I saw my Space Buddy again . . .

. . . while I was eating lunch.  Frankly, it's kind of weird how he just shows up out of nowhere like that.  I mean, there you are by yourself.  Then, you look down at your phone to check your Facebook notifications and when you look up, he's sitting there.  What's really weird is he acts like he's been there the whole time.   Kinda' makes me wonder if he has been, like maybe he can be invisible or something . . .
Anyway, he didn't stay long; said he only had one question.  Turned out that wasn't quite true; apparently, he's picking up on English quirks pretty quick.

"You know that thing you told me about laws - how they get written and voted on?"
"Mhmmm." I mumbled through a closed mouth.  

He has that strange ability that waiters and waitresses all seem to develop: the ability to time their questions to finish when the fork is just crossing the threshold of your lips.

"And do you remember how you told me about lawyers and how they make their living by arguing all day about laws and charging people absurd amounts of money to do something that ranks somewhere just below basket-weaving on the difficulty scale?"

 
He has a real good memory - seems like he can quote almost everything I say.

"Yep." 
"Is there any particular reason why you keep voting for lawyers to write laws?"

I'm beginning to get the impression that when this guy writes his report, we humans are going to look like an elevator operator consulting a map . . .

Space Buddy, first contact . . .

. . . I have to tell you about this remarkable occurrence that I've been keeping a secret:  I met a spaceman.
Well, actually, he met me.  Funniest thing - chance in a million, right?  He landed here a while ago, he says; morphed himself into human form and spent a little time wandering around WalMart trying to find a representative Earthling.  Says he gave up on that after about a day because too many people there looked familiar.  Tried a few fast food joints after that, but he analyzed the food and figured people who were committing slow suicide weren't much of a bet either.
Finally, after a few weeks of trying to find a place with a decent cup of Turkish coffee, he saw me bent over a cup with what he says was a look of rapture.  Says he knew I was the one right then and there.

More difficulty . . .

Most of you know I'm a bit of Star Trek fan.  Don't worry, though - I'm not a Trekkie.  I've never been to any conventions, I don't own a uniform (although the getups they wore in Errand of Mercy were pretty cool) and I don't have a pair of Spock ears laying around anywhere.  But, fact is, the series often produced scenarios that were handy as the basis for what Mr. Einstein referred to as a gedanken - a thought experiment.
Let's make one up now . . .

In Star Trek: First Contact the Enterprise crew is fighting the toughest bad guys of the entire series - the Borg.  They are the quintessential enemy - relentless, unfeeling, incapable of independent thought, wholly subservient to a collective philosophy, availed of virtually limitless power, with the sole purpose of destroying any life they encounter and absorbing the pieces into their robotic existence, they resemble nothing so much as the end result of what government would become if it didn't run out of other people's money so soon.  Determined to complete their assimilation of Earth, they decide the best method is to time-warp their way back into Earth's history and prevent the initial contact between Earthers and Vulcans.  If you don't know why that's important or what happens after that, rent the movie.  In the meantime, let's use that idea of going back in time to set up our gedanken.

I did not write this; Joe did . . .

What we have here is a copy and paste - meaning I didn't correct anything - of an open letter addressed to the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  Only some of you will enjoy it.

Help me, help you, . . . because one day I’ll be dead . . .”
- Joe Doakes’s Father

(Who is still kicking so long as the gin is flowing and there are olives to be had)

March 30, 2012

Dear President Obama,
My old man owned a factory in the South Bronx.  At one point he employed 100’s of men.  These men came from every race, color, and creed.  All were tough and my father was tougher.  If you lived and worked in the south bronx in the 60’s into the 70’s you had to be tough.  When my father was teaching me to shoot he he gave me the basics; “if you feel the need to pull it, you had better be prepared to use it . . .”  Along with all of the rest.  I asked he if he carried one.  His response.  “Too small for crowd control . . . flare gun . . .”  Long before those moments I was pretty fouled up.

This one is going to be difficult . . .

. . . and by the time it's done, some of you whom I love and care for deeply will likely think quite differently about me, figuring that I'm not the guy you thought I was.  You will be incorrect in that assessment, but the subject incurs such deep emotional reactions that it tends to induce tunnel vision.  If I turn out to be right, the loss that I suspect will occur will hurt deeply, but it is a price I am willing to pay in order to take my position on the right side of history as well as be true to my convictions regarding life, property, rights, and my Christian faith.

_____________________________________

It is a face filled with murderous fury. The lips are fully retracted in a straining grimace that reveals both rows of teeth clenched under enormous pressure. The eyes evince a complete abandonment of reason and its replacement with mindless rage. The eyebrows are furrowed into a gun sight “V”, the muscles in the cheeks and neck stretching skin as the body fights the restraining arm that keeps the target out of reach. The nostrils are flared, making way for the adrenaline-induced rush of oxygen needed to carry out the attack. 
Little more than 10 minutes in a make-up artist's chair, just long enough to outfit the teeth with bloody, swinging viscera and a tangled shock of stringy, lice-infested hair, and you would have the complete image of a mad, human cannibal in a low-budget horror movie.  
In a word, the face is . . . hideous.

There is a knock at the door . . .

. . .  and answering, you see a man in a suit, holding an ID and a badge. You also notice the butt of a gun peeking out of his jacket.

“I'm from the government. There's a family down the street – father's been out of work, mother is sick, and the kids are doing without. I'm here to collect money to help support them.”

You're a bit surprised; you glance down the street in the direction he's pointing, then at that gun, then back to his face.

“Uh, well, yeah – okay. Umm, how much?”

“17 cents.”

“17 cents?”

“Yes, 17 cents – is that a problem?”

You notice that the inflection of his voice rose as he got closer to the end of his question, challenging your responses as if he thinks it possible you're going to cause trouble.

Over 17 cents.

Okay, I'm keeping this one short but not very sweet.  Read this first . . .

http://hotair.com/greenroom/archives/2012/02/14/tsa-forces-woman-with-cute-figure-to-pass-though-nude-body-scanner-3-times/

We're long past the point where we should be tolerating this kind of  (insert your favorite slang for "feces").
I don't fly anymore - no need.  But let me put this on the record:  If I were the husband, I'd have been looking for the idiots she was talking to and done my absolute best to break their necks.  Enough of this lunacy.  It's time to make these people pay for their effrontery.