     ‘’And gayths,” lisped Tinkerbell.

     “So do Innins.”

     “So do criminals. And victims.”

     “Victims? Victims of what?”

     “Anything.”

     “We need rules for tranthexuals. It’s not fair …”

     “Transexuals had better learn to use properly designated restrooms,” said a huge man standing on hillside nearby. He leaned against a tree pounding the side of a double-bitted ax into his palm. “I see one of them fellers that should be taking a leak in the Men’s Room dangling his bidness in the Girl’s Room, I know just how to make him the girl he wants to be,” he said, spinning the ax in his hand.

      “Watch it, buster,” said the ACLU chick, pointing a finger at the big man. “You take the law into your own hands and …”

      “Don’t worry, lady. I won’t be taking anything into my own hands, eh, eh,” spinning the ax.

     “Ah-ah-ah-ah, let me outta here,” howled the crazed explorer. He and Amerigo parted company with America’s natives and sprinted down the beach to their dinghy. “Ho, ho, gotta go!” he yelled as they pushed off and hastily rowed into the waves. “Let’s head further down the coast,” suggested Chris, “maybe we can find a kinder, gentler place to discover … maybe someplace with an abortion factory … or having a mass execution … or maybe even a Nazi demonstration. All of which would be friendlier places to discover. Hurry, Amerigo! Don’t look back!”

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Stumblin' over "His" and "Hers"


I promised myself I was not going to write about religion, politics, or football this week. So I had to think over what was left to write about.

I was skunked until I somehow got into an article on MSN.com news about a Russian girl who went all out to acquire the looks and the physique of a Barbie doll – doll-like face, long blonde hair, exciting breasts, ultra-thin waist, long, slim legs with no cellulite. You get the picture.

 According to the pictures shown with the article, she came real close to looking exactly like a Barbie.  The part about her I didn’t get was that she was very rude to people less attractive than she (she compared Sarah Jessica Parker to a horse. While I never considered Parker a raving beauty, I don’t think “horse” was an apt, or a kind, description, especially coming from someone who spent every minute of the day trying to look more beautiful. Personally I think the Russian babe missed the mark. Up close, she appeared too “made up” to be beautiful.)

Apparently, this chick, who is heavy into spirituality, has a large following of Russian dames trying to look and act as she does. It’s good to know that there are at least some girls trying to look fit. There sure aren’t too many of them around here with the same mind set.  I’ve seen far too many young women walking around with rolls of fat protruding from under their tank tops and with thighs of the dimensions of a Russian weight lifter. When these gals bend over, we’re all treated to the “plumber’s view” of their butts.  This kind of body is a gift from sitting around with a video game, eating potato chips and drinking Pepsi, and avoiding the gym like the plague.

While the girls strive not to look their best, modern-day boys tend to emulate them. I’ve never seen so many effeminate guys. They walk with a bit of a swish, and lisp as though there is something caught between two front teeth. When the girls at least remember to comb their hair, the boys don’t bother. There are none who own a comb or a brush, that or they’ve not been taught how to use them.

Over the years there have been many different dolls –some, stare into space, some cry ‘Mama” when moved, some go”wee-wee” when properly stimulated. I always figured these to be “girl” dolls, though they could have been any gender. The first dolls I remember being of different sexes were Raggedy Anne and Andy.

Now I see where Mattel (the maker of Barbi and her boy pal, Ken) have expanded their idea of the “all-American male.” Only from the looks of things, “all-American” is a bit of a stretch. I grew up in a time when men were men (remember that part of the “All in the Family” theme song that went, “Girls were girls, and men were men; Mr. we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.” Men looked like men, men talked like men, men dressed like men, and they knew how to comb their hair. We are surrounded now by what has come to be known as “metrosexuals.” I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I think it has to do with a mix of heterosexual and homosexual, metros being the guys that sort of look like guys but swish when they walk and lisp when they talk, and haven’t made up their minds who to sleep with yet (Maybe they never will).

 Mattel’s new metrosex dolls possess different skin tones , different hairstyles, different heights and builds, but from the looks of things manliness is passé. There are no dolls with beards or baseball caps. No bald heads. None are carrying a fishing pole or, God forbid, a rifle.

The average man in the East is a man by nature, the average man in the West is a man by culture. Western tradition held that a man needed to be a man: act like man, dress like a man, (which meant combing your hair before coming to the dinner table), and not taking any crap off anybody. And going hunting and fishing, playing football. (Soccer was out‒it was considered a girls’ game.) Much like it was here in the East, but wearing a cowboy hat and boots, and driving a pickup truck.
 I’m thinking we manly mendare I say macho menwill in a few years be replaced by “guys” that aren’t quite

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Taking $ from FDA Bad for Public Health


Sometimes I get a little weary about the laxity in standards in this country. I really wonder if there is a companyanywherewho wouldn’t do anything it takes to sell its products. Legal or illegal, moral or immoral, whatever it takes, as long they didn’t get caught.

For instance, there is a popular soda pop company that started selling its beverage in the 1800s. To insure a steady stream of customers, the company laced its drink with cocaine, which company officials knew was addicting. After addiction became epidemic, and hospital wards were swarming with newly minted cocaine addicts, the government stepped in and put a stop to the practice of drugging Americans in an attempt to get them to buy more of the company’s  soft drinks. Question: Do you think for a minute this company would not again begin the practice of lacing its beverages with cocaine if it was thought they could get away with it? And how do we know it’s not happening now? Can government agencies be trusted to periodically check the products of the beverage companies for addicting drugs. How can we be sure that a fat check sent to, say, the FDA couldn’t persuade one of its officers to turn the other way when samples of drug-laced beverages are submitted for testing?

You would likely think, Well, aren’t there rules to prevent such a practice?

The answer is, yes there are.

You might ask, Don’t American taxpayers pay the government (through taxation), which in turn pays the salaries of FDA officials to enforce the rules to protect those who eat, drink, and use medications approved by this department of the government?

You would think the answer would be an unequivocal Yes! But you would be only half right.

You see, the government pays only a part of the money that supports the FDA. Guess who pays the other part. If you said the industry that the FDA was created to oversee, you would be right.

Unbelieveable, given the sleezy reputation of the pharmaceutical companies, but absolutely true.

Since the Prescription Drug User Fee Act of 1992, which says companies seeking approval for new drugs or drug updates must fork over user fees to the FDA, the pharmaceutical companies pay half the support for the agency. Before 1992, we taxpayers paid the whole bill, which, it would seem, makes the process much safer.  Remember, the drug companies are the ones who publicly say they will finance the testing of such-and-such experimental drug, but when the results don’t support the theory, they secretly discontinue testing, rearrange the data and submit bogus results for approval. The 1992 law says forget all the expensive preparation and just submit the crapola. We’ll take care of everything. Doesn’t that make you feel safe, though?

As this report is a bit out of sync with what I usually write, perhaps an explanation is in order. The reason I bring this up (seeing as the law has been in effect for 25 years) is that, according to statnews.com  Trump budgeteers plan to reduce the FDA’s budget by one billion dollars in the 2018 budget. The plan will mean that drug companies cough up higher user fees than in the past. Big Pharma is not accustomed to losing money via reduced profits and so can be expected to recoop what they can. Higher product prices, of course, but the most disturbing aspect is the possibility of “buying” the approval of a drug that may not be ready just yet. Or ever be ready.

I don’t think reducing the funding available for the proper inspection of medicines sold to the public is a safe and proper way to save money. There must be other places from which money can be removed that isn’t so potentially deleterious to public health.

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

How "Her"icanes Got Their Names


I’ve been wondering about all of these hurricanes and I’m pretty happy we don’t live anywhere near where hurricanes are.

If you thought Katrina was bad, back in ’05, Harvey was a complete disaster and it appears Irma was no pussy cat.

I began wondering about the names of hurricanes, so I did what most citizens in the Internet world do: I googled it. ( Google is, as you must know, the most important verb in the English language. It is the answer to almost any question and has been known to open up the whole world for those who avail themselves of it. But you must be sure not to let Google know too much about you, as the company has an intimate relationship with the feds.)

My first question regarding the names of hurricanes is where the names came from. Before 1979 all hurricanes had female names (a system begun in 1953)Gloria, Agnes, Hermione(?)but a group of women with nothing better to do with themselves, probably the NOW gang, thought it sexist that “her”icanes all were given women’s names. The issue was brought up in Congress (who very seldom has enough to do or when it does, very seldom does anything appropriate about it.) and a law was passed that made it a requirement that half of the she-named storms had to have boys names. So now we have Andrew, George, Rico and Jose and so on and on.

Something I didn’t know (or suspect)is that storms are named six years in advance. There are lists for the next six years. For example, this year hurricanes with such names as Arlene, Bret, Cindy, Don, Emily, Franklin, and Gert have blown through someplace, and then as we by now know, Harvey, Irma, and perhaps, Katia, and if there are more storms, they’ll be called Lee, Maria, Nate and Ophelia, etc. I didn’t know hurricanes were prenamed. I had always thought some guy at the weather service said, “Okay, folks, here comes another one. Let’s put our heads together and think up a name. U-m-m let's see, we need a female name that begins with an “R”. Okay?” Next year the first three storms will be tagged Alberto, Beryl and Chris; in 2019, Andrea, Barry and Chantel. In 2023, a rotation of the same names used from 2017 through 2022 starts all over again.

There is, of course, an exception to the rule. If a storm is so deadly or costly that the use of its name for future storms would be considered inappropriate for (now hold onto your hats!) reasons of insensitivity, its name will be deleted from upcoming  lists. Yep. I hadn’t realized we needed to be concerned with the feelings of storms, but as we are so sympathetic to almost every other thing, it wasn’t hard to see it coming. (Yeah, I know what they meant, but it's fun to make fun of.)

For example, the name Camille (1969) was stricken from the list; Agnes has been stricken (as per the storm of 1972), Andrew because of its devastation in 1992; and Catrina, Dennis, Rita, Stan and Wilma (as per the storms of ’05); Sandy in 2012; Just last year the names Matthew and Otto were erased. There are many others (as our sensitivity increases). I just discovered my own namesakeFredericwas scratched in 1979, but I have no weepy feelings about it (but I’ll bet it got a bum rap).

There no doubt that we will never hear about another Harvey again. Or an Irma. It’s said Jose may linger for several days before assailing the Atlantic coast at some point. And “Katia” is out there someplace, destination unknown. Whether we’ll see either of the latter two on a list again is, at this point, a question mark. Let’s just say we hope not.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

From CNN to Congress, the BS Gets Deeper

As we are all aware, President Trump is being given a rough time. Not only foot-and-soldier Liberals (Progressives, whatever) hate the man because HRC lost the election, the warped media and even members of his own party, want to oust him from office. It's easy to understand the reasoning of Liberals (Progressives, whatever) and the liberal media, but why are fellow Republicans wanting him out? It doesn't make sense, unless, of course, the motives of the Right are known: President Trump wants to drain the swamp, the swamp likes things just the way they are.
When we parted company last week Red-State Louie, Pud Politico and I were sloshing through the halls and offices of the Center for Nitwitty News (CNN). As we progressed along it became necessary to exchange sneakers for knee-high galoshes, and a nice, young Republican entrepreneur out to make a few dollars, provided us with gas masks, in order to allow us to breathe; the stench was really getting bad.
We left the Center for Nitwitty News through a back door and crossed the street toward the Halls of Congress. The sloshing was becoming more and more difficult as the BS become outlandishly deep. Luckily another young Republican entrepreneur had a booth set up on the corner, selling hip waders. The BS was sneaking in over the tops of the knee-highs as we approached to look over the many styles and colors of hip waders on display. They came in pink and yellow, the most popular were those in variegated color patterns (for the ladies, I presume, but we were mildly shocked at the number of frilly patterns being chosen by frilly men).
Red State and I chose a pair of unfrilly black waders with white mermaid glued on the sides; Pud selected a pair of light green and chartreuse boots patterned in a series of ornate question marks, which caused the young entrepreneur to raise his eyebrows. He relaxed a bit when we explained that Pud was a Liberal (progressive, whatever) twit. The guy smiles and says he sees quite a lot of that around here.
We were given a nominal trade-in allowance for our knee boots. We slipped on the waders, making sure to fasten the shoulder straps (the guy recommended that we do so because the "excrement is very deep in the Halls of Congress."
And, boy, he wasn't kidding. It wasn't so much the depth of stuff at normal levels, but those lapping waves are a bitch. Seeing everyone in hip waders and a gas mask yondering through the poop was a rip.
We hadn't traveled far when we came upon a man trekking along clutching a stack of folders to his chest, and not wearing boots or a gas mask. He was headed somewhere talking on a cell phone and laughing about something. I stopped and asked him where were his boots and mask.
"Why would I need those things," he asked, his face an amused question.
"Because of the really bad smell and the hip deep BS we are walking through," says I.
"Funny, I don't smell anything bad, and we in the Senate refuse to lower our work to the level of BS."
"What would you call what you do?"
"We call it the important work of the people," says he.
"Is that so?"
"Yep."
"What was the last important thing you did?"
"Actually, we have a lot of important legislation we're holding back, until we get rid of Trump," he said with a smirk. "We're for a lot of things the president doesn't like."
"Let me guess," says I, "you guys want to spend more money foolishly and Trump won't go for it. Right?"
The guy offers up an embarrassed shrug, and with a red face, says, "Well, er, I wouldn't call it 'foolish', exactly."
"What exactly would you call what Congress does? I mean other than approve the policy of asset forfeiture, effectively allowing offices of the federal government to steal the belongings from homes in the private sector."
"Well, you see ... um, we didn't think the time was right for a, uh,  tax increase, and as we like to spend money and needed more of it ..."
"You thought it would be okay to just take it from the people. That's theft!"
"But when Congress steals, er, that is, takes the money, it's okay."
"It may be legal, but it ain't okay. Not all of that money is used for legitimate purposes, I hear; what happens to the rest?"
"Well, eh, eh, I'm not supposed to say."
"I hear Congress threw an incredible Christmas bash last year using forfeiture money. And did ATFB actually use a chunk to buy a luxury yacht to play around in?"
"I wouldn't know anything about that." Clutching the folders tighter, he said, "I really have to go. Duty calls."
"And there's still money to be spent?"
"Of course. And you know something, smart ass, there ain't a damn thing you can do about it"
And that's exactly why we were wearing hip boots and gas masks.






















Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Inside the Center for Nitwitty News


Have you been wondering what the big fuss over Confederate monuments is all about? Since we talked together last week, there has been a huge upheaval in interest about the monuments, most of which were raised more than a century ago.

There’s something fishy going on here.

Something diabolical is happening.

It sure enough has to be a cabal of Progressive rabble-rousers attempting to cause problems for the president. Hillary Clinton? Barack Obama? George Soros? Or any number of other low-lying creatures (say, the national media) trying to have President Trump impeached (for who knows what? He’s done nothing illegal.)We should applaud the man for hanging in there in opposing the slings and potshots flung his way.

No member of the media that I have heard has had a single decent thing to say about Donald Trump, although the man has set an ambitious agenda that would Make America Great Again. It appears he’s not getting very much help from anywhere, left or right. It could be Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell got something right when he stated that perhaps the president was not accustomed to the slower pace that legislation in D.C. takes. I’m sure there are no successful CEOs who would tolerate such a pace in business. It doesn’t work that way in the world of industry – you get it done yesterday !

I must admit that I don’t have much time for watching CNN, MSNBC and other crappy stations of that kind. The few times I have listened, I quickly got the gist of the conversations ‒ Everything is Trump’s fault. Trump won the election because of the Russians. Impeach Trump! Never once have I heard a satisfactory reason for impeaching the president, other than these networks don’t like him and they’re mad as hell that Hillary lost the election.

Tough shit, I say. I didn’t like it when Barack O. won back in ’08, either.

The truth is, though, there’s still good and bad news. The good news is the House leader has chosen not to censure the president – the reason being, there is no reason to. Much more disturbing is that the LGBTQ (it’s getting more and more difficult not to be represented by one of those letters) is considering suing for reparations for fat, black, oddball chicks. (Do not doubt me – if this baloney is brought forward for legislative debate (especially in New York), we will be supporting fat, black, queer chicks. It’s a done deal. Politicians do not have the cojones to vote it down.)

 

Meanwhile, back to our investigation of the roots of the latest social turmoil. Me and my buddy Red State Louie and our not-too-bright Progressive hanger-on, Pud Politico, were cracking back a few at the Gurglin’ Hen and Psuedo-Rooster House of Cocktails, near Democrat headquarters in D.C.

“Didja hear,” says our erudite Liberal colleague, “where Virginia Governor McAuliffe has stepped forward to propose profound anti-gun legislation again. He’s a hell of a man, that McAuliffe, ain’t he?” Pud raised a glass of green beer to toast the governor. “Although I don’t suppose you two will think much of it.”

Red State slugged down a shot of barleycorn neat, and says, “We don’t think nothing of it because McAuliffe’s an idiot, just like the retard in the governor’s office in New York.

“Tell us something, Pud, if nobody was shot at at Charlottesville, why does the governor think it’s necessary to bring up the gun issue again?”

“But, er …”

“Shut up, Pud,” says I. Let’s take a walk over to the CNN building. I’ll bet we can get some real poop on social turmoil over there.”

“CNN? Why are you picking on CNN?” asked Pud.

“It’s the Center for Nitwitty News. If there’s any behind-the-scenes crapola going on to foment riots in the country, the Center for Nitwitty News is the right place to start looking.”

It didn’t take long to verify my observation. An unpleasant odor wafted on the afternoon D.C. breeze. The closer we strode the stinkier the smell roiled to greet our nostrils. At the entrance some enterprising young fellow, obviously a Conservative entrepreneur trying to make a buck, was selling disposable oxygen masks. The only people not breathing through such an apparatus were obviously Liberal employees, who did not recognize the stink as stink. For them, everything was fine.

We each bought a mask and quickly slipped it on. What a relief! We then progressed to the back of the lobby to wait for an elevator.  We stopped at the first floor.

As the doors slid open we viewed the Center for Nitwitty News newsroom. The place was huge and, by the looks of things, there was a lot of smelly stuff happening in the news‒or maybe just the newsroom.

“Look at the monitor,” yelled one reporter, obviously a novice, “there’s a triple murder in Baltimore! Three cops shot down!”

“Never mind that,” yelped an editor, “here’s a report that came from someplace that says an anonymous email was sent to somebody that says that maybe President Trump got help from the Russians in the election  … Get right on it; I want it for the 6 o’clock news.”

“You see there,” yelped Politico, “now that’s real investigative reporting. That editor should be up for a Pulitzer. I’m notifying the committee right now,” he said reaching for his phone.

Red State and I progressed on through the room, leaving Pud in his tracks. The floors became slippery with a smelly brown substance that we soon recognized as bullshit. As it began slopping over the tops of our sneakers we stumbled into a closet and found, to our everlasting relief, a box of knee-high galoshes. We quickly slipped into a pair and continued our walk through the dark halls of pernicious, Progressive  rumors.

There were offices on either side of a long hallway. From well down the hall a voice rang out, “Halleluyah, lookee here! A government truck collided with a bus that had a donkey painted on the side in Hollywood.  An obvious political smackdown on Progressive ideas and ideals. I think we can blame it on Trump and demand impeachment. Get on it, People!”

“Now there you go,” howls Pud, “Progressives doing their jobs. I love it.!”

“Doing their jobs?” asks Red State. “Whatever do you mean? Since when have Progressives had any Ideas and ideals? It’s just a bunch of jackasses braying at the moon.”

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

What? There are Nuts in California?


While sitting back this morning, enjoying a magazine and a cup of joe, wondering what to put into this space, I encountered a story about my boyhood hometown.

Now you might wonder why I would think a story about my boyhood hometown would interest you (and maybe it won’t), but give me few lines to make my case.

A couple of years ago, while beginning a memoir, I went on Google Earth to find the place of my youth. I hardly recognized the place; it is quite a bit bigger than when I left there many years ago. At that time the population of Los Molinos, California was around 500; now it’s upwards of 3,000. Quite a difference. As there is not much by way of job opportunities in the village, I thought it might be a bedroom community for Red Bluff, a town about 16 miles north. Then I noticed one of those popup websites that said Red Bluff was one of the 10 most redneck towns in Californiajust like Hornell, Bath and Penn Yan are in New York. After scanning around with the online satellite, I began wondering why Los Molinos wasn’t designated a redneck town. Must not have had a Walmart, which really is one of the criteria.

Anyway, I scanned south in order to find the old homestead. It would have been mostly unrecognizable except for the two streams running through it that flow in a recognizable pattern. The old farmhouse was gone, burned down according to one source then replaced with an equipment shed. The biggest difference was a half mile north at the site of the farm buildings. Nothing there was the same; similar but different, causing a twinge of nostalgia to pass through me, a longing for what had been.

The item in the magazine that seized my eye spoke of Los Molinos, now a mecca for nut growers, as the site for a major theft of walnuts.

Los Molinos is situated on the northern edge of California’s Central Valley, the agricultural center of the state and one of the largest of food production areas in the United States. The northern area, in which the old homestead rests, has been turned over to the production of walnuts. Not entirely, of course, but mostly. Most of the land east of US99E was in walnuts.

Tehama County, where the village sits, has always been an agricultural community; every kind of edible product was grown there. We had a dairy farm, next door to the north cropsoats, barley, alfalfa were grown, next it was pigs; further north were prune orchards. The farm to the south grew peaches and grapes and pigs (An adventure of mine on each of these places can be read in the memoir, which will be out in the few months). A friend’s dad had honey bees. And on and on. Now it was mostly nuts.

The way things are going in California, I would have thought all of the nuts would be found in Sacramento (the capital) or Beverly Hills (where the movie stars live.) This became a paramount idea when it was announced that California was seceding from the union. You had to know there were nuts behind that idea. Then they doubled down by making every town a sanctuary for illegal aliens, even though the state would lose most of its federal funding for doing so. I’m sure they were incensed at the audacity of Republican President Trump’s making such a suggestion, but the sages of Sacramento simply said they would raise taxes to cover the loss. Now most of us know that California is one of the highest taxed states in the union already. Right? But the nuts, and there are lots and lots of nuts in California, said “Ah, go ahead and tax us some more. We’d like it!”

Whadya expect? These are mostly Liberals, you know. Most of the state’s Conservatives have already left the Nut State for less nutty places to live. The move became imperative when it was divulged that the loss of federal money far exceeded the state’s GDP. But that was only Reason Numero Uno. Numero DosThe legislation sanctioning sanctuary to people who should not be allowed in the United States did not address those with criminals records. So not only do California Nuts have to support welfare-bound illegals, they will have to fork over more of their pay in order to punish evil-doers.

But what the heck? These are nutty Liberals we’re talking about. You can just hear them, now: “Taxes? More taxes? Heck, man, bring ‘em on! We’re stupid-assed Liberals. We’d enjoy that!”
But please keep in mind, oh readers of mine, the ones saying this are Southern Nuts. We from the North are much smarteralthough we are known to use an illegal to pick a few nuts from time to time. And milk the cows and feed the pigs and harvest the grapes and the apples and the

The Flip Side