She Was a Dark and Stormy Spitfire

Nothing like somebody else's bad writing to put a superior smirk on those of us who would like to think we're above it. A San Jose State U contest rewards those who prove they're capable of the worst writing. The winner wrote about carburetors and breasts, things his skilled fingers know quite well to hear him tell it with his top notch bad writing. I would probably come up with something like this...

-The 50's greaser caught her eye at the stop sign and popped the clutch, provoking an orgasmic squeal of hot rubber that went right through her. He was sure that his pair of deuces under the hood would put her pair of knockers in the back seat before the night was over. - See? That's some bad writing, and yet probably not good enough bad writing to win a prize, which would make me a mediocre bad writer.

To paraphrase our friend, Mickey on Sir Prize, you can just about get away with bad writing if you've learned how to be comfortable with yourself. And, of course, if not too many people read it.

Back in the harness

What an ordeal. After this home built computer started misbehaving, the old feeder, who has an attention he can focus like an electron microscope, became unwholesomely fixated on the problem.

Call it obsessive-compulsive syndrome, or even the disorder OCD, if you like. For weeks nothing but getting the box to work mattered, everything else was neglected. Blog? Hell, I hardly bathed.

It turned out that the RAM speed settings needed to be changed following a “Critical Update”. Who would have guessed? Anyhow, it’s all fixed.

My extraordinary focus gave rise to a great backlog of chores. My clothes needed laundering, my dishes went all moldy, and the leaky roof stayed unpatched. Every weed at the Feedlot grew even as the grass turned brown and the garden wilted. Spiders took over my workshop.

Almost caught up, I feel like I need a vacation. Guess I’ll get back into blogging again. But slowly. The second it smacks of work, I’m going to the Lakes!

The clumsily photoshopped picture is entirely gratuitous.

Greco- Grizzly Rules

I suppose the first rule is don't climb into a cage with a grizzly bear like a drunken Ukrainian did and challenge it to a wrestling match. He may have been a pretty tough guy but...not nearly tuff enuff and for sure not too smart, even for a Ukrainian drunk. I find it a convenient metaphor to explain the thousands of beautiful women of that country who are actively trying to become wives of American men and other foreigners.

Presumably American guys who have good jobs or their own businesses, the sorts of endeavors that have never flourished under socialism or communism. A complaint often voiced by women in the Ukraine is that the local guys are too involved in getting drunk, one of the few areas that countries of the old USSR could probably put the US to shame.

But who am I to preach? Forty years ago I would gladly have joined the drunken entourage that followed that fool to the zoo. In America when you shake off that hangover there's usually a decent job waiting for you. I hope we can keep it going.

Never Ask a Turtle Nothin'

Once in awhile I run across a story that calls for further investigation. Such is the case with the story of a man in China who got caught posing as a hunchback, with his pet turtle as the hunch so he could take the turtle on a plane with him. Kinda choked me up, that he thought so much of the turtle that he would go to all that trouble for it so I decided to give Red China a ring on the phone and tell him what a fine fella he is.

As the the old boy was taking a nap the turtle answered the phone. I told Mr. Turtle what I'd heard and found out the turtle was mad as hell about the incident. The plan was his idea and he claimed it would have worked except the man screwed it up by refusing to bend over like a real hunchback. To keep from sliding down the man's back the turtle had to stick his legs out and dig in, thereby scratching the man's back. The man cursed at the mobile and somewhat violent hunch on his back, which of course alerted the cops. And so the turtle was consigned to the baggage hold like a hard shell suitcase with tags and freight stickers plastered all over him, and he was still pissed off at the indignity of it.

He was just getting warmed up when I quietly hung up my phone.

I'd Like 2 Eggs and a Side of Fast Bacon

I see the Russians are going hog wild with their new spectator sport of pig racing. I'm going to resist the urge to ridicule the Rooskies, and consider how hog races might benefit us largely unfit American chow hounds. We've come to the point, particularly here in northwest Iowa, where no one ever sees a live pig anymore. From the time they're born till the time they hit your plate they never see the light of day, much less get to enjoy pig pursuits like rooting around in dirt. It's all cement and antibiotics.

I'm not a commie or a swine rights advocate; this is an efficient way to assure that we get all the bacon we can eat. However, I'm thinking that what we're eating is a derivative of something that used to be a pig and, while I have no expectations, I'd like to see more people take an interest in eating the whole hog again, like our ancestors did. So...maybe if we got to watch lean hungry porkers racing each other and were eventually curious enough to compare them with the sedentary drugged out zombie pork that is helping keep us on the couch, then...well, maybe we'd start seeking out real hogs again.

I know, I know... free range pork is available to them that wants it. I just thought that by writing about Russian pig races and Austrian whorehouses I could get PTG to take over his blog again.

Chickcoupon

Here in the midwest of the U.S.ofA. on this hot July Saturday you're apt to find quite a few guys on the prowl tonight. The percentage of them who will get laid is anybody's guess. My guess is that it will be frustratingly low. In Germany guys can buy a copy of Freizeit Magazine, and clip out a coupon for a brothel in Austria which is good for a half hour of free (legal) sex with the babe of their choice. Ha! What a bunch of losers.

Here in America, excluding Nevada, sex-for-hire is kept out on the streets where it belongs. This way our horny guys and 'working girls' are able to add the elements of risk and adventure to their encounters. VD? You bet, and lots of it. Violence? Johns beating up whores; pimps and boyfriends beating up and robbing johns. Arrests? Not only do we get to run commercial sex through the court system, it's also a wonderful opportunity for our law enforcement officers to dress up as hookers and johns, and hone their acting skills, all the while being watched and listened to by an audience of fellow officers who will be able to coach them and help them become better whores.

I have to laugh at those Euro weenies with their coupons, patronizing respectable sex workers. This is bad. There's a huge industry all across the world devoted to kidnapping young girls and turning them out as prostitutes. When you legalize prostitution you might be putting these hard working people out of business, along with taking away a traditional concession of your local vice squad.

Abe the Gun Runner

Let's try a jumpstart to see if we can get PTG going again. Here's a story I posted on my blog, Don't Let Me Stop You:

On our return from vacation in France, alert Customs officials found contraband in our luggage: an illegal toy gun. Americans can rest easier knowing that the vigilance of our government has foiled another smuggling attempt.

The story began when Viper (age 15) spent about $14 winning a plastic, toy gun and plastic ammo (total value, about $2) at a carnival shooting gallery. We were none too pleased when he chose that prize, but there it is. The gun was excessively realistic-looking, so we informed Viper that he would not be allowed to take it anywhere that would entail a risk of him being mistakenly shot by a police officer.

Normally, Mrs. Abe delights in handling all aspects of the Customs Declaration process, but for some reason this time she put my name on the form. We had some French food in the luggage, so that had to be examined. The food was no problem, but in the process, the deadly toy gun was discovered. The first agent called another, who called another, who finally found the exact rule on the computer: it was illegal to bring Viper's toy gun into the US. We read the rule off the screen, and the toy lacked the required orange plug in the barrel and was clearly verbotten.

The toy was confiscated. I had to have my passport photocopied and sign a form acknowledging the confiscation. I wasn't frogmarched out of the hall in handcuffs to be stripsearched or even fined, but I do wonder if I'm now on some list of prior smugglers. The next time they may not go so easy on me...

I have nothing against the agents, who were only doing their jobs in a professional manner, but the whole thing was a silly waste of time and money. I know the rationale. A realistic toy gun could lead to a fatal accidental shooting in a split second decision. I'm sure children have been injured/killed in these kinds of incidents, but, realistically, there was zero chance of that happening to Viper with this gun. It would probably have never left our house (had it made it that far).

In the guise of protecting people more and more extensive regulations are promulgated dealing with smaller and smaller risks. But risk can never be eliminated, and what are we giving up in this quest to do that? No one is expected to know the rules, and no one can. It took the agents 10 minutes to figure out that the toy was illegal, and this is just one tiny tip of a massive regulatory iceberg. Each rule is a little (or sometimes a lot) less freedom and more bureaucracy and red tape. Massive complexity turns everyone into lawbreakers, since we can't always comply with a vast legal web we don't know about.

So now I'm a smuggler. I thought it would be more glamorous than this.

Chicken Feed

Amazing chicken stories are popping up everywhere, it seems, the latest being this one about chickens that are able to see beyond the next kernel of corn. Tests were run showing that chickens were able to wait a little bit longer for the waitress to bring dinner if they believed that the longer they waited, the more food they would get.

Well, hey! Makes me think of CD's, savings accounts, Social Security, or any financial arrangement that involves someone else making money with your money until it's time for them to give it back to you with interest. Most likely Wall Street isn't going to give up its love affair with the bull, but for financial pipsqueaks like myself I'm thinking the 'chicken market' is the way to go.

Literally, including the head. Most Asian cultures consider the all-knowing-chicken- head the best part of a chicken dinner, the part you would offer to an honored guest but would rather eat yourself. I'm not going to research it on this post, but maybe there's something going on inside that fowl noggin that could do a lot of us some good if we could bring ourselves to eat it.

Chickens That Don't Run

In the English countryside a tough old yardbird by the name of Rooster Cogburn made a name for himself by whuppin a fox that was planning on a takeout chicken dinner. Some people might doubt the veracity of such a story, but not me.

Back in the rural fifties it was not unusual for legends to develop around bad-ass barnyard roosters. There was one on our farm that I nicknamed 'Rocky Roosterano' after my boxing hero. Rocky wasn't afraid of anything, including my dad, who he gaffed early one morning when Dad was gathering eggs. In a rage, Dad went to the house and dropped a couple shorts into his .22 and went back outside to nail Rocky. Smarter than the next bird, he hid for a couple days till the old man cooled off.

Rocky entered the realm of legend one evening when he stayed out later than he should have and a great horned owl dropped out of a tree onto Rocky's back and flew him way out to a pasture. I ran out there and saw a terrible fight in progress. Before I could get close the fight was over and Rocky had not only won but made the owl fly him back to the barnyard!

Senators fight hidden sex in 'Grand Theft Auto'

Senators Hillary Clinton and Joe Lieberman want the practice of hiding the raunchy sex scenes in our video games stopped! For once this unwholesome couple have got a shared idea that wasn't lifted from Marx.

Two high-profile U.S. senators, Joseph Lieberman and Hillary Rodham Clinton, are incensed over pornographic content "hidden" in the popular video game "Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas," and are demanding action from either the government or the game's maker.

I don't think these filthy scenes should be hidden, either. Once you have paid for an amoral and anti-social game, you should be able to see all it has to offer. What is the point of hiding part of it? Its a rip-off. I'm with Senator Joe when he says Congress should "bring this matter to light."

Hyper Hyperbolae

Ted Rall, in the BoiseWeekly: "Karl Rove: Worse Than Osama Bin Laden". Go figure.

We need an accurate, easy to use 'worse than' scale. A hierarchy, e.g. Satan>Stalin>Hitler>Rove>Osama>FDR>Ebbers>Atilla the Hun>Ted Bundy, but more sophisticated and meaty, like a Periodic Table. It could be laminated and kept handy for quick reference by journos and bloggers.

There is no way, I have seen his passport.

Terrorist murderer Shehzad Tanweer, late of the London tube bombings, couldn't possibly have slipped from Pakistan into Afghanistan to train at an Islamic terr camp. So says his uncle in this story from The Daily Mail, Bomber's uncle: 'Forces' drove him to kill.

"Mr Ahmed said his nephew went to Pakistan for two months earlier this year to study religion.
He denied earlier reports that his nephew travelled to Afghanistan and took part in training camps. 'There is no way, I have seen his passport.'"

Bull puckey! Its been 20 years since the old feeder had reason to travel with more than one passport. (If nothing else, it was nice to keep the Israeli stamps out of the ones you might use in arab countries.) I know it is not only possible to go from one country to another without getting your passport stamped, it is ridiculously easy.

You don't need connections or cloak and dagger tricks; a plain old bribe generally works anywhere in the near to middle east. And if you don't mind non-touristic modes of travel and accommodation, you won't need to show your passport(s) to anyone.

I'd hate to be an terrorist's uncle.

In the 80's, hijackings were really just that, hijackings. I was told to eat any ID that could peg me as an American if my flight got 'jacked. So the terrs wouldn't single me out to kill first during 'negotiations', I guess. I don't know if I could have eaten a couple of passports , an international driver's license, a US govt. ID card, etc. Thankfully I never had to find out.

Few chicken tracks appear in UK

The Star, (Malaysia) ran the above photo cationed as, "a vigil for victims killed by the London bombings" held in Edinburgh. The candle wavers want you to see what happens when you won't 'give peace a chance'. These "Ban the Bomb" butt-heads would have lost the cold war for us if there had been enough of 'em. I suppose if John Lennon had written his crappy song in 1939 instead of 1969, Jolly Old England would now be a part of Great Germany. At least the albion cuisine would have been improved. Instead of boiled mutton and potatoes, they would be eating sauerkraut with chopsticks.

Put an end to Dutch Imperialism in the Western Hemisphere

Is there no end to Dutch perfidy? According to this UPI story, the Dutch rulers of Aruba not only prey upon foreign vacationers, but will let their wooden shoe-licking Surinamese collaborators sue the victim's family should they have the temerity to complain. To wit: "The mother of a missing Alabama teenager could face a libel lawsuit for speaking publicly about two suspects' release from an Aruban jail."

Here we have all the Euro-trash of the world accusing the United States of wicked Imperialism, while creeps like the Dutch and the French maintain their own outposts of Empire right in our back yard. Even the beleaguered Brits have tricked the US into thinking their flag should fly over the Falklands. But the Hollanders are the worst. The time to fight back is here!

Today's no-brainer from the AP

Three, count 'em, three studies indicate that your kids won't get any smarter by watching television. The wizards at the Associated Press pull it all together for you in this story: TV May Inhibit Learning. The story supports the surprising statement that, "Too much TV-watching can harm children's ability to learn and even reduce their chances of getting a college degree, three new studies suggest in the latest effort to examine the effects of television on kids." Note that these are NEW studies, and therefore haven't been discredited yet.

Have a great Fourth.

It was a great day for idealism, courage, and naive faith in human goodness.
The Plains Feeder hopes you will celebrate its anniversary by reading this eloquent document once again. Even an old misanthrope like the Feeder still gets a twinge. Have fun and try not to blow off your fingers.