Daily Archives: April 8, 2010

Federal Income Taxes: A License to Steal…

John Doe entering "the poker game"

I said I was going to play poker last night.  Some of those in the poorer parts of town may know that I really wasn’t at the weekday poker game.  I was stealing from the poor.  You know, those slackers who do not pay federal income taxes.  I call it “pay back.”

I really do not confine myself to just poorer neighborhoods.  Nearly half of all taxpayers paid no federal income taxes.  Are you freaking kidding me?  Hell, that means I can go through the richest neighborhoods and hit a few houses, too.  Odds are I’ll hit one of the deadbeats. 

My take from last night’s “poker game”?  Fifty foot of garden hose (mine was getting old).  A humming-bird feeder (we left ours at our old  house).  Nearly 10 gallons of gas siphoned out of that fool who left his gas tank unlocked.  A new AM/FM radio (dude, lock the back window of your F-150 too).  A new hub cap to replace the one the old lady lost hitting some pothole last winter.  A Wall Street Journal and a Richmond Times-Dispatch.   An angel statute that will look good in my rock garden.  Aaaaand, a little girl’s bicycle (sure, I can’t use it, but I can sell it at my next yard sale).

Am I evil? Am I a thief? Am I a pig? I don’t think so.  The f#cking government legalized theft when they said that the majority could steal from the minority via the “progressive” income tax.  I’m one of the minority who gets stolen from every year, so I decided that a little pay back was in order.  You M’Fers in the majority wanna stop with the “legalized theft” from me, I’ll stop with the illegal theft from you during my “poker games.”   Until then, I can give you a good deal on a slightly used chainsaw that I picked up during last week’s “poker game.”  Shoot me an e-mail for more details…

“The Intimidator” at King’s Dominion

Finally. A roller coaster named after Dale Earnhart.  This place is about 20 minutes from my home. 

“The ride takes you 305 feet above the ground and descends 300 feet at an 85 degree-angle and thunders along the track at 94 miles per hour during its three minute race to the finish. Its outstanding highest peak and the super-fast speed makes the Intimidator 305 the tallest and the fastest roller coaster of its type on the East Coast.”

Time interviewed atheist who “went under cover” to study Evangelicals

Took her two years to realize that most Christians truly are trying to follow Christ and to help to ease others’ pain, as well as to inform unbelievers of the way to salvation.  She did not convert, but made many friends, and was even saddened by the death of Jerry Falwell…

We don’t need to go under cover and infiltrate the hippie anti-American peacenik movement for two years to tell us what they are like.  Jawa report has a five-minute must see video of “tea party protesters” burning the American flag.  Tells you everything you need to know about this virulent brand of nasty persons.

UPDATE: Here’s another guy who went undercover–at Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University in Lynchburg, Va.  Notice again that he came away with a mostly positive view of those people whom  he had theretofore thought of as freaks… A notable quote: 

“As for the academics, Roose put his Ivy League ego in check when he found out how challenging some of the classes were.” 

“It was certainly a humbling semester, and I think I worked twice as hard as I ever did at Brown.”

Update on Confederate history month

McDonnell looks weak and pathetic by bowing to pressure.  He apologized for omitting reference in his proclamation to slavery.  Governor, you ignorant puke, this was never about slavery or apologizing. This was the liberals making you look bad and insuring that the black vote will remain solidly Democrat.   You could never please that group, so don’t try. Your apology only makes you appear weak and feckless.

From the Times Dispatch:  “Despite McDonnell’s attempt to calm the waters, his apology didn’t quell the anger among Democrats.”

“I don’t give a rip if he does apologize. It’s too little and much too late,” said Sen. Louise L. Lucas, D-Portsmouth, who is black. “It’s the latest in a series of missteps that sends the wrong message.”

“And the apology could alienate his base, said Steve Farnsworth, a political scientist at George Mason University, who called the original proclamation “a serious political mistake.”

I had a buddy who was a Nam vet

It was the summer of 1971 in Michigan.  I was 13 1/2, and between my 8th and 9th grade school years.  I had been given a job in the machine shop where my father was the supervisor.  A co-worker ran over my foot by mistake with a fork lift and broke a bone in my foot (still hurts occasionally).  My grandparents took me up north to stay with them at their cabin to recuperate. 

The son of the guy across the street showed up, also in a cast.  “Michael” is all I remember as his name.  A white guy with dark hair and a ‘stash.  He had safely done a tour of duty in ‘Nam, but once home, had been intentionally sideswiped while on his motorcycle by a black dude in broad daylight.  (Racial tensions in and around Detroit were high back then, just a few years after the ’67 Detroit and MLK Jr’s assassination.)  So he went to his father’s cabin to recuperate, too. 

We spent our days fishing “out at the point.”  Grandpa’s cabin was on Crooked Lake, Michael’s was across the street.  We both hobbled down with our crutches, fishing tackle, and Michael’s pot.  We got high, high, high. (Michael wasn’t an evil influence–he found out I already got high before letting on that he smoked, too.)

We had a great two weeks pal-ing around.  I’m sure I wasn’t his ideal companion, but I was the only companion around.  He didn’t tell me much about his tour, but he did make it sound as though most of the troops were stoned a lot.  My grandparents trusted  him because he was a vet.  I don’t think they ever caught on that I was a pothead back then (I quit my senior year and haven’t smoked since).

We caught a lot of fish, worked on our tans, and stayed high all day long.  I remember feeling angst that my budding football career was over.  I was quite a sensational half back in 8th grade football, and had been hoping to become a star on the junior varsity the following fall, before I broke my foot.  The pot and Michael’s companionship eased the physical pain and kept my mind from wondering if my football days were over. 

At the end of the two weeks, I went home, tore my walking cast off prematurely (it kept getting wet and I got tired of having it replaced).  I made the varsity that fall, and ended up as the only freshman starter (linebacker, not at halfback) due to injuries to upperclassman.  We won our division title and missed going undefeated by one overtime touchdown. 

I never saw Michael again, and long ago lost track of what happened to him. He was a great guy, seemingly unscathed by his experience in Viet Nam.  He seemed matter of fact about it, not ashamed and not particularly proud, either.  Back then, I naively thought that of course we would win the war.  We were America–nobody could beat us.  

I did not know the significance of it when it happened, but that fall, on our bus trips back to the locker after all our football games, the upper classmen, who were subject to possible draft in less than a year or two, would lead the entire team in singing (I know, how corny).   One that sticks out was more important to them than to me:  …”and it’s one, two, three what are we fighting for, don’t ask me I don’t give a damn, I don’t care about Vietnam…” (Country Joe and the Fish). 

To paraphrase LBJ, if you’ve lost the high schoolers, you’ve lost middle America.  Continue reading