The Ultimate Answer to Kings

…thanks to a donor who shall remain nameless unless I get word different.

A friend came up from the city where my mail drop is, and brought this very welcome care package. Once ol’ tech geek Joel figured out how to put the battery in right-side-up, we were flying in color again! Thanks, anonymous benefactor!

A friend and I came into town this morning. He wanted to get a tire fixed on his truck, and the fellow at the shop said it would be a little while so we walked down the street to get some restaurant breakfast.

I was halfway in the door when he called me back out, pointed at the window, and said, “Read this sign.”

So I did. You might enjoy it, too…

From the ever-reliable Fox News [:-D], this heartwarming bit of technology to ruin your day:

It could be the ultimate in political control — but it won’t be patented in Germany.

German media outlets reported last week that a Saudi inventor’s application to patent a “killer chip,” as the Swiss tabloids put it, had been denied.

The basic model would consist of a tiny GPS transceiver placed in a capsule and inserted under a person’s skin, so that authorities could track him easily.

Model B would have an extra function — a dose of cyanide to remotely kill the wearer without muss or fuss if authorities deemed he’d become a public threat.

The inventor said the chip could be used to track terrorists, criminals, fugitives, illegal immigrants, political dissidents, domestic servants and foreigners overstaying their visas.

“The invention will probably be found to violate paragraph two of the German Patent Law — which does not allow inventions that transgress public order or good morals,” German Patent and Trademark Office spokeswoman Stephanie Krüger told the English-language German-news Web site The Local.

…at TMM this morning…

“While dying for a righteous cause is noble, not dying is also noble – and you don’t die.”

Yeah? Well, I’m not, Lady.

So let’s just ignore one another until we go away.

From the ever-perplexing AlterNet, this terrifying piece of shit:

A Lot of Our Money Is Buried in the Cayman Islands — Let’s Get It Back

The Cayman Islands are well known to those seeking sun, sand and sea–and for their hospitality to US corporations seeking to escape taxes, launder money and use other discreet financial services. The islands’ tax dodgers help multinational corporations move jobs offshore; they also give aid and comfort to terrorists, drug dealers and divorcing spouses trying to hide money. Honest taxpayers have to make up for the revenues lost through this offshore cheating in three ways: we pay more in taxes, we get fewer government services and we incur rising government debt. Interest on that debt, which doubled under the Bush administration, now equals all the individual income taxes paid from New Year’s to around June 10. And that cost means less government investment in research, education and the infrastructure on which commerce depends. Untaxed money hiding in the Caymans and other tax havens means the rest of us pay a higher price for less civilization.

In short, the Caymans, and other tax havens, are parasites that weaken the United States and other developed nations.

President Obama proposed on May 4 to crack down on offshore tax cheating; that proposal does not go nearly far enough. Instead of settling for a dime on the dollar, as Obama’s plan would do, let’s get serious about offshore tax cheating, both legalized and criminal. Let’s do what we did to halt the imagined threats of communists in Grenada, depose a drug-dealing president in Panama and find those imaginary weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Let’s invade the Caymans!

The islands, which belong to Britain, have no military and just 300 or so police. An invasion force composed of tax lawyers, forensic auditors and a handful of computer technicians could execute a hostile takeover without firing a shot.

It’s “our” money, see – these “tax cheats” are burying it on some island paradise in … well, wherever the hell the Caymans are. They’ve no right to do that, it’s our money! So let’s just send in the Marines, liberate those ones and zeros from those evil tax-cheating computers, and be done with it.

Let’s by all means invade the Caymans.

Honest, at first I thought this guy was being ironic. The more I read, the more seriously psychotic the article became. And the comments. Oh god, the comments. I keep hoping I’ve fallen into some Bizarro world, that my own plane of reality isn’t filled with such people. But … well, probably not so much.

To review:

let’s get serious about offshore tax cheating, both legalized and criminal. Let’s do what we did to halt the imagined threats of communists in Grenada, depose a drug-dealing president in Panama and find those imaginary weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

It doesn’t matter, then, if the “tax cheating” is even legal – send the Marines. It doesn’t matter if every other time .gov has done that – ‘imagined threats of communists’, ‘drug-dealing [and American-financed] presidents’, ‘imaginary weapons of mass destruction’ – the causes have proven to be and are admitted by this invasion-happy moron to be fraudulent. That doesn’t matter. This time it’s the right thing to do. It’s our money; the people who earned it are just holding it for us, and in this case attempting to hold it from us. Send the Marines.

I’m gonna go hang myself now. This is just too depressing.

I really should put together a blogroll of some sort. Keep meaning to, but it’s time-consuming and I’m lazy and you probably already have your favorites anyway. But here’s a recommendation for those who might not already be aware.

Tamara K., a lady from Indianapolis, runs a blog called View From The Porch. She mostly writes about guns, which may or may not be a primary interest of yours, but she is a finely-honed mistress of the snarky quip and has become an almost-never-miss daily read of mine.

Examples from yesterday:

Did you hear? Ruger’s gone carbon-neutral. Yup, they’ve wrapped ol’ Bill “No Honest Man Needs A Handgun Smaller Than A Canned Ham” Ruger Sr.’s corpse in copper wire and lined the coffin with magnets, and now the whole plant is off the grid. They’ve broken with Bill’s mandates by offering us Simple Civilians a whole slew of new guns.

And:

The downside is that all of that name-brand bling costs money and most AR buyers simply DX half the factory parts on the gun in favor of the contents of pages 63 through 101, inclusive, of the Brownell’s catalog. An AR with a street price north of one-and-a-half long is nice, but only when you’ve picked out the toppings yourself.

Check her out when you get a chance! Her gun interests go deeper and more detailed than mine, for example I couldn’t really care less what-all Ruger’s product line is up to today, so I won’t claim to hang on ever word that passes her fingertips. But she is a very entertaining writer and I enjoy her blog a helluva lot. You might, too.

???Did I really say that???

Hell, I practically shouted it. Poor guys – Little Bear really is a good pup, he means no harm. But in the morning he’s all rested and ready, and looking for some fun. He wants somebody to play with him! but there’s nobody around but these aging, dour dogs who’ve lived a quiet life too long to welcome all this tomfoolery. But they’re also too ingrained against just knocking a puppy down and sitting on him for their own goods. So we have the spectacle of poor Ghost driven to distraction, a bouncing puppy in his face no matter where he turns, desperately wanting a quiet scratch from Uncle Joel or some time to himself and clearly not going to get it, too restrained to do more than curl his lip and turn away. The others are a bit less inhibited in demonstrating their displeasure, but still won’t take the little guy in hand. This isn’t a matter for high justice; he isn’t breaking any of my rules. Maintaining order within the pack is the dogs’ responsibility: particularly Magnus’. I wait for the dogs to impose some order on him, and I wait in vain.

I’m not sure what the problem is. They really don’t dislike Little Bear; he did his trick with the paw in the porch again yesterday evening, and they were all there and all concerned until the matter was resolved. Under other circumstances they show him little affection, and given his proclivity for tail-chewing I can hardly blame them. But there is a middle ground between grump’n’bear it and mounting his head on a pole. I do rather wish they’d seek it.

You cannot, no matter how you try, make this shit up. Remember when The Onion was funny? Now it can’t stay snarky enough to keep up with realitywhat passes for reality.

Here we go:

WASHINGTON — The Obama administration’s new drug czar says he wants to banish the idea that the U.S. is fighting “a war on drugs,” a move that would underscore a shift favoring treatment over incarceration in trying to reduce illicit drug use.

In his first interview since being confirmed to head the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy, Gil Kerlikowske said Wednesday the bellicose analogy was a barrier to dealing with the nation’s drug issues.

“Regardless of how you try to explain to people it’s a ‘war on drugs’ or a ‘war on a product,’ people see a war as a war on them,” he said. “We’re not at war with people in this country.”

Yeah. I believe that. Please allow Joelnac The Magnificent to examine the stars and predict your future life under this kinder, gentler rhetorical regime:

*CRASH*

“Down! Down! Down on the f*cking floor, you motherf*ckers! We’re here to treat your unfortunate drug pathology! Lemme see them diseased f*cking hands!”

BANG!BANG!BANG!YIPE!! “And it looks like your dog needed treatment, too!”

This sort of comic relief is almost worth what you cost us.

Almost.

Not, you know … quite.

What did she know? When did she know it? Was she briefed? Was she informed that a briefing existed somewhere (but of course not around her)? Will she lose her place in her notes again? And of course, how how HOW can she make this all John Yoo’s fault, since at this point she’s reduced to winging it and stammering while wishing painful, lingering death on the staffer who couldn’t invest in one fucking staple?

Yes, I’m in love. I used to write poems to women, but my woman days are behind me. So I guess I’ll write poems to puppies.

I exaggerate just a tad, but he is growing at a frightening pace. I do believe he’s at least doubled his weight in two weeks. And while by no means the puppy from hell, when he’s in a frisky mood he bears watching. Closely.

Anyway … *AHEM*

Little Bear, Little Bear, put that pillow down
I knew where all my shit was before you came around
I love my little furball, but swear to god it’s true
I’ll never have a damned nice thing, and all because of you

When you came to my home you were this tiny little thing
You smiled up at my face, and I said let the games begin
How could I know that underneath that little puppy snout
A giant megasaurus was just waiting to come out
I knew I was in trouble when you ate three sacks of food
But that was just the first day; you weren’t in an eating mood
And by the second week, when I had widened all the doors
I found I had to patch the cracks appearing in the floors

Little Bear, Little Bear, put that table down
I knew where all my shit was before you came around
I love my little furball, but swear to god it’s true
I’ll never have a damned nice thing, and all because of you

I love all of your little quirks, your little yaps and growls
I did overreact the day you chewed up all my towels
And when you dug that hole I laughed; you acted such a fool
I think the lava’s rather nice! I can’t wait till it cools
And how the big dogs cower when you hold them in your jaws
I do believe the way you’ve grown has broken nature’s laws
The coyotes have all left now though I asked them please to stay
They told me they were safer with the gangs down in LA

Little Bear, Little Bear, put that big truck down
I knew where all my transport was before you came around
I love my little furball, but swear to god it’s true
I’ll never have a damned nice thing, and all because of you

The neighbors all have moved away, they said they had to run
They couldn’t take the way you blocked their view of sky and sun
The way the earthquake shaking knocks their pots off of their shelves
If they move to Mozambique they think they just might save themselves
A preacher came to witness, but then ran with shouts and screams
‘Bout how you were a beast he had been seeing in his dreams
He read about you in his book, he warned me from his run
I couldn’t hear the chapter; what’s the name of that last one?

Little Bear, Little Bear, put that mountain down
I knew where all my landmarks were before you came around
I love my little furball, but swear to god it’s true
I’ll never have a damned nice thing, and all because of you

Courtesy of C.M., this enlightening tidbit…

Sheesh! I knew Canadians who can afford it sometimes come to America for medical care – that didn’t shock me. Americans used to brag about their medical system being the best in the world, and maybe it once was. Certainly it makes perfect sense for Canadians to come next store if they can’t get what they need at home. That’s the market at work.

But I didn’t realize. Canada’s system is so bad that Cuba is an improvement? Cuba? Seriously?

Say it’s a parody site, C.M. C’mon. Lie to me.

MADDman Charles Hurley has been dumped from consideration as head of NHTSA.

No, not for any of the right reasons. It turns out environmentalists hate him. I could research the reasons why, but I’m sure it would be too depressing. Whatever: as long as I don’t observe the sausage-making process too closely, I can consider it good news. I might want to drive again someday, and it’s good to know this particular uber-nanny won’t be around to complicate the procedure further.

Once upon a time, boys and girls, there was a book. You should read this book. You should have your kids read this book. You should mention me generously in your will for telling you about this book, or just send me money now.

Well, there was hope of a series (hence Rebelfire 1.0) but sales didn’t happen so much and so the series didn’t happen at all and so we’re poorer than we might have been. But I was reminded of it this morning when I came upon a video made by an on-line acquaintance, to the tune of the song that accompanies the book. It’s pretty good, too.

May 13 (Bloomberg) — President Barack Obama said “the stars are aligned” for Congress to pass legislation to revamp the U.S. health-care system this year, which he said will help revive the economy and get budget deficits under control.

[MORE]

Oh, my aching pancreas. In this brave new world, one is reduced to hoping that change means a politician will change his tune once he stops being a candidate. Often the worst outcome is he really means his threatspromises.

According to Candidate Obama,

“Under the Obama health care plan, you will be able to keep your doctor and your health insurance if you want.”

Uh…yeah. Not so fast, of course. Group health plan costs have been out of control for years, and a helluva lot of employers would love to dump it. They’re stopped only by the prospect of being trampled to death as their work force stampedes to the doors, screaming for the classified ads. Give them an alternative, and…

While the public option is meant for the uninsured, employers will realize it’s easier — and cheaper — to move employees into the government plan than continue workplace coverage.

The Lewin Group, a health-care policy research and consulting firm, estimates that enrollment in the public option will reach 131 million people if it’s open to everyone and pays Medicare rates, as many expect. Fully two-thirds of the privately insured will move out of or lose coverage.

This couldn’t be part of the plan, of course. Oh, hell no. It couldn’t possibly be in the interests of our rulers to force socialized health care down our throats by destroying all alternatives. How could you think such a thing, you right-wing extremist, you? I should report you for thoughtcrime. I should report myself for thoughtcrime, for even wondering whether I should report you for thoughcrime.

Oh, hell – it doesn’t matter. Forced on National Health, I’ll likely be dead before they can drag me shrieking to Room 101 anyway.

Okay, I admit it: I’m the only freedomista I know who doesn’t enjoy watching Braveheart. Maybe there are lots of us, hiding in closets all over this great land of ours. Maybe not, I don’t know. I’m an individual and I say it loud: Yes, I’m aware that nobody actually knows anything about William Wallace and so making shit up to fill screen time is fine. Hell, the writers would have done that if Wallace had left a five-volume autobiography, right? That treacle about his lost love, I can even overlook that. The crazy Irish guy who says things like “you’re fucked” – yeah, that’s authentic dialogue right there, sure, but kinda funny, and let’s face it you need a bit of comic relief when ol’ Mel is about to depopulate medieval England with a broadsword in living color.

But come on. Don’t trifle with my willing suspension of disbelief. He porks the Princess of Wales and ends up fathering the next king of England? Just because it’s been two hours and you killed off the only other female character in the first act? No. I don’t think so.

Sorry.

Just no.

This was mildly amusing, though…

As of Saturday morning, at S&L’s house and using their camera. He’s growing at a frightening rate, like something out of a ’50’s B-movie. I may have to re-name him Clifford.

Naturally as soon as I tried to snap pictures LB became hyper-wiggly. Also the camera was unfamiliar, the sun was in my eyes, this glove is too big, I tripped on a rock, the umpire’s blind, and the Democrats wrecked the economy. So you see, poor picture quality is totally not my fault.

Being too young to have committed crimes against any state but his own well-being, I have not yet blacked out his eyes. Next time for sure, though. We’re a bunch of outlaws around here.

…When you’ve got your head stuck in the fuel filler tube of a ’47 Jeep.

I was going to title this something like “Communication and Community”, but then I decided that this ain’t no essay we’re doing here: This is life.

We had a little excitement last night. At the risk of making this the All-Little Bear-All-The-Time blog, as if Lew Rockwell were running him for president or something, yes. It involved something Little Bear did.

Visually, it was something absolutely hilarious. Toward the end somebody took a picture with one of those camera phones, and if I can get a copy on my ‘pooter I’ll post it. In every way but visual, there was nothing funny about this.

It was shaping up to be another quiet evening, just the way I like them. With the spring wind I haven’t been able to keep my water heater reliable, and with the heat I was getting kinda ripe. So I rigged a field-expedient hot water source by stringing together a whole bunch of garden hose (we’ve got lots: Thanks, I) that runs back and forth in the sun. Works great! And with the weekenders gone there was no good reason to run it in through the bathroom window: I just took my shower in the yard. I was feeling very mellow and pleased with myself. That was about to change.

Along about seven I retired to the lair to read my book. None of the boys wanted to come in yet, it was just too nice out. But that was okay: The bugs aren’t bad yet, so I’ve got the door bungied open and the doorway covered with a blanket. The boys can come and go as they please.

A few minutes after I reclined on my couch with my book, Little Bear started to scream. I heard Magnus and Fritz go crazy. Fortunately I was still wearing my leg, so I was able to bolt out into the yard without delay.

Off to one side of the yard is a … well, you might call it a junk pile. We call it “the jeep”. One of the stakeholders had bought this ’47 parts jeep, took it apart, and used a bunch of it to resurrect a second jeep. The rest of it is pretty much just laying there next to my yard now, including the body tub which is sitting on the ground and very slowly returning to the earth. Normally, except for the occasional rat hunt, this pile of parts is not a source of much excitement. In fact I rarely give it much thought.

Except now there was a roiling pile of dogs at one side of the tub, and one of them was screaming. I hustled over, and saw…

Well, I saw Little Bear’s head inside the tub. I saw Little Bear’s body outside the tub, surrounded by two huge and very upset older dogs. For some reason (Why, why WHY did you think this was a good idea?) Little Bear had pushed his head through the filler tube on the side of the tub, and he couldn’t get it back out. He did what any puppy would do in a case like this: He panicked and was practically killing himself trying to extricate his head.

Oh, shit! I had to beat Magnus and Fritz away from him; they were helplessly milling around, desperate but unable to do anything. I knelt and calmed the puppy, but no matter what I did I wasn’t able to get his head out of there. There was a sharp flange around the inside of the tube, pressing against his throat. I don’t know how he got his head in there, but getting it back out was impossible without killing him.

I wanted my telephone, but knew it was pointless. I’ve got one of those pay-as-you-go Tracfones, and like a crazy fool I’d let the time run out. There are two ways to add time to a Tracfone: You can do it on-line if you’ve got plastic (I don’t), or you can go to town and buy time at the dollar store (I didn’t). I was stuck! I couldn’t save Little Bear without help, but I couldn’t go get help without killing him: Left alone, he’d panic again and strangle himself.

The light was going and the moon wouldn’t be up for hours. I tried again to get his head out, and failed again. I was wasting time: I had to chance running for help. So I jumped in the Jeep (the one that works) and raced to D&L’s property. D came without delay: We raced back to the property. I grimly jumped out and ran back to the tub, half expecting to find the puppy dead. But bless him, he’d stayed calm enough and was still well. Magnus gave me hell when I got back (“We’ve got an emergency here and you just ran off for a Jeep ride? Are you crazy?”) and D and I assessed the situation. We agreed that we were never going to get the little guy out of there without cutting that flange in a couple of places and prying it away from his neck. D reached for the telephone on his belt to call his wife L to bring his Sawzall and a metal blade, and only then seemed to notice that he wasn’t wearing any pants. So he jumped in the Jeep and drove to J&H’s house.

Now, J had only the other day taken delivery on a lovely set of reconditioned Ridgit cordless tools, of which he was very proud. J&H came in their big pickup, right behind D. We all crowded around the puppy and re-assessed the situation in the light of all this new capacity. The boys found this very exciting, and J wanted me to put them in Gitmo. I had strong doubts of the wisdom of this, but against my own judgment I complied. Magnus disapproved strongly, and Fritz disappeared entirely. When I returned to the tub I could hear Fritz huffing in the junipers but staying out of the way. Magnus raised holy hell from Gitmo for a few minutes but then went silent: I interpreted this (correctly) as meaning that he was concentrating on breaking out. He and Ghost showed up a little later but also stayed out of the way.

The problem was obvious: We could easily cut the flange with the Sawzall, but unfortunately we could also easily cut the puppy with it. We tried lubing him up with water (fail) and then with the last of my margarine (fail). We had to cut that flange away from him. By this time we were working by the light of three flashlights and getting nowhere. Finally we tried a low-tech approach: Just how stout was the metal of that flange? It was fifty years old and wasn’t exactly made of unobtainium to begin with. So we clamped a big pair of pliers to it and pried – and to our delight the metal tore and bent out of the way easily. Okay! Just a matter of working carefully around Little Bear’s throat.

Soon he was free and in my arms. Magnus had stayed out of the way while we were working, but now pushed humans away and insisted on his own inspection. Somehow Little Bear had escaped all injury, though he was exhausted and very quiet. Handshakes all around: D drove the Jeep back to his place while I sat in the shotgun seat and cradled Little Bear.

The lesson is obvious. Emergencies happen when they happen, and I had utterly failed to keep prepared for this one. It’s all very well to wax poetic about “self-reliant” and “off-the-grid” living, and it does have its charms. But it also puts you in a position where you have none of the comfy cushion between life and death that it’s so easy to grow used to, living in a city. Alone as I am and responsible for the boys, it was inexcusable of me to let that telephone go dead. If I hadn’t had good relations with the neighbors, and if Little Bear hadn’t stayed calm while I ran for help, he could have been killed. That would have been on my head. It won’t happen again.

I mentioned that when Little Bear first joined us, Magnus (literally) drooled all over him in welcome. That enthusiasm cooled markedly within 24 hours: Magnus is an old dog and likes his quiet time. He doesn’t welcome me disturbing him when he’s trying to nap – which is most of the time – and was not prepared to put up with it from some little noob. So there were growls, and sometimes worse. He didn’t reject the pup, just didn’t want him crawling all over him.

But every now and then Magnus shows me a flash of warmer feeling. We were all clustered around the front of the lair yesterday evening, something that has quickly settled back into a habit since the precipitous arrival of summer. Magnus lay next to the low porch; Little Bear was doing something puppy-like on the porch itself. I was reading a book and paying no attention to either of them. Now, the porch is made of 2X6s, with maybe 2 inches between boards. Little Bear got one of his wide, flat paws between two boards and then turned himself around. I suspect it scared him more than it hurt him – suddenly his paw is in pain and unable to move. It didn’t last but a second or two, but that was enough for him to cut loose with some fairly panicked yelps.

Magnus, right next the puppy, was on his feet in a flash. He whirled around, sniffed that little guy all over, and – apparently deciding it was a false alarm – licked his head for comfort and laid back down.

The incident only took a few moments, but it reassured me. Our little pack is disrupted a bit at the moment, and that has bothered me. I love my guys, and hate the thought that an action of mine has caused them all this turmoil. But it’ll be all right. It’s gonna be all right.