We want our country back. What an interesting mantra.
Exactly where (or when) do we want our country back to?
Do we want it back to where Blacks had to drink from a different water fountain?
Do we want it back to where there were no usable roads?
Do we want it back to the good old days when 11 year olds were forced to work 80 hours a week with no rights and little pay?
How about all the way back to when everyone "owned" at least a couple of other people?
What is it that we want back?
Do we want back the days when even adult workers had no rights? How does an 80 or 90 hour workweek with no overtime pay, no minimum wage, no sick time, no holiday pay, and no weekend sound? When the owner of a company could keep his employees under his thumb by paying them very little, and then extending loans to keep them working there? That song "I owe my soul to the company store" wasn’t just a song.
Oh, I know. Do we want back the days when everyone had to carry a weapon because there weren’t enough police to keep order?
Or do we want it back to where woman couldn’t vote, and could barely get a job?
How about we do away with all those costly government programs. We don’t need any federal agency to police our food and drugs. Those companies that provide that stuff will police themselves adequately. Just like the peanut butter folks a couple of years ago. Or the Vioxx folks.
Where, or when, is it exactly that we want our country back to?
How about the days when a person could be turned out of a hospital ER to die on the sidewalk just feet away because he had no insurance or cash to pay for treatment?
What DOES "We Want Our Country Back" mean, exactly?
Showing posts with label Horrible Addiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Horrible Addiction. Show all posts
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Family Values
Am I the only one that finds it amusing that the Republican Party’s idea of "family values" means hiring hookers, expense account strip joints, cheating on your wife with another woman, or cheating on your wife with a man?
Apparently letting gays get married would be far more dangerous to the "sanctity of marriage" than any of these things. From all of the reports of closet gay Republican politicians, I can see why they think so.
My guess is, to their way of thinking, if it is legal for a man to marry a man, ALL men will leave their families to marry other men. This must be a Republican phenomenon, because I have to assure everyone that, no matter how legal they make it for me to marry a man, I rather like women. Even if, by some awful twist of life, my wife was to leave me, I would still not marry a man to replace her. I have to think that most folks feel this way. Maybe I am wrong.
Most folks thought their Republican Congressmen were heterosexual, God-fearing family oriented men.
To quote one of my favorite Simpson’s characters: "HA HA"
Apparently letting gays get married would be far more dangerous to the "sanctity of marriage" than any of these things. From all of the reports of closet gay Republican politicians, I can see why they think so.
My guess is, to their way of thinking, if it is legal for a man to marry a man, ALL men will leave their families to marry other men. This must be a Republican phenomenon, because I have to assure everyone that, no matter how legal they make it for me to marry a man, I rather like women. Even if, by some awful twist of life, my wife was to leave me, I would still not marry a man to replace her. I have to think that most folks feel this way. Maybe I am wrong.
Most folks thought their Republican Congressmen were heterosexual, God-fearing family oriented men.
To quote one of my favorite Simpson’s characters: "HA HA"
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
addiction
I have recently been informed, by my wife, that I am a junkie.
My habit is apparently so heinous that it must be kept from my daughter at all costs. When my beloved caught me in the act of slaking this horrible thirst, she reacted as if I was lighting up a crack pipe.
It all started out innocently enough: we were at Wally-World and caved to our daughter’s incessant demands that we buy a watermelon. She had been riding my case for the better part of a week; wheedling, begging, and flashing that smile that girls are apparently born knowing works on guys.
The choice was to buy an approximately grapefruit-sized watermelon, seedless, organic for 4 bucks. Or to buy one that was about the size of a 1972 Lincoln, also seedless, but apparently grown using some kind of alien DNA structure that rendered it not-organic, for the same price. Being a cheapskate, I opted for the larger, alien-influenced one. We took it home and emptied out the refrigerator to make room for the melon.
After three days, I decided (with the help of a whining three-year-old: "daaaaaddy, when are we gonna eat the watermelon?" over and over and over, like a screwdriver repeatedly piercing my skull) that the melon was likely cold enough and I should go ahead and cut the thing.
So I went out to the garage and gathered up my two-wheel dolly and a chainsaw (the only implement I own large enough to attempt the procedure) and set to.
After changing clothes and cleaning watermelon guts off the ceiling, I gave some to my daughter, admonishing her not to drip on the recently flooded floor, and took a piece for myself.
I went to the sink, so as not to spill salt on the floor. Yes, I said salt. I don’t know where I got the habit, but I put salt on my watermelon. Makes it scrumptious.
My wife, who was washing up a few dishes, gasped at the brazen way that I, right out in the open, salted my fruit. Aghast that I hadn't even attempted to hide in shame, she dashed into the living room, scattering dishes on the way, (we needed new china anyway) to make sure our daughter wasn’t in danger of being corrupted by my horrible habit. Fortunately, the youngun wasn’t paying any attention to anything but Blue’s Clues on the TV and the watermelon she was busily keeping (mostly) from dripping all over MY seat on the sofa.
My wife stayed in the living room, making sure that my daughter didn’t get exposed to the nasty habit her father was exhibiting, until I was done eating.
God help me if my wife finds my M&M stash.
My habit is apparently so heinous that it must be kept from my daughter at all costs. When my beloved caught me in the act of slaking this horrible thirst, she reacted as if I was lighting up a crack pipe.
It all started out innocently enough: we were at Wally-World and caved to our daughter’s incessant demands that we buy a watermelon. She had been riding my case for the better part of a week; wheedling, begging, and flashing that smile that girls are apparently born knowing works on guys.
The choice was to buy an approximately grapefruit-sized watermelon, seedless, organic for 4 bucks. Or to buy one that was about the size of a 1972 Lincoln, also seedless, but apparently grown using some kind of alien DNA structure that rendered it not-organic, for the same price. Being a cheapskate, I opted for the larger, alien-influenced one. We took it home and emptied out the refrigerator to make room for the melon.
After three days, I decided (with the help of a whining three-year-old: "daaaaaddy, when are we gonna eat the watermelon?" over and over and over, like a screwdriver repeatedly piercing my skull) that the melon was likely cold enough and I should go ahead and cut the thing.
So I went out to the garage and gathered up my two-wheel dolly and a chainsaw (the only implement I own large enough to attempt the procedure) and set to.
After changing clothes and cleaning watermelon guts off the ceiling, I gave some to my daughter, admonishing her not to drip on the recently flooded floor, and took a piece for myself.
I went to the sink, so as not to spill salt on the floor. Yes, I said salt. I don’t know where I got the habit, but I put salt on my watermelon. Makes it scrumptious.
My wife, who was washing up a few dishes, gasped at the brazen way that I, right out in the open, salted my fruit. Aghast that I hadn't even attempted to hide in shame, she dashed into the living room, scattering dishes on the way, (we needed new china anyway) to make sure our daughter wasn’t in danger of being corrupted by my horrible habit. Fortunately, the youngun wasn’t paying any attention to anything but Blue’s Clues on the TV and the watermelon she was busily keeping (mostly) from dripping all over MY seat on the sofa.
My wife stayed in the living room, making sure that my daughter didn’t get exposed to the nasty habit her father was exhibiting, until I was done eating.
God help me if my wife finds my M&M stash.
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