Mad Jack's Shack

ex luce ad tenebras

Quora Question: Did some husbands in the 1950's really get their wives lobotomized?

From someone on Quora:  Did some husbands in the 1950's really get their wives lobotomized?

Yes, they did.  Men who were psychiatrists (meaning they are an M.D.) had the authority to have anyone committed to a mental institution against their will, and to be medicated against their will.  The treatments in the mental hospital could, and often did, include a lobotomy.  Electroshock therapy was also popular.

Once the woman was quiescent (for whatever reason) she would have to institutionalized somewhere, and the institution could be out of state, nor did the name have to be revealed to anyone, including her relatives and children.

The most recent study that I’m aware of took place in the late 1970s.  Three psychology doctoral students checked themselves into a mental institution.  Upon arrival, they were assured they could leave anytime they wanted to - which was a lie.  After a few weeks the experiment was revealed to the staff and the doctors, and the three were diagnosed as being delusional.  It was only until they admitted to hearing voices when they checked in, but had been cured and no longer heard any voices that they were released.

Under the right circumstances, this scenario can still happen today.  I know of one case where a man was hospitalized and treated for 27 years, until someone finally discovered he didn’t speak any English; I gather his first language was an obscure Slavic dialect.  In another case a borderline developmentally challenged woman has hospitalized, and on her first night in the hospital her roommate murdered her.  The murder was never investigated, nor was the perpetrator charged.

Mental health workers are only too happy to declare someone to be a danger to themselves (suicidal) or a danger to others.  The fact that these statements are all opinion and a pack of lies has nothing to do with what happens next, which is hospitalization on the psyche unit and appropriate medication to keep the person quiet.  With HIPAA laws the way they are, it’s as bad today as it ever was.  Your spouse, child, or relative may be incarcerated in a mental institution, and no one at that institution will even admit he’s a patient there.

The only real hope anyone has of getting out before permanent damage is done to them is if a judge intervenes, and it should be a Federal judge.  Other than that, a person can try an actual escape (as in a jail break), but you’d better have someone to help you once you’re out.  Meanwhile, get in line for the shock shop.


Ess Oh Ess - Card or Two Wanted

I occasionally scan through a social media platform called Next Door, mainly because it costs nothing and every once in a while I get some news about crime, taxation, and how our lunatic fringe lefty local government is giving me the shaft.  It always cheers me up to know that I'm not alone.

The other day I stumbled across a message from some well-meaning good Samaritan, and decided to help out a little.

Here's the message from Ms. Samaritan:

Eva's been housebound since early January when she got a kidney transplant. Eva just turned 11, and she is in fifth grade. Doctors do not want her around anyone who might be contagious. I sent her a card and it made her day to get mail. Help bring a smile to her face. Just mail her a card to:
1912 STATE ROUTE 256

I don't know any of these people, and I don't eat at Culver's. That being the case, this poor kid is having a hard time of it.  She's recovering from surgery and has been confined to quarters since January.  They don't want money, all they want is a 'get well' card.

A card?  That's it?

So I sent her two get well cards and a letter, and if she's somewhat cheered by my gesture, so much the better. 

My request is simple.  If any of you casual readers would send this child a get well card, I will raise a glass in your honor and give you a tip of the old fedora.  I'm thinking that the further away you live, the better she'll like it - distance being a sort of modifier to the marginal utility of the card.  See?

Okay Ladies and Gents - one card from the dollar store, one stamp from wherever, and that's that.  My thanks in advance.


When a Free Country is No Longer Free

Some well meaning soul included me on his spam list, and as a result I fat-fingered the keyboard and ended up running this video instead of deleting it.  I'm kind of glad that I did.

For those of you who have never heard of her, and up until today I hadn't, Lauren Southern is a red hot blonde from Canada who is also a decent journalist.  If you believe her website, she reports on the stories that commercial media refuses to cover, or that commercial media lies about.

Like Muslim violence in Australia, for instance.

Keep reading for an option on two outstanding videos and an islamophobic, misanthropic rant by yours truly.  Warning: If you're a thin skinned perpetually pissed off little snow flake, better take a pass on this one - you'll be terminally offended.

I think Australia started out as a penal colony where those tea slurping lime juicers sent their undesirables.  Eventually there was a revolt of some kind, and the last I knew it was a sort of live and let live place.  If you weren't an abo, anyway.  The abos had a bad time of it, and someone made a film about it called Rabbit-Proof Fence.  If you ever get the chance, rent it and watch it.  It's pretty much a true story and a decent film into the bargain.

Getting back to my original rant, Australia used to be thought of as a free country, but that was sometime back.  Now it looks like things are getting worse.

The first video was made by Lauren Southern and published on 7/27/2018.  It shows the journalist and her camera crew walking close to the Muslim 'no go' zone, a neighborhood called Lakemba, which is in south-western Sydney, in the state of New South Wales, Australia.  The border of Lakemba is protected by the official law enforcement officers in Sydney.

Australia is no longer a free country.

This, right here, is how it starts.  The carpet kissers moved in, all nods and smiles, and established Little Baghdad.  Now they aren't so friendly.  In fact, the cops are keeping the Christians out of the area for fear of a disturbance.  If you believe the cop, that is.

If this hasn't happened in the United States, it's only because someone like Lauren hasn't found and documented it yet.


Piracy and Governmental Protection

I got this story courtesy of my Internet buddy, Old NFO, where he announced that a Texas author was getting hosed over by pirates in Canada, the Canadian government, and the U.S. Government.  You can read about it Boosting the Signal as it amuses you to do so.  Continue reading my own diatribe at your own risk, knowing that if you're a snowflake and I've somehow failed to offend you, it isn't for lack of trying.

Here's one to make you stop and ask the eternal question - What the Fuck?!

John Van Stry makes his living as an author.  I'll assume he's fairly good at his business, as people are buying his work and saying good things about it.  The thing is, some no good son-of-a-bitch Canuck (Travis Robert McCrea) and his beaner friend (Francisco Humberto Dias) have decided to steal John's work and sell electronic copies of it on their website.  This is commonly called piracy.

Evidence of the violation is blatant.  All you have to do is point your browser at ebook bike and you can see for yourself.

What really gets on my very last nerve is that the Federal government of the United States is aware of this - and does nothing.  The Canadian government is equally aware, and does nothing.  Both governments are giving these scumbags tacit approval to steal and to sell stolen property.

Being no slouch, John is suing these two swine, but it turns out that attorneys won't work for free, or maybe they think this isn't an ambulance worth chasing.  So as it turns out, John could use a few extra bucks, hence he's started a go fund me page.  You can check it out at Bring ebook.bike to Justice, and you can read the unofficial legal complaint at Travis Mccrea Lawsuit.

Then, kicking a man when he's down, the jack booted thugs that run Amazon just deleted John's last two novels.  No warning, no notification, no explanation of any kind.  Both books are gone without a trace.  One was released this week, and another was released a few weeks back.  The thing is, this affects the position of the books on the Amazon bestseller list, which in turn affects royalties, which has a direct impact on John being able to afford food next week.   In layman's terms, you ain't gettin' paid this month, and don't count on next month either.

The amount of pond scum sucked up by this situation is truly immense.

If you have a facebook account, you can find John at John Van Stry on facebook.  Look him up and leave the man a few words of encouragement, and if you can spare it, a few bucks into his legal fund.  Every dollar counts.

What I'm really wondering about are the other authors involved here.  More than a few of these people are notable authors, NYT bestseller lists, various awards and contacts - notables.  I'm wondering if a class action suit isn't someplace just over the horizon.

Not to be too much of a wet blanket, but if John wins this one (and it seems like a slam-dunk to me) he still has to collect.  Now me, I'd sell the debt to a violent group of motorcycle outlaws with a chapter in Vancouver.  Then I'd start watching the Canadian news.

Here's a hoist of the late afternoon bourbon to John and his supporters.


Old NFO Spam Attack

Old NFO complains that he's the target of spammers, and that it's taking him the best part of his sober life to get rid of all the spam messages.

Check it out at %&*#%)!!!, and take a look at one spam message he failed to delete.  This one:

The nerve of some people!


Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez Explained

Unless you missed the bus, everyone within earshot is aware of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, moonbat extraordinaire, and her Green New Deal.  If you're bored or in need of amusement at someone else's expense, you can read about the proposed train wreck here: Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez Releases Green New Deal Outline.

What people with any kind of intelligence wonder is why something like this would even be proposed, as it's completely nonsensical.  Well, I'll tell you.

Take a look at AOC's early life, courtesy of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez Biography.  From the article:

Early Life and Education

Born to a working-class Puerto Rican family in the Bronx, New York, Ocasio-Cortez graduated from Boston University, majoring in economics and international relations, and worked for Senator Ted Kennedy's office where she focused on immigration issues while in college.

After graduation, she returned home and became a community organizer. However, with the recession taking hold, along with the financial issues her family faced after her father's death in 2008 from cancer, Ocasio-Cortez took multiple low-wage restaurant jobs to help keep them afloat.

So she went to college, worked for Ted Kennedy - doing just what I might ask, but if I do the censors will likely delete this post and ban me from civilized company forever - and then returned home to work at menial jobs (waitress) because she's too dumb to get anything else.

Think. In the moonbats east coast home state, in the city known as Moonbat Central East, she can't find a decent job.  With her education and résumé, she can't get something?  Ever wonder why?  Could it be because she's both abrasive and dumber than a left handed monkey wrench?

Having been picked up by a talent scout and then winning a popularity contest, she's now in office.  Does anyone actually believe she has a clue?  She not only missed the clue bus, she can't find the bus schedule or a bus stop.  But that doesn't matter, because her handlers have carefully pointed her in the right direction.

The New Green Deal is stupidity in a can. The reason AOC championed this is because:
  1. She was told to by whoever is handling her.
  2. She doesn't understand it.
  3. It makes some other outrageous Green Plan seem reasonable by comparison.

Think about item two.  AOC not only doesn't understand the plan; she can't understand it.  She, United States Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D), is intellectually incapable of understanding the Green New Deal or the ramifications thereof, even when it's explained to her.  She really and truly cannot understand it, and she never will.

She won a popularity contest, nothing more or less.  She's been coached on what to say, how to act, and what to emphasize.  She was perfect for the job.  She's a cute female with heavy moonbat experience, and she's from out of town.  If she were black she'd be perfect, except that she'd run off at the mouth too often and commercial media doesn't do well with shaniqua theater.

Now we get this, courtesy of BreitBart and Right Wingnut Matt Gaetz(R) from Florida. Read on as you like.

Matt Gaetz Unveils ‘Green Real Deal’ as ‘Commonsense Rebuttal’ to AOC’s Green New Deal

Having scammed skimmed through this article, the thing that strikes me the most is that Matt Gaetz, a successful lawyer and wingnut, is advocating change and deregulation affecting an industry he knows little to nothing about.  This is especially true of nuclear power stations, which are regulated within an inch of their lives by the N.R.C. (Nuclear Regulatory Commission).  So far we haven't had many accidents at nuclear power plants. There's a reason for that.

Another item Matt Gaetz advocates is rebuilding the electrical transmission grid, which arguably needs to be done since the damned thing is older than I am, but the cost is astronomical.

Given that Matt Gaetz graduated from Florida State University in 2003 and from The College of William and Mary in 2007, and has a Doctor of Jurisprudence degree, I have to believe he's fairly bright.

I'm just wondering if he's thought any of this through.  I don't think he has.

So I guess we'll see what happens in the future.  Me, I have work to do and time won't stand still for me.


April Fool's Day 2019

Well, it's good old April Fool's Day again.  In a moment of alcohol induced inspiration, I decided to list a few April Fool's jokes that either took place on April first, or didn't but were good anyway.  I also decided to list one or two that equate roughly to two redneck friends with a case of beer and a .22 pistol, who decide it would be fun to shoot cans off each others' heads.

Keep reading for a few politically incorrect and potentially disastrous jokes and stories.

Rainbow Room
On a contract down in South Carolina, I tied up with a few good old boys who started telling me about a professional lunatic they only referred to as The Contractor.  Evidently this guy would do stuff the rest of us wouldn't even dream of, and although the staff liked him, they wanted to pull a prank on him.  So...

One genius decided it would be fun to sneak out to the parking lot and affix a bumper sticker or two to The Contractor's pickup truck.  What sort?  Well, the local gay pride group had an office nearby, and The Contractor hated gay guys, so the natural choice would seem to be a rainbow bumper sticker.  Or maybe two or three.  This is a fine idea, right up until the time they realized that someone would have to go to the gay pride office and pick up a few things.  And what if you got seen coming or going?  So they drew straws, with the loser having to go to the Gay Pride office.

I don't remember just who had to go down there, but the man returned with three rainbow bumper stickers including one that said Honk if You're Gay.  They also registered him with the official Gay Pride organization, made a small cash contribution in his name, and signed him up with the weekly newsletter.

It was over a week before The Contractor found out why people (guys, mainly) kept honking at him as they passed.  Then his wife got the welcome package and the first newsletter.

Black Powder
Meanwhile, back at the old Medusa Trap and Skeet club, a foursome is out breaking a few clays.  All these men load their own, and as they walk out to the skeet field another member waits like a retriever in a duck blind.  What's up with this, I wonder aloud.

"Just watch.  Those four know each other, and Fred swapped out a few of Don's shells."

Sure enough, on station three there's a loud KA-BOOM! and a cloud of smoke.  This is closely followed by expressions of dismay, profanity, and groundless accusations.  It seems that some unknown has loaded up a few shells with black powder instead of the nice clean smokeless stuff.  Getting the residue out of an autoloader is going to require a complete disassembly and a bucket of Hoppe's #9.

Critter Loose
Back in the old MS-DOS days a fellow I know was employed, and I won't say where.  One complete and total ass hole in particular was always giving this bright, talented young man a hard time, and so one day...

A little squeak noise and a funny scurrying sound was heard.  The women who heard it hastily pushed away from their desks and held their skirts out of harm's way, looking for a critter.  No luck.  This went on for a few months, with good old Victor mouse traps being set, opinions about cruelty to animals being voiced, and one lady swore that something had been at her lunch.  Eventually the noise happened when some dumb propeller head was waiting for a drive to format, and being a busy body, he called his boss to voice a few suspicions.  The IS Department ding-a-lings perpetrated a search of all hard drives, found the executable on one machine (loads with the autoexec file and at random times runs a command file that produces the noise), then went looking for the alleged perpetrator of this noxious and decidedly unfunny hoax.  Guess where the source was found?

The ass in question got a chewing out, and gave my friend dirty looks for several weeks thereafter.

Home Invasion
Joe (not his real name) was a funny guy, always pulling tricks on everyone.  Frank was a fairly serious sort, was likeable and good company.  April first rolls around, and Joe, not able to keep his trap shut, says that he has the perfect joke to play on Frank.  He knows that Frank watches the Eleven O'Clock News every night, so he's going to put a mask on and pop up outside the picture window behind the TV.  He'll knock on the window to get Frank's attention, and then fire six .38 blanks from his revolver at Frank, thus scaring the living crap out of him.  Just for a joke.

Funny, right?

Well, Frank got wind of this comic act and got his S and W revolver, which he loaded with blanks.  He kept the revolver in his lap, hidden under a newspaper, and turns on the news.  Sure enough, Joe knocks on the window, raises his gun, and about died of a heart attack when Frank jumped up and let fly with six shots of his own.  Blanks, of course.

Joe didn't think it was a bit funny.

Revenge on the Plain
Old Cowboy, out in South Dakota, came from a medium size family.  He had a little brother, about five years his junior, and this being South Dakota and all, he and his friends were a bit hard on the little tyke.  Anyway, out west everyone is armed and dangerous one way or another, and Cowboy's little brother was no exception, having a .22 rifle.

One afternoon Cowboy, about 16 years old, had a few friends over, and they were teasing his little brother kind of hard.  The kid's only ten, so he can't wind up and take a solid swing at any of them, but they make him just as red-faced angry as anyone can get.  He promises to fill all of 'em full of lead, and storms up the stairs.  The group is downstairs laughing and generally carrying on, then they see little brother coming down the steps - and he's got his old man's 12 gauge pump, and he's stuffing shells into it.

Holy shit!  Cowboy's little brother's flipped his lid, and he's going to shoot!  Run!!

The entire group ran for the front door and tried to fit through it.  They heard little brother rack the slide just as three spilled through the door, down the steps, and ran like hell for the barn.  Shots were fired behind them, and the rest of the group followed hot on their tail.

Turned out that little brother had taken the shot out of the shot shells, and torched off three rounds while watching the teenagers run like hell.  In the end they all got a solid talking to by their father, who I guess was trying not to laugh at 'em too much.  Mom said it served 'em right.

Hunting Season
Back out in South Dakota, the Why Two Kay crises was in full swing, and the state hired a bunch of scum sucking contractors to help out.  Just imagine ten or eleven guys in a converted store front downtown, all with not much to do except work.

One guy was from Canada, and in my opinion was a real closet case.  He was also kind of dumb, in that retarded sort of way that you get when you've been drinking too much bourbon and now it's after 3:00 in the afternoon and you haven't had lunch yet.  Anyway, I wouldn't have trusted him with a broken lug wrench, let alone a loaded shotgun.  However...

When hunting season rolled around this Canuk wanted to go out with us in the worst way.  Well, we took him, and we've got eight hunters in a line on the prairie, all strung out, with the dog at one end and the Canuk at the other.  Guess who's walking next to the Canuk.

We don't see anything, and me being the nervous sort I'm making sure that I'm a bit behind the Canuk.  I was watching to see where the dog was when the gun goes off.  I hit the deck, and after a suitable length of time I poke my head up.  The rest of the guys are a bit worried that I've been shot, but I wasn't.  Then I asked the Canuk what he was shooting at.


"Pheasants?  Where?"

"Down there!  See 'em?"

Across the plain, about ten miles away, a few pheasants are getting up and flying to the next cover.  Yeah, I do mean it - ten miles.  It's open prairie, and you can see for miles.

Okay... the next week we're talking about Canadian honkers.  Pierre, SD is in their migration path, so these honkers stop at Capital Lake, which has the state capital building on one side, and the governor's mansion on the other.  The geese are thicker than fleas on a Tennessee hound dog's back, and they're wing to wing in Capital Lake.

Someone, I don't remember just who, started a rumor about the special goose season they have.  Once a year the Fish and Game people set up a special shoot where hunters can go clean a few of these geese out, right on Capital Lake.  We don't know just when it is, but it's got to be pretty soon.  We all want to go.  We keep talking about it, until Canuk volunteers to call the Fish and Game office and see when the special goose shoot is being held this year.

One guy had to turn his back, then choked on his coffee.

This was rolling right along until one of the older fellows saw a potential disaster ahead, or maybe he just felt sorry for the Canuk, who was about to dial the phone.

"Now wait a minute.  Think.  You got the governor's mansion on one side, the capital building on the other side, and a full parking lot at the rear.  Do you really, seriously, think that they're going to hold a Canadian goose shoot out there?"

And that killed it.  But the story got around, and all the men and women had a good laugh over it.  One woman suggested he build a blind.

Keyboard Hell
Back in Detroit, I had my first real contract that actually paid some serious bread and was out of town.  It was a real learning and growth experience.

This one little piss-ant thought he was in charge and he could be a real dick at times.  He made a big deal of locking his computer up whenever he left his desk, and when he was gone we had to take messages from his wife, and his ex-wife.  His ex didn't seem to be all that bad, but then I guess you never know.

There was a little fun program that you could load that would make typing a real interesting experience.  At random intervals, it would introduce a typo.  The longer you worked, the more often the error would occur.  Do it long enough, and you'd type pure gibberish.

Someone, and we don't know who, waited until big important mister supervisor left his desk for a meeting, then pulled the hood and jumped the key lock.  The hood was restored, the system started, and the Happy Typist released into the wild.

About a week down the road mister perfection finally noticed that maybe something was wrong.  When he held down the 'g' key, the line of gees was periodically interrupted by other characters.  That led to an investigation of the autoexec file and a subsequent search for the guilty, followed by persecution of the innocent.  Finally, one of the directors had a talk with all of us with super-visor out of the room, and told us to quit picking on him.  Then he described how mister supervisor came storming into his office and described what was going on, and said he was being persecuted.

Everyone had a good laugh over that one... except mister SUPER-visor.

And that's it.  If you have any good ones, post 'em.  



California Gun Law Struck Down as Unconstitutional

Ever get mail (USPS mail) that says Important!, or Time Sensitive Data Enclosed!, or maybe it's Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner!, or something similar, and you fail to open it because we all know it isn't really important (to you, anyway) and is a complete waste of paper, ink, and your time?

No?  Tell me your secret.

I stumbled across one of those must-read posts, which I typically ignore because I'm not interested in life insurance or some weird new drug that's going to give me a lift, so to speak.

I actually had some complete dumb-ass call me up the other day about life insurance.  A credit union I belong to offered me $12 large of FREE!!! life insurance, no matter how old and decrepit I was.  I'd been drinking, so I accepted and promptly forgot about the whole thing.  Then maybe three months later this demented aardvark calls me on the phone and says he'll be in my area later on this week, either Thursday afternoon or Friday morning, and which of these two appointment times would be best for me?

He then explained that there's all kind of FREE!!! services and benefits (more like BENEFITS!!!) that go right along with my life insurance, but he needs to explain them to me.  Because I'm so fucking dumb that I wouldn't understand them otherwise.

Okay, he didn't really say that last part.

I pointed out that this was life insurance, and the only way I'll get my twelve large is if I cash in my chips, so what's the point?  I'll be dead, won't I?

He volunteered to put me on the do not call list.  What an idiot.

Getting right back to my original topic.  For reasons that still aren't clear to me, I followed up this oh-so-fucking-important must-read post, and wonder of all wonders, I'm glad I did.

If you want to read a superbly written document upholding the Second Amendment and kicking every single freedom hating Liberal right where it does the most damage, read this one:

Case No.: 3:17cv1017

Here's where it begins:


Individual liberty and freedom are not outmoded concepts.“The judiciary is –and is often the only –protector of individual rights that are at the heart of our democracy.” --Senator Ted Kennedy, Senate Hearing on the Nomination of Robert Bork, 1987.

And it ends here:

This decision is a freedom calculus decided long ago by Colonists who cherished individual freedom more than the subservient security of a British ruler.  The freedom they fought for was not free of cost then, and it is not free now.  IT IS HEREBY ORDERED that:

1. Defendant Attorney General Xavier Becerra, and his officers, agents, servants, employees, and attorneys, and those persons in active concert or participation with him, and those duly sworn state peace officers and federal law enforcement officers who gain knowledge of this injunction order, or know of the existence of this injunction order, are enjoined from enforcing California Penal Code section 32310.2.

Defendant Becerra shall provide, by personal service or otherwise, actual notice of this order to all law enforcement personnel who are responsible for implementing or enforcing the enjoined statute.  The government shall file a declaration establishing proof of such notice.

DATED: March 29, 2019

The Granolaville moonbats will appeal this decision (how can they fail to do so?) but in the meantime if you have a 150 round magazine you're perfectly legal.

My thanks to Joe Huffman over at The View From North Central Idaho for this post: 10-round magazine limit ruled unconstitutional!!!!, along with bloggers John Hardin and Kevin over at The Smallest Minority for posting You Need to Read This.

Here's a hoist of the early afternoon bourbon glass and a tip of the old fedora to everyone involved.


Toledo Talk: Obsequy

I've managed to make contact with the somewhat elusive JR, owner and SysOp of the now defunct message board Toledo Talk.  Many people who were active on Toledo Talk are sad to see that it's down for the final count, but (as JR explained) when the party's over, it's over.  He made it clear that he's not interested in selling it or seeing it resurrected.  The lights are off, there aren't any cars in the driveway, and nobody's home.

I see his point.  As of this writing (3/30/2019), the alternate message board for Toledo,  Swamp Bubbles, is also down.  Prior to the technical difficulties that closed it, the site showed no signs of being administered by anyone, and only four or five people ever posted anything.  The mainstay was a retired school teacher with the initials Dale Pertcheck, who displayed a decided list to port, a reluctance to entertain facts that failed to conform to his opinions, and enough hubris for two rap stars.  Needless to say, I didn't agree with him on social or political issues - or any other topics.

As for the abrupt shut down, shutting off the lights without warning precluded all the protests and tearful farewells that would have followed.  That, along with offers to buy the site and keep it running, were best left consigned to electronic thombolia.

So here's a final hoist of the morning bourbon glass and a tip of the old fedora to JR - you did it right, old sport.


Doctor Drill

About a week ago I was reminded by a politely enthusiastic medical technician or clerical assistant that my next appointment with Doctor Drill was in three days.  Purpose: Keep Doctor Drill's woman in high heels.

I like Doctor Drill, even if he is some kind of Oriental and therefore inscrutable - I can never tell what he's thinking.  While he's good at his work, I always just wonder a little bit about the enjoyment factor going on.

Drill employs a black brother-sister team that works the desk,  and English is either a third or fourth language for them.  Moreover, wherever they came from, they've been taught not to speak up so that high mileage antique white men can hear them and understand what they're trying to say.

Drill had a nice lady with big tits clean my grill.  Then he took a look - at my chops.  Tsk-tsk, here's the deal, straight from the hip.  Today's fun 'n games are going to set you back a bill and a quarter.  You got four cavities that have to be fixed in two weeks at the outside.  That's going to set you back five bills.

That's right.  Five Benjamins to put me right.  Plus, since I'm phobic, I have to get all screwed up on Xanax before I hit the chair, the alternative having Dr. Drill drop me with a tranquilizer rifle on my way across the parking lot, which is what my old dentist used to do.  He was a good shot and I think he used to cut my rate because of the fun factor.

Pow! Thud! .... Smack!

"Got him!  Nailed him making a break for his car at the far end of the building."

"Oh, well shot sir!  Well shot!"

"That's fine, Thedly.  Don't lay it on too think.  Nurse Bambi?  You and Star get the stretcher and get him into the chair.  Get the Novocaine into him and the gas mask on him.  I'll come out and get started while he's still happy.  And hey - hey!.  Do not forget to tie the blue ribbon where it belongs."

Yeah, those were the good old days, and last week is now this week.  I'm back from Doctor Drill, five bills lighter, and my chops is full of Novocaine, and my head is full of Xanax.  I'm having a milk shake for lunch.

Wake me in time for happy hour.



RIP Toledo Talk

I'm very sad to announce the closing of a local message board.  Toledo Talk was hosted by JR, who kept the place free of retards and trolls for years.  By following a few links, I discovered this final message from the SysOp:

Notice: Late in the evening on Tuesday, March 12, 2019, Toledo Talk closed its doors to new content. The site began late in the evening on January 17, 2003. 16 years. That's enough. Thanks to the many people who made this place interesting. Adios amigos.
- jr
I met many interesting, intelligent, and erudite people on Toledo Talk, and while I didn't agree with all of them I can honestly say that I have a good deal of respect for everyone I met - both on line and in a few cases, in person.

While I'm sorry to see the old place close down, nothing last forever.  My thanks to JR for keeping the lights on all those years.

Here's an official hoist of the happy hour bourbon glass and a tip of the old fedora to JR.  Thanks JR!


The Saga of the Relaxation Station in Fostoria

Alright, alla you pre-verts, ne'er-do-wells, and bums having better things to do but aren't doing 'em right now, grab your favorite alcoholic beverage and sit back.  I'm about to relate an important segment of history concerning the ubiquitous oriental massage parlor and associated regulatory law as we heathens in the 21st century have come to know and revile it.

Now then.
'Way back in the bad old days, when you could buy a full tank of gas for a fin, a pack of smokes set you back 35 cents, and McVomits was hawking sliders for a quarter a piece, a massage parlor opened in Fostoria, Ohio.  It wasn't a big place, but it had all new girls all the time, and was under new management once a month.  It got inspected by the health department every so often, and any violations got taken care of.  You know?  As in, take care of it.  Customers never came up missing any small, valuable personal items, such as a watch, a ring, or a money clip full of c-notes.  There weren't any fights, no drunk and disorderly calls to the local PD, and no noise about white slavery or sex trafficking.  Or anything.  The owner paid her bills on time and contributed (anonymously, of course) to the right charities, and life was good.

Until one fine day...

Well, one fine evening, actually.

One night Mister Goodwind Upright (Windy to his friends at church) was running late, driving back home from a convention someplace in Hell's Half Acre to his home in The Gravel Pit, and around 8:00 PM he got a cramp right between his shoulder blades.  It was an old badminton injury that had returned to plague him, and the longer he drove the worse it got.  He tried adjusting his seat, stretching his arms, but nothing helped.  Then he saw the billboard.

Relaxation Station Oriental Massage
120 E North St, Corner E North and Main
Open 24 Hours 7 Days

By then it was 11:00 PM and old Windy's back was killing him, so a massage was just the thing.

"Yeah, I sure been there before!"

Let's have some quiet in the peanut gallery.  Now then, as I was saying.  Old Windy takes the exit and one way or another, finds the place.  This being Fostoria, the only places that are actually open at that time of night are bars, no-tell motels, and the massage parlor.  So Windy goes in, and while the place is a little, ah..., different, the girls are friendly and it's warm and clean.  The girls are all oriental and don't speak much English, but that's okay.  He wants a massage, he gets shown into a room with a massage table and instructed to get comfortable.  Fifteen minutes later a girl comes in and tells him to take off his clothes.  Windy tries to explain that it's his back that hurts him, but she just smiles and nods, then says, "You take off clo' now.  Then showah', then sauna, then massa-ay'.  You okay?"

"Did he get Loo-sing?"

No, he got... nevermind who he got.  So Windy strips down, takes a shower, and sits in the hot sauna for a few minutes, being very careful to keep his modesty covered at all times as much as possible.  He gets escorted back to his private massage room by an elderly oriental female, and he lies down on the table, face down.  Misty comes in and gets to work on his back, and she does a credible job with the massage.

"How about the flip?"

Shaddup.  After about twenty minutes or so, Misty tells him to turn over, which he does.  Careful with the towel, now!  Misty goes to work on his arms, then gives him a very nice facial massage.  Then she moves down to his chest, and then...

She grabbed his hooter!

Audience: No!

Mad Jack: Yes!

And she had her girls out too!  Then she said, "How much you wanna spen' honey?"

Mad Jack waits for the laughter to subside.

Well!  Mister Goodwind Upright got out of that place in a hurry, let me tell you!  He had never been so shocked and offended in his entire life.  He was truly afraid that he'd caught some sexually transmitted disease -

Crabs, maybe.

Yeah, maybe.  Anyway, he was so shaken that he went straight to the police department, and he told the desk sergeant what had happened.  The sergeant suffered an abrupt paroxysm of coughing, but when he recovered he provided Windy with a report he could fill out.  Windy filled out the report, then called his wife to tell her that he'd be later than expected, and he got in his car and headed for home.

Once the desk sergeant was able to stop laughing, he started telling the uniforms what had happened, and everyone got a big laugh out of it.  And that would have been that, except for one thing.

This idiot made a complaint to the Mayor's office and the local bird cage liner got hold of it.  Clearly, something had to be done.

So Mayor Fastbucks called Chief Lardbucket and explained the situation, using single syllable words and telling the Chief to shut it down.  The Chief got hold of the Lieutenant, and the Lieutenant spilled the stable dressing all over the Sergeant's desk, and the Sergeant asked for volunteers to go undercover to get evidence on the Relaxation Station.

Yeah, volunteers, right?  Evidence, right?  The department ended up putting all the names into a hat and drawing one, then they drew two more to get the boys to settle down a little.  The idea was to charge 'em with solicitation, procurement, and anything else that would stick.  Now remember, Fostoria is a small town, so everyone tends to know everyone else.  The last guy they sent in to get relaxed had to go three times before he could gain evidence that something other than a therapeutic massage was being offered at the Relaxation Station.  No, I'm not kidding.  Three times, or so the police undercover officer swore under oath.  But evidence was finally gathered and the cops closed the place down.

Then the paper got hold of the story and printed it.  I think it's still in the Toledo Blade archives, but I haven't checked.  The government was shocked, shocked I tell you!, that such an amoral establishment of ill repute had been operating as a front for prostitution for over five years.  Or ten years, or maybe closer to twenty years.  But they were still shocked, and grateful to what's-his-name for filing a complaint.  Strange that no one else complained during all those years, but I guess there's no accounting for basic human nature and Keynesian theory and all that.

The case went to trial and the accused owners, a certain Su Lee Hot and Wong Dong Po, cut a deal with the local persecutor.  They'd stop with the extra personal services if he'd reduce the charges to something meaningful, which he did.  I think it was operating an adult entertainment establishment without a license.  There was a fine but no jail time, and the verdict specified all new girls.

Which, as it turned out, was okay with everybody.

So what about the Relaxation Station today?  I couldn't tell you for sure, but there aren't any complaints about the place.  No drunks, no drugs, no fights, no cop calls in the middle of the night for noise or domestics or anything.  None of the customers have complained either.

If you really want to know the low down, go find out for yourself.  It's still a clean, safe establishment.

Or so I'm told.  Here's how!


RFI and Advice Needed

For my sins, I live in a condominium.  This means dealing with the condo association, which should be pretty easy, you might think.  Not to put too fine a point on it, but you'd be wrong.  Keep reading if you want to be entertained for a few minutes, have a good laugh at someone else's expense, and maybe offer some advice.  You don't even have to be sober.

Before I go into the problem, I'd like to define the place and the players.

The Place: a 50 unit condo development on the Southeast corner of Columbus, Ohio, Doughnut Hole is bordered by Reynoldsburg on one side and Machine-Gun Alley on the other.  Features are a private drive which dead ends, no sidewalks, few streetlights, and Private Drive signs at the entrance.  Each unit has an attached garage, and the residents are generally quiet.  Units are not allowed to be rented, which is mainly enforced with an almost zero-tolerance enforcement.  These are all two bedroom units.  The owners are older and retired, mainly singles.  Crime is literally non-existent in Doughnut Hole, but the locals refer to the main road as Machine Gun Alley, and with good reason.

The Board of Directors, AKA The Players, are:

Madam President. 70+ years old, never married, no children, no man in her life, claims to be a good Christian, possibly an antique Lezbo with her best friend in the whole wide world: board member Tanker. Rules the roost with an iron hand-in-stainless-glove alongside Mister 'A' the property manager.

Barstool. 50-something, married, no children, no job.  Generally friendly.  His mind no longer functions correctly.  Staunch member of AA.  Having a conversation with Barstool is like trying to watch a hockey game while a precocious five year old retains control of the TV remote, surfing all 212 channels in the hope of finding something that will hold his attention for more than 10 seconds.  Barstool has had trouble with his neighbor, Tyrone, in the form of noise complaints.  While the complaints are valid, the board of directors refused to support him, preferring to support Tyrone.  I later learned that Madam President had become friends with Tyrone's parents.  Barstool is disliked by the other board members, who consider him a pain the ass.

Bible Betty. 60-something, never married, no children, hospital Chaplin, generally friendly, wants to retire, she claims she doesn't like being on the board.  Supports Madam President in all things.

Missed Sanity. 60-something, single, athletic.  She's intelligent and provides the rare voice of sanity. She's also somewhat standoffish and doesn't actively support anyone during meetings.

Pickles.  Late 70s, never married, no children.  Introverted, opinionated.  Has just been discharged from a local mental institution where she was incarcerated for being nuts.  No, I'm not exaggerating, and no, I haven't been drinking.

Tanker.  Early 90s, never married, no children.  Carries an oxygen tank.  Either can't hear what's going on at a board meeting or has taken up residence inside her own head, or maybe both.  Wants to paint the entire complex a different color.  Will vote on something when nudged by Madam President.  Again, I'm serious.  I've seen it happen.

Mister 'A', Property Manager.  An ex-cop, I suspect he was fired for being an asshole.  Is physically partially disabled - Alsheimer's?  Works closely with Madam President.   I've caught him telling blatant lies on several occasions at board meetings and have called him on it.

Vince Vodka. Insurance Agent.  Short, high mileage, over 50.  No wife in sight.  If this guy isn't a booze hound then I've never seen one before.  The one and only time I've met Vince is at the annual Doughnut Hole residents meeting.  He had half a load on and two high mileage blonde assistants.

Out of all the players, the only two who will speak freely and honestly to me are Pickles and Barstool.  Ironically, these two get along about as well as owls and crows do.  The rest of the board maintains a neutral to openly adversarial relationship with me and probably with any other residents who dare to ask about the board's business or want to see a financial statement now and then.

Bible Betty will speak with me, but lies to me.

Mister 'A', the property manager, makes no secret that he hates me and is openly obstructive and uncooperative.

Problem One.  I'm told that I'm not eligible to serve on the board of directors.  According to the rules and regulations, in order to qualify for a seat on the board of directors a person must A) Be a resident of Doughnut Hole, or B) Own a unit in Doughnut Hole and be a resident.  The spirit of the rule is that an investor living in, say, Toledo, is allowed to buy a unit, but is not allowed a seat on the board of directors unless he takes up residence in his unit.

My situation is that my condo is owned by a trust, and I'm not listed as a trustee of that trust.  The name of the trust is something on the order of Mad Jack's Mother's Trust fbo Mad Jack (fbo being For Benefit Of).  This protects my mother's favorite son from losing his little slice of heaven to the I.R.S.  Since I'm not a trustee, Madam President says the situation causes me to be ineligible for the board of directors, and since the resident trustee is my brother Big Mike, but since Big Mike doesn't live in Doughnut Hole, he's not eligible either.

I don't agree with Madam President's decision on this.  I think I'm eligible for a seat on the board, but I have no real idea how to fight this.

Problem Two.  The board of directors, Madam President, Mister 'A', and Vince Vodka are refusing to provide information to me, and to the rest of the residents.

On Tuesday, January 29th, I requested the following items and information:

Madam President and Mister 'A' prevaricate, refuse to answer phone calls and email, and then lie to me saying that the information is someplace else.  Vince Vodka refuses to take or return any calls or email.

By Ohio law, the association must insure the building, yet I have no proof of that insurance nor do I know where to go in the event of a claim.  I don't know how much my home is insured for, and that's beginning to bother me.

Since there isn't anything proprietary included in these questions, I tend to wonder what the association is trying to hide, or if they're just being assholes.  Which is possible, believe me.

Again, I have no idea how to proceed.  How does a resident get a condo association to cooperate when the only real players - Madam President and Mister 'A' - truly want to be obstructive?

Any and all help on this one will truly be appreciated.


Moonbats, Primates, and Primative Cultures

I read Knuckledraggin My Life Away by Wirecutter on a fairly regular basis, and between the rants about stupidity and the gifs of naked broads, he actually puts together a good essay every so often.  These aren't diamonds in the rough, either.  This is stuff that's really worth reading.  In between times he publishes quotes (likely without permission, although no one in their right mind would object, and the moonbats are all whiny little things of undecided sexual identification who are horrified by firearms and fisticuffs) and stories from others.  This latest is one such, and is worth reading.

I first read this when I was half in the bag, then read it again sober and it still made sense.  The titular question, Class Warfare or Are Billionaires Bad? is somewhat banal and doesn't do justice to the essay.

Here's the original, Class Warfare by Kenny Parsons (aka Johnny Silver Bear) and Doug Casey.

The deal is that there are around 2,500 actual billionaires in the world today, and most of them live in the U.S. of A.  No surprise, right?  A certain segment of the population hates these people because they're rich.  I, by the way, do not.  I pretty much ignore them, never having met one and not having an overwhelming desire to do so.  Not everyone shares this outlook.

Doug Casey predicts a split of the GOP and the Moonbats.  He also predicts a few other things, and has good reason to do so.  Along the way the man actually knocks one out of the park and fails to notice the grand slam.

From the article:

The problem is that humans are essentially chimpanzees – and I don’t mean the gentle bonobo either.  As individuals, they can be quite rational. But they immediately fall to the lowest common denominator if you put them together.  It’s easy to get them to hooting and panting, anxious to tear apart some real or imagined enemy.

And a lot of that has to do with envy, a much nastier vice than simple jealousy or covetousness.  Jealousy says: “You have it. I want it. I’ll take it from you.”  That’s understandable.  It’s how the world has worked for at least 500 million years, since animal life arose.  Envy, however, says “You have it.  I want it.  I’ll not only take it from you, but I’ll hurt you for having it.  And if I can’t have it, I’ll destroy it, so you can’t have it either.”  One chimpanzee has a bunch of fat appetizing grubs, and the other chimpanzees – well represented by all the Democrats running for president – are chock-full of envy.  I’m afraid that’s just the way things are on Planet Earth today.  Not just with chimps, but even more so with humans.
This observation goes a long way toward explaining moonbat behavior.

Out of idle curiosity I looked up both words in the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) .  Here's what I found:

The quality of being jealous.

†1.1 Zeal or vehemence of feeling against some person or thing; anger, wrath, indignation. Obs.

†2.2 Zeal or vehemence of feeling in favour of a person or thing; devotion, eagerness, anxiety to serve. Obs.

3.3 Solicitude or anxiety for the preservation or well-being of something; vigilance in guarding a possession from loss or damage.

4.4 The state of mind arising from the suspicion, apprehension, or knowledge of rivalry: a.4.a in love, etc.: Fear of being supplanted in the affection, or distrust of the fidelity, of a beloved person, esp. a wife, husband, or lover.

b.4.b in respect of success or advantage: Fear of losing some good through the rivalry of another; resentment or ill-will towards another on account of advantage or superiority, possible or actual, on his part; envy, grudge.

†1.1 Strong or inordinate desire (of). Obs.

2.2 Inordinate and culpable desire of possessing that which belongs to another or to which one has no right.

†1.1 Malignant or hostile feeling; ill-will, malice, enmity. Obs.

†b.1.b Unwillingness, reluctance. Obs. rare.

†c.1.c Odium, unpopularity, opprobrium; used to translate L. invidia. Obs.

†2.2 Active evil, harm, mischief. Obs.
I've seen this kind of behavior in people I encounter on a fairly regular basis.  Some of these are otherwise fairly bright and well-educated people, but they have a good deal of envy in their heart.  We, the haves, refuse to relinquish what is rightfully ours, what we've worked hard for.  They, the have-nots, want what we have to the point of envy.  They won't work for it themselves, but they will try and take it from us.  Being unable to take it, they'll do their best to destroy it.

This isn't just true with tangible things (mainly wealth).  The same hostility exists due to social position, artistic achievements, or scholastic accomplishments.  Since I can't have what you have, I'll destroy your university.

Immediate gratification figures into this pretty strongly.  A freshman comes into English 201 and wonders why he isn't learning anything.  Another in the same class isn't learning anything either, yet one is able to pen coherent sentences and string them together to form paragraphs.  Enough paragraphs make an essay.  Eventually the semester ends and the student matriculates into English 301, where very little is learned.  The other student turns in an essay that is so poorly written that the instructor has no idea where to begin.  There are no sentences, but the general feeling is one of hatred and a strong desire to burn down the building unless the inarticulate demands are met by close of business today.  If the student is allowed to continue to attend class, he's disruptive.  He prevents the other students from learning anything.  If corrected, he's likely to become violent.

At one time this student would never have been allowed to attend college.  He isn't emotionally prepared, and he isn't scholastically prepared.  He's not the college's responsibility.  But that was then, and this is now.  Now we have a sign:

Check Your Privilege

I wish I'd have known about white privilege when I was growing up.  I could have used a little break here and there.

Again, I can't have it.  If I can't have it, you're getting a beating and I'll destroy what you've got that I want.

My very own former ice pick in the eye, Migraine One, is consumed by envy.  Since this is one emotion that I've never had, it's almost impossible for me to understand how it motivates someone else - until now, anyway.  Now, although I don't really understand it, I can recognize it and see how it works.

My thanks to Wirecutter, Johnny Silver Bear, and Doug Casey.


Picking on Glen Filthie

The hoople heads are picking on Glen Filthie again.  This all started when Glen walked into last Sunday's show n' tell with his shop class project which he claimed was a camp stove, but from the look of it was either a shoe shine box or an ash tray.  One thing we could all agree on was that no one was foolish enough to ask him to fuel the mystery burner up and torch it off.

Then some idiot sitting in the back of the class opened his fat yap and suggested Glen's corn bread wasn't done in the middle, and that set it off.  Personally, I think it was that M. Silvius that started the whole thing.

So Glen went off Boiling With RAGE, and... go read about it if you're interested in UFOs and close encounters of the worst kind, but I'm told the outcome is that the little green men from outta space have concluded that while life on earth is intelligent, that intelligence is somewhat perverse.  And so we've been interdicted.

Meantime, I have no idea what these hosers think camping is actually all about.  For instance, their idea of a tent and mine bear (bare?) no similarity at all.

This is a modern tent.  Note that the sides aren't made of canvas and that it requires little to no effort to erect.  It's also impervious to inclement weather, having central heating and cooling.

Modern Camping
Here's what the interior looks like.  There's plenty of room for guests and hosting those late night parties that the camp ground owners and forest rangers love so much.

There's also an adult recreation room with a door that can be closed and locked for privacy.

Adult Recreation Room
Finally I'll get to the point of this rag, which is the modern camping stove.  This is what the camp stove is supposed to look like - casual readers may notice a difference between this stove and the IED that Glen is proposing to use, versus the mystery contraptions proposed by his insouciant and somewhat less enlightened detractors.

Modern Stove
And now if you'll excuse me, happy hour is getting closer and I need to run to the liquor store.  Here's how!


Teaching History Instead of Math

I found this someplace on the web this morning.  I was about to let it slide, but the longer I thought about it, the more irate I became.

It seems some snowflake in Moss Point, Mississippi, normally teaches math, but in honor of Black History Month (designated as February here in the good old U.S. of A. - okay, the shortest month of the year if you're using the Gregorian calendar, and what surprises me is that some group of ill-intentioned society shit-stirrers haven't discovered this and whipped the Loony-Tune-Left into a frenzy), Black History month decided to teach a little history along with math.  Not surprisingly, she really screwed the pooch on this one.

Teacher's powerful slavery lesson for Black History Month goes viral

From the article:
Math teacher Jovan Bradshaw of Magnolia Middle School in Moss Point, Miss., covered her classroom door with bright yellow paper and a message (which she attributed to poet and author the Rev. Nadine Drayton-Keen): “Dear Students, they didn’t steal slaves. They stole scientists, doctors, architects, teachers, entrepreneurs, astronomers, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, etc., and made them slaves. Sincerely, your ancestors.”

They being the white privilege straight male citizens of the newly minted United States, who did, in fact, occasionally steal slaves.  Theft isn't a new thing, and although I have no first hand knowledge, I have no reason to believe that slaves were never stolen.  More often than not, slaves were purchased.  The point of origin was Africa, the dark continent.  Various tribes from the interior would raid their neighbors so as to capture slaves and eliminate competition.  The victors of these tribal wars would then sell or trade the slaves to the tribes along the coast, who would in turn sell them to European slavers in ships, who would take the slaves to Europe or the U.S. - anywhere that they could get a good price for them.

As for scientists, doctors, et al., no.  The slaves were from a culture that had no written language and were still at the hunter/gatherer stage in technology.  Take an adult who has lived outside all his life, and natural selection will provide you with a first class woodsman.  But a scientist, a doctor, or an architect?  No.  Doubly so since the slaves we're talking about here came from inferior tribes - they got defeated and captured, remember?

The snowflake continues:

“It all started with this little boy in my class,” Bradshaw told WLOX. “We were talking and he said, ‘Slaves didn’t do much because they couldn’t read or write.’

Which is true.  In fact, teaching a slave to read or write was against the law, and the punishment was significant.  This is doubly true today, because frankly if you're a functional illiterate, you are well and truly screwed.

From teacher:
He kinda caught me off guard. I said, ‘Baby, if I snatched you up and dropped you off in China or Germany or Africa even, you wouldn’t be able to read and write their language either. Does that make you useless or any less educated?’”

In fact it does.  I have good reason to believe that most people who read this incredibly antagonistic blog possess above average intelligence.  That isn't saying a whole lot, but I believe it to be true nonetheless.  Most of the readers likely fall into the bright or very bright range.  That being the case, getting kidnapped and transported to central China would be an interesting experience for a hour or so, but then reality would set in.

Most white people from the U.S. can't speak Chinese at all.  The necessary sounds are beyond them, and even if you learn to speak Mandarin well (for a round eyes) you'll attract a lot of attention.  So yeah, you are not valuable.  Even if you were a neurosurgeon, you couldn't find a hospital or explain what you were, where you wanted to go, or that you were a citizen of the U.S.

Maybe that last is just as well - foreign devil.

Drop you into Germany, and you'd catch on.  German is a Latin based language, and the technology is high.  Hell, you could hike to the border in Germany in a few days time.  But work there?  Maybe.  But you speak no German and you don't know local custom, so whatever job you get will be pretty menial.  Unskilled physical labor, I'm thinking.

Then she drops the 'A' bomb: Africa.  I have some second hand experience with the dark continent, and depending on just where you ended up, your lifespan would be measured in days.  Unless you could find someone who spoke English, you're screwed.  You're not going to learn an African language, and African tribes in general don't have a written language.  No money, no AK-47, no nothing.  You'd probably die of some weird disease within a month.

I'm thinking in terms of adults here.  But a child?  The child becomes a liability at the very best, and short lived slave labor at the worst.  Well, okay, food at the worst.  The Africans will eat anything that doesn't put up much of a fight, and if the natives won't the critters will.

My old pastor and godfather was a missionary in Africa.  The village defended itself against jackals, lions, giant snakes, and if it was poisonous or venomous in any way, be it animal, plant, or other, it's represented in Africa.

We got HIV and Aids from Africa.

What gets to me is that this school teacher is so far away from reality that she's actually defeating the learning process for one student who figured the system out immediately.  If you can't read, you won't amount to anything except a parasite.

What bothers me most is that there is one child who got it right, who showed a spark of brilliance, and got lied to and castigated by a local authority figure.


Good Samaritan Fallout

I'm not what any sane man of average intelligence would call a good Samaritan.  I'm a crusty old curmudgeon, generally half in the bag.  I like dogs, cats, guns, and whiskey.  I don't like people, which is why I live alone.  Well, one reason anyway.

So a few months back when my neighbor, Next-door Nancy, asked me for a ride to the bank and then to the grocery store, I pretty much shrugged it off and told her we'd put it on the street in five.  That's how it got started.

The deal with Next-door Nancy is that she's had a head injury followed by neurosurgery, and there are after-effects.  For instance, seizures.  Next-door Nancy is prone to zone out and tip over without warning.  I actually found her lying in the parking lot last July and called the meat wagon for her, which she didn't like a bit.

"It's only a seizure, honey.  Just wait until I come out of it, instead of making a fuss and running up medical charges of six bills and change."  Or words to that effect.

Her hands shake.  She can't write.  Tying her shoes takes 20 minutes or so.  Anything requiring dexterity is impossible.  She's about five-three and maybe 110, and she walks everywhere, weather permitting.  I've even offered her a ride in good weather, and she declines.  I think it's a measure of independence for her.

About a month back Nancy came over to the shack and requested I trim an ingrown toenail for her.  I declined.  Anything involving bathroom surgery is above my pay grade and outside my official license.  I told her to call a podiatrist and make an appointment.  Thirty minutes later she's back over at my shack, telling me her appointment is tomorrow at eleven, and looking at me expectantly.  What could I say?

All kinds of things, but I told her we'd leave at ten forty.  Me and my big fat yap.

And so it came to pass that I skipped my morning snort and took Nancy to the podiatrist, Dr. Slipshod, and took my Kindle along so as to keep myself amused while waiting in the waiting room.  Turns out the waiting room has a fish tank, a TV with the sound off, and three chairs.  I settled in and started reading Jack Vance.  About 45 minutes later I realized that Next-door Nancy should have been out some time back.  I go back to Vance and finish the chapter, then the nurse comes out and escorts me back to the treatment room.

The floor has an untidy pile of bloody gauze, Nancy is looking okay, but the big toe on her right foot is looking a bit the worse for wear.  The nurse starts bandaging the foot while giving me directions on changing the dressing every day.  Why is she bending my ear with this First-Aid for Retards junk?  Then the truth hits me.  I'm slow, but I eventually get there.  Nancy has to soak her foot in Epson salts for 15 minutes, then the toe gets dressed with magic powder, Neosporin, and covered by a band-aid.  With the way her hands shake Nancy isn't able to do any of this, so it just naturally falls to little old me.

Oh well.  It probably builds character or something.

But there's just a little more to the story.  Nancy is on several kinds of bats-in-the-belfry medications.  She's neurotic-psychotic complete with fits and gaslighting.  In the old days they'd say she was a bit too high strung.  Back in my day (shut up you guys) they'd say she was wound tighter than Oscar's pocket watch at high noon.  Now, if Nancy stays on her meds, she's okay.  One of these meds is Clonazepam (Klonopin, Clonazepam); I don't know the other two.  So naturally she fails to take her meds and goes koo-koo.

The first person to get wind of Nancy's new outlook on life is the church pastor, who listened to her without comment for three minutes or so, then hung up and called nine-one-one.  The cops got there ahead of the meat wagon and ascertained that:

So Nancy went away to the happy house for three days for observation, and when she got back she was riding on an even keel.  Seemingly, anyway.

Well, time goes merrily along as time is want to do, and Nancy's toe heels up, which makes me happy as I know happiness, and just when I'm ready to celebrate -

Runaway train on track 13!

Two weeks ago Next-door  Nancy told me that she was running low on pills, and the pharmacy wouldn't give her a refill because controlled substance, opioid crises, political assholes, new laws and all that.  No sweat, I tell her.  Call your doctor and explain what happened (she spilled the bottle trying to fill her weekly pill dispenser and some of the pharmaceuticals rolled under the refrigerator - her hands shake, right?) and the doctor will fix it.

So naturally she didn't do that, and I didn't check up on her.  Yeah, I'm a real fathead sometimes.

Nancy shows up at my door this morning around ten.  She rants.  She raves.  It's raining, water is building up on her patio, she has no money and no food, and her buddy Gayle was supposed to take her shopping today but canceled - the nerve! - and so now she's in misery.  Well, I can kind of sympathize with this.  Empathize, anyway.  No problem, I'll get my foot gear on and we'll go to the bank, then to the store.

Nancy isn't getting any cheerier on the ride to the bank, so I ask her if she's taken her medication today.  She affirms she has, so I just shrug and keep driving.  She's having a bit of a bad day, and that's it.

Nancy spends about ten minutes in the bank, nine of which is spent bending the ear of the poor bank manager.  The bank has glass walls, and I can see this poor guy wondering just what he did to deserve a customer who is yelling at him and waving her arms.  In truth, I can't hear anything, but judging from what I'm seeing I figure there's every chance in the world that the manager is hitting some kind of silent alarm, the cops are going to show up, arrest Nancy, and I'll get stuck in the middle.  I am truly not up for this.

Nancy comes out with a mitt full of dead presidents and we head to Kroger's.  She seems a bit calmer, but I'm not sure that's true.  Maybe she's just holding herself together somehow.

We get to Kroger's and I powder off to pick up a few things.  I go through the check out line, noting that my cashier is named Gwendolyn, has long blonde hair, a three day growth, and has a button that reads She and Her.  Oh boy.  Then the shit hits the fan.  Nancy's in the next lane over and she's throwing a fit.  She can't find things, everyone is grinning at her in derision (they aren't), and she's going to kill herself.  She doesn't just say this.  She screams it.

Holy hell on a biscuit.

I try to get her to calm down, but she isn't having it.  She refuses.  Other customers try to help, but nothing doing.  The manager shows up and manages to fill her order.  While he's playing step and fetch it, Nancy is alternately weeping quietly or giving serious hell to everyone within earshot.  I wait, hoping against hope that we, mainly me, can get out of here without the local constabulary getting involved.

Nancy comes within a whisker of getting barred from the store for the rest of her natural life, but we manage to make it out.  On the way home I discover that, surprise surprise, she hasn't taken her meds today.  The reason for this is that she spilled the contents of a bottle while loading her pill dispenser.  I tell her to call her doctor as soon as she gets home, and browbeat her until she agrees.  We get home and I escape.

I make a few calls, starting with the church.  It turns out that they've been having trouble with Nancy for about three days now.  Then her sister, who is Nancy's emergency contact and who has no clue as to what's going on.  I explain the scene at Kroger's and the woman is truly amazed.

One way or another, I give Nancy's doctor a call.  He's out, but the nurse is in.  When I explain what's going on, the staff swings into action and gets refill orders on all prescriptions.  I'm relieved and thank her.

One of the neighbors (the president of our Condo Association, Madam President) took Nancy to the pharmacy.  Good, now she's got pills.  Take two and call me in the morning!

She won't.  She refuses.

Somebody pass me a cigarette and a blindfold.

Nancy shows back up at my door.  She wants to bitch and moan and complain.  I want her to take her pills.  It took me twenty minutes, but she finally returned to her home and took her nerve medicine.  I checked on her an hour later, and she was coming down.

And that's how today got shot to hell.

I don't know what I'm going to do in the future.  In my mind we're all in this together, and if a person can give a little help to another poor sap who desperately needs it, help should be given.  At the same time you can reach a point where enough is enough.  I'm tired.  My nerves are shot.

I'm going to have a drink.


Requim for a Website

A local message board that I used to enjoy reading and contributing to some years back turned into an SJW hotel with about three residents, all on moral welfare.  You'll find them sitting in the lobby on broken down, lice infested furniture, watching TV and mumbling about the devil in the White House.

At one time SwampBubbles hosted heated arguments about local politics and problems, and had a good number of contributors.  It's now as dead as the Southwyck Mall.  The reason?  The loony Left took control, the SysOp (Chris Myers) lost interest, and intelligent arguments were spammed by moonbat messages.

Southwyck Mall
Eventually, everyone with an IQ over room temperature stopped reading.  I check in every two or three months just to see if the place is still up (it is) and in a moment of boredom will post a response to the loonie-tune opinions posted by the Left, which has dwindled to a single user.

Apropos of absolutely nothing, the chief troublemaker and official SJW leader posted this piece of drivel: My Personal and Sincere Apology to Chris Meyers.  I posted a suitable response, which you can read or not as it amuses you to do so - SwampBubbles! We are driven...

A long time back, I posted a link to Anil Dash's piece, If your website's full of assholes, it's your fault.  He's right, and if the state of the site were actually worth caring about, I'd blame the owner.  As it is, I really don't care.

I'm writing this as an example of what can happen to a society, any kind of society, when the Left succeeds in driving off everyone with a sense of reason and accountability.  The place ceases to exist.  Sure, SB is still on the web, still live, but it provides nothing.  Even the moonbats have lost interest.

There are other organizations that share the same sort of fate.  Commercial Media comes to mind.  Most of commercial media is gone.  Look for a story, and you'll find the same take on it from ABC, CNN, Google News, Huffington Post, LA Times, NBC, NY Times, USA Today, Washington Post, and Yahoo! News.  All say the same things the same way.  Whatever journalism they once had, it's dead, killed off by the owners of these pseudo news services who encouraged the SJW crowd to do what they dearly love best - destroy everything that dares to disagree with them.


I Got Your Progressivism - Right Here!

While reading a local (Toledo, Ohio) message board, Toledo Talk, I came across a somewhat provocative thread which was almost guaran-damn-teed to inspire a few demagogic comments from the multitude of literate but inerudite contributors: Racist Threats and Harassment at Toledo Workplace.

I was able to restrain myself, and confine my somewhat pithy comments to my own ambit - this blog.

The following is not safe for work and might cause a brain aneurysm in any warm, sensitive Caspar Milquetoast SJW.  Your mileage may vary.

I'll take a moment to mention that Toledo City Schools are failing, while the Toledo School for the Arts Performance is a charter school and is doing well, by comparison.

You can bet your bottom dollar that there isn't any discrimination in Toledo City Schools - unless you're white, at which point you have to contend with the fact that the only people in this world who are racist and who discriminate are white, well-educated people, but mostly men and mostly fat old men who like bourbon, guns, and women.  Real women, that is.

Toledo Public Schools (TPS) are supposed to be run by the Toledo Bored of Education (BOE), a group of horn tooters and mental defectives who couldn't fix an electric hammer, much less a failing school system.

Enter Toledo School for the Arts (TSA). The place was founded in 1998, but when Crystal Bowersox was a runner-up on American Idol, enrollment skyrocketed.

Dodging an obvious bullet that was more like a burst from a 134 Minigun, the school administrators wisely put an admissions lottery in place.  Everyone was welcome to apply, but only the lucky ones got in.

I'll cheerfully admit that I would have done this much differently, and allowed admission to the best and brightest. But what do I know, right?  Well, I know this.  With an institution like this one, the clock is ticking.  There's money, prestige, and power to be had.  Right on the heels of the Prada knock off wearing wanna-bees is the opportunity to make someone's life miserable.  That's low hanging fruit to every Moonbat in the vicinity.

The TSA is supposed to be progressive, and it probably is.  Just not in the way everyone would like.  Consider that Progressivism

is the support for or advocacy of improvement of society by reform. As a philosophy, it is based on the idea of progress, which asserts that advancements in science, technology, economic development and social organization are vital to the improvement of the human condition.
What it really amounts to is a haven for Social Justice Warriors (SJWs), the deliberately offended scum of the internet who are so quick to dogpile anything or anyone they find offensive.  Which just as sure as hell includes this misogynist honky here.

I'll digress and offer a much better definition from RooshV: What Is A Social Justice Warrior (SJW)?
A felicitously pejorative term, social justice warriors believe in an extreme left-wing ideology that combines feminism, progressivism, and political correctness into a totalitarian system that attempts to censor speech and promote fringe lifestyles while actively discriminating against men, particularly white men. They are the internet activist arm of Western progressivism that acts as a vigilante group to ensure compliance and homogeny of far left thought.

The local scandal sheet from Toledo reported that State agency rules against Toledo School for Arts in racial discrimination case.

From the article:
The commission in mid-November found it probable that TSA leaders did in fact engage in unlawful discriminatory practices against then-Dean of Students India Springs, and found it probable that they retaliated against Ms. Springs after she filed a complaint with the state agency in January, 2018.

Note that this is probable, meaning likely. There's nothing absolute about the findings.

From the article:
[Director Doug] Mead, in an affidavit dated March 23, said he was unaware of any harassment or discrimination Ms. Springs suffered, and that her accusations largely resulted from her misinterpreting the feedback she received from others.

“I think Ms. Springs views harassment in two parts,” Mr. Mead said in the affidavit.

“First, if there is ever a point where we’re trying to give her support or guidance or we gave her the impression that what she was doing wasn’t 100 percent right, she considered that harassment. Second, when a faculty member questioned her, if we did not put the hammer down on that faculty member, she considered that harassment of not being supported.”

And there you have it.

India Springs is a new hire, is a black female, and part of her job was to create a code of conduct for the school students.  According to the school administrators, there were immediate problems with that.  I'm going to hazard a guess that her boss and co-workers found her impossible to work with.  She'd go off without any warning, she was always right, and anything said within her earshot was motivated by overt racism.

The ruling was appealed, and lost on appeal. Why? Consider the executive staff of the Ohio Civil Rights Commission.

G. Michael Payton, Executive Director. Black male.
Darlene Sweeney-Newbern, Director of Regional Operations. Black female.
Stephanie Bostos-Demers, Chief Legal Counsel. White female.
Mary Turocy, Director of Public Affairs and Civic Engagement. White female.

The rest of the staff are commissioners appointed by then-Governor John Kasich, a real loser, and there isn't one white male among them.  There is the token white female, but I think she's a lez.

What chance does the school have?  Slim and none.

What the commission failed to point out is the obvious; The school hired an employee who turned out to be impossible to work with, and who screamed about racist personal attacks every time anyone dared to speak to her in less than adulating terms.

Are there any racist administrators or teachers at TSA?  Probably.  Do they discriminate?  If they do, it isn't much.  Personally, I don't think so.

I also think that the Titanic could have avoided the iceberg and should not have been declared unsinkable.

Ohio has a public school system that's failing, and the State government doesn't care.  With my health and my lifestyle, I won't live long enough to fully enjoy the fruits of that system, but anyone graduating high school today had better take a hard look at what's going on around him, and plan his life accordingly.

Someone give me a refill.


Michael A. Stackpole: The Resurection!

I've had several questions about the state of noted author Michael A. Stackpole.  On January 5th, 2019, I wrote that Stackpole was on the dark side of the lawn (as in pushing up daisies, six feet under, deep-sixed, checked out, living in the box condo, etc.), having committed seppuku (harakiri).  I made the remark that:

The cause of his untimely demise was self-impalement upon Constance, Stackpole's personal +5 Holy Avenger.

Meaning that he fell on his sword (publicly resigned GAMA) and so became a martyr for all to see and admire.

The +5 Holy Avenger is a reference to the Dungeons and Dragons fantasy role playing game.  In the game, a paladin (holy warrior) might gain a magical sword, the much coveted and oft abused plus five holy avenger.  Such items are often intelligent and have their own name, hence Constance.

The point of all this is to ridicule Stackpole's resignation.  More people have heard of Stackpole than have ever heard of GAMA, and the only people who could possibly give a tinker's damn about Himself's ostentatious resignation are Himself and the other members of the board, who are well rid of a grandiose gadfly.

To the best of my knowledge, Michael A. Stackpole is still with us, for good or ill.  Physically, anyway.  Mentally might be a different story.

Patricia Pulling has been worm's food for over 20 years, and hence has nothing to say.  She said plenty when she was alive, but that was then and this is now.

However Gamergate got into this dog pile, I guess it's in.  It's old news, and the reason that it's difficult to understand is because it's all about the hysterical actions and reactions of SJWs under self-induced delirium.

You can learn all about Gamergate by reading What Is Gamergate, and Why? An Explainer for Non-Geeks along with Know Your Meme - Gamergate, which gives a slightly more comprehensible explanation.

From Know Your Meme:

GamerGate refers to the online backlash against perceived breaches of journalistic integrity on video game news sites that occurred as a result of the Quinnspiracy, an online controversy surrounding indie game developer Zoe Quinn's alleged affairs with a number of men working in the video game industry, including Kotaku staff writer Nathan Grayson. The term has also since been used to describe the group of internet users, based mainly on Twitter, who claim that there is a lack of transparency within the video game journalism industry. These same people have also been criticized of practicing misogyny and sexism by many, through harassment and trolling, referring to their opposition as social justice warriors.

That's all the explanation I'm going to write today.


Michael A. Stackpole, Dead at 61

Noted author, game designer, and sociopolitical commentator Michael A. Stackpole passed away somewhat messily on January 5th, 2019 at precisely 3:00 PM EST.  The cause of his untimely demise was self-impalement upon Constance, Stackpole's personal +5 Holy Avenger.  He did not go gently into that good night.

When notified of Stackpole's demise, infamous social butterfly Patricia Pulling had this to say:

You can read more about the left and times of Stackpole at My Resignation Letter to the GAMA Board of Directors.

From the article:

The board [of Directors - MJ] is broken when it, having previously enjoyed robust and detailed discussions about GAMA harassment policies, down to the minutia of the structuring of an investigative team to be in place at our shows, chooses only to censure an officer who physically assaulted a female security guard.

Which is what this whole thing is really all about.  Here's a short summary of the incident Stackpole is referring to:

Back in the early part of August, 2018, GenCon held its annual convention in Indianapolis. This is the largest gaming convention in the U.S., and hosts about 60,000 rabid game geeks of all ages from all over the world, literally.  The dealer show is significant, and a dealer table costs a small fortune.  The entire convention area is in perpetual gridlock until the show mercifully ends on Sunday night.  What fun.  Hotel rooms for the next year sell out minutes after registration opens.

Stephan Brissaud, chief operating officer (COO) of iello had leased a booth in the dealer show, which is a significant expense.  Unfortunately, the delivery of his materials for the booth was one day late, which created a fiendish problem for Brissaud, as he would now have to set up while the show was in session.

Making matters worse were the organizers of GenCon and the local security staff.  GenCon organizers could have allowed Brissaud to use an entrance that was fairly close to his display, but they declined to do so.  Mainly, I suspect, because they could, and we all know it's much more fun to deny than to allow, and by denial make someone's life miserable.

Then the security staff prohibited the use of hand trucks or dollies to move the merchandise, meaning that Brissaud and his skeleton crew had to move their load by hand, one box at a time, from a doorway three or four times further away than it should have been.

Now security gets their turn.

There's a video tape of a confrontation between a self-important fat ass biological female in a uniform, one Candace Gene Patterson, who stopped Brissaud as he was on his way into the show, carrying a box.  She demanded to see his exhibitor's pass.

Having been jerked around by the obstructive officials at GenCon, forced to use an entrance that was far removed from his booth, and now confronted by a JBT wanna-be, Stephan Brissaud did what I would have done, and what I suspect many men would have done.  He told her the silly bitch to get the fuck out of his way and he kept walking.

She objected and filed file a police report with the local PD three days later.  Yep, three days after the incident, she makes an official complaint.  Mind you, there is no evidence of an assault or battery, but what the fuck, right? If you can make someone's life just a little harder, go for it.  The SJWs will thank you later.

The GenCon officials (Peter Adkison and his crew) threw Brissaud out, which was the wrong thing to do, but which is expected.  They don't have to be nice to anyone, and that's generally what happens when a group of snots like these get authority without any responsibility.

For his part, Stephan Brissaud issued an apology, which is a major mistake.  Never apologize to the Left.  Never ever.  Instead, Brissaud should have doubled down.

If you watch the video, and I have, you'll note two things; One, Brissaud's arms are full and he's busy moving in.  Two, Brissaud is a head and a half taller and around 150 pounds heavier than the security bitch.  He Brissaud actually assaulted her, she'd likely have ended her shift in the neurological ER.  But she didn't and he didn't, and that much is obvious to the local PD, as no arrests were made.

Getting back to my original topic, Stephan Brissaud happens to be president of Game Manufacturers Association (GAMA).  Now illeo Games isn't going to do much of anything about this incident
except decide if they're going to attend GenCon in 2019 - I wouldn't, but that's just me.  For its part, GAMA is in the position where it can't do anything by way of punishing Brissaud without a violation of the GAMA by-laws.  This wouldn't slow down a group of left-wing moonbats, but other people take this kind of thing seriously.  So they, the GAMA board of directors, decided to officially disapprove of Brissaud's actions and censure him.  Or, put it another way, do nothing but say you shouldn't have lost your temper.

Which he shouldn't have.  He should have waited.  What he could have done was write about his experience at GenCon and give them a little bad press, which they richly deserve.

As for Stackpole, his major malfunction is that he's decidedly light in the loafers and his fellow butt buddies at GAMA are failing to hammer the official SJW target du jour, Stephan Brissaud.  Note that rules and regulations don't bother Stackpole in the slightest.  Because, you know, this is different.  And so, in a gigantic snit, complete with an apropos white wine and a few select canapés, this illustrious gift to the literary world is packing up and going home.

So there!

Don't get me wrong.  Stackpole is a successful author, which is today's world equates to being very shaky in the masculinity department - and it ain't from low Tee, Joe.  Having attended a few of his lectures and interacting with him a bit, I wouldn't buy him a drink, I wouldn't have him inside my home, and I give his political and philosophical opinions the same significance that a leading neurosurgeon would give Glen Filthie's opinion on the limbic system, a stainless steel roto-rooter, and the latest surgical techniques involving same.

For those of you who have skipped a perfectly good rant to get to the bottom and, we all fervently hope, a fucking point to all this, well... here it is.

Stackpole is no loss to anyone.  GAMA will somehow manage to get along without him.  Were I on the board at GAMA, I'd ask everyone for a moment of silence for Michael A. Stackpole, and when the snickering died down, it wouldn't be business as usual - it would be a real relief not to have to deal with an SJW flaming faggot during a business meeting.

When dealing with the loony left, never, ever, apologize unless you, personally, have suddenly discovered some massive fuckup that you've committed.  This is doubly true when you deal with the rabid loony left, which most are.  Instead, double down.  Take a page from President Trump's book and make no apology.  Attack right away, and attack with as much vitriol as you can manage.

Here's a hoist of the evening bourbon glass to Stephan Brissaud.  He may have issued a public apology, but I don't think he meant it.  At least, I hope he didn't mean it.

Here's how!


Government Shutdown - Emergency! Emergency! Emergency!

Things are worse than I thought. Much worse. According to Daniel Greenfield at Sultan Knish, the world may end in a few days if the government isn't restored to its former grandeur.

Check out Government Shuts Down, Nation Descends into Riots, Looting and Cannibalism.

From the article:

In Chuckolod County, Colorado, a transgender person was denied access to the Ladies Room. Frantic calls to the Justice Department were forwarded to an answering service in Depar, India, instead of Doneparre City, Indiana. In Brooklyn, New York, an overweight Iraqi woman was unable to obtain a sign language interpreter while waiting on line to collect her free Obamaphone. In Olegon Falls, Florida, the National Museum of Native American Yarn was forced to shut down depriving schoolchildren of an educational experience and three hours throwing bits of yarn at each other.
I didn't know the government was still giving away free phones.


Happy New Year - 2019!

It is now the Year of Our Lord Two-Thousand Ten-andNine.  Happy new year to all of you reading this.  Having dispensed with the social amenities, I will now pour myself a little eye opener and get down to business.

The eternal battle between sanity and chaos continues, and will continue unabated until the moonbats come to their senses or are exterminated.  I have no preference for either solution, nor do I believe either one will occur in my lifetime.  Hell, given my diet, my excess weight, and my alcohol intake, I'm not talking about a significant length of time here.

On the education front, anyone affiliated with public education in Ohio has their collective knickers in a knot over the application of Ohio House Bill 70, which states, in part, that if the school system is failing by Ohio standards (and those standards are not all that high, let me tell you), the folks who work there will change whatever it is they're doing and produce desirable results - or else.

Peanut Gallery: Or else what, Mad Jack? It isn't like a teacher can be fired, what with the teacher's union being what it is.  The only other way to enforce this directive is to cut funding, and since our elected officials are much more concerned with being reelected than anything else, and cutting State funding for schools being a third rail when it comes to elections, well... wouldn't you say we're pretty much hosed?

I would indeed. Except - look at this cheese: State takeover of Columbus City Schools?

From the article:

It [HB 70] applies to any school district that gets an overall “F” grade on the state report card three years in a row, triggering the appointment of a powerful state-employed CEO with “complete operational, managerial, and instructional control of the district.” The CEO has the power to unilaterally run the operation, convert district schools to charters, cancel union contracts and privatize public operations.

Two other districts already have been taken over under the 2015 law: Lorain and East Cleveland. Dayton schools could be next, after the end of this school year. Columbus and eight more districts — Ashtabula, Canton, Euclid, Lima, Mansfield, North College Hill, Painesville and Toledo — face potential takeovers after next school year.

The Ohio State Supreme Court will hear a case of the this law being challenged, mainly because public school employees can all agree that they don't like it, but actually on a mere technicality. It seems that HB 70 got rushed through the House and Senate, and I'm guessing that a lot of the legislature didn't have time to read the bill before voting on it.  Not that it really matters, but they should at least get the opportunity, right?

Anyway, an attempt to strike the law is being made.  If the law is stricken from the books, it's going to float to the surface again and this time will lead to a lot of argument, ill-will, and legislative gridlock.

The real problems of education, as I see them, are this:

Who am I kidding? You or me? Public schools are failing, and have been failing for years. Teachers say that it's the parents, none of whom are involved in their children's education. If the parenting improves, then all we have to worry about is the pay, which is just a short step above poverty.

The reality is that the parenting isn't going to improve, ever.  Just drop that idea, because it's never going to happen.

While the salary is low, paying someone twice or three times what they make now is not going to magically make them a better school teacher.  For instance, the New York Philharmonic could hire me as a musician (I used to play trumpet in high school), but everyone within earshot would immediately know that I should have never in a million years have been hired, I'm a complete and total failure, and increasing my pay is not going to turn me into Mindy Kaufman, Arlen Fast, or Christopher Martin.  This is especially true in the case of Mindy, who's a good looking woman, and me, who is not just male but uglier than the back end of a Mexican bus, and who is decidedly not confused about his sexual identity and his preferences, and if any of you derelicts want any proof or testimony to the fact, you can go fart up a flagpole.

Okay, I got carried away there.

In the meantime I'm waiting for the Reynoldsburg school system to make the list, which it might.  I note that Toledo is on the list already, and rightfully so.

Having a CEO who is empowered to make drastic, sweeping changes to the current school system is a double-edged sword at best.  What the staff wants is a decidedly progressive black female, preferably lesbian or transgendered, who is sympathetic to their current situation.  What they're likely to get is a 60-something ultra-conservative male with the ethics of a chainsaw and the empathy of an empty beer can.  With any luck at all, reality will be somewhere in the middle, meaning nothing will really change.

And so it goes.  The 18 and over crowd, generation Z if you like, will continue living with roughly 25% of them unable to read, balance a checkbook, understand the terms of a loan, or any number of things that the readers of this incredible hound take for granted.  Now what?  Well, I'm glad you asked, because I can answer that one.

A certain percentage of today's adult population really and truly wants the government to run their lives for them.  The government, like a giant, benevolent oracle, who knows all, sees all, and decides all for everyone.  The government will keep us all safe and well-regulated.  These are the moonbat democrats, generally speaking.

This is the segment of the populace that grows lager every June, when little Johnny finally graduates and files for welfare, because there's nothing else he can do.

I don't see this as a conspiracy so much as I think it's an unintended consequence, but now that it's happened and it's beneficial, why not keep it going?

The real solution now is to either send your kids to a private school, or home school them. But how many will do that, or can afford it?

We'll see, I guess.


Published! Rimworld - Militia Up by JL Curtis

Here's a shameless commercial plug for the latest work by JL Curtis.

JL Curtis Rimworld Series

It was supposed to be a simple contract for a couple of months of security services off world, but the devil’s in the details.

Tight Bridge Technologies hired Ethan Fargo and his militia to guard their power stations on the planet Endine against mob unrest and sabotage. When they arrive, they find the planetary authorities don’t want outsiders around to uncover their dirty secrets, and the Galactic Patrol’s not interested in providing backup. They all but order him to stop making waves, kicking asses, and taking names. The harder Fargo works to keep his people safe, the more troubles he finds. Dragoons and pirates are stalking the outer system, while the planet itself is a snakepit of treachery, tyranny, rebellion, and corruption. Everyone wants him to fail, while taking the blame.

They made one mistake: they underestimated Ethan Fargo. After the mob kills two of his Ghorkas, and kidnap his lady, he’s out for blood, and to hell with anything in his way…

Check out the original post at Rimworld - Militia Up is Done (at last!).  JL is an excellent storyteller and writer. His characterization is strong and consistent, and his plot is reminiscent of the good old stuff. I enjoy his writing, and I'd recommend it to anyone who likes science fiction.


Congratulations to Momma Fargo!

Here's a hoist of the afternoon bourbon glass and a tip of the old fedora to Momma Fargo, who can now be properly referred to as Magister Fargo.  Read the entire story at Ma-story (pronounced mastery only spelled different) Accomplished.

Momma now has her Masters degree, and is going to begin teaching in higher education.  By her own admission she'd be a better fit with older kids.

From her article:

I love little kids, I just am not good at molding their minds.

Well, maybe so. I have no trouble envisioning a typical Fargo scenario:

Little Jimmy: She keeps pinching me!

Fargo: And you let her? Belt her a nice one in the old snot locker. She'll quit.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Principal: And she told you what?
Little Jimmy: She said to belt her in the snot locker, so I did.
Principal: Now Jimmy, I want you to listen very carefully. Hitting someone is wrong. It's the wrong thing to do, and hitting someone never solved anything.
Little Jimmy: Well, she stopped pinching me.
Principal: You should have told your teacher.
Little Jimmy: I did! And she said -
Principal: James, I'll hear no more about it. Now you go apologize to Suzy right now, then we'll schedule a meeting with your parents, your teacher, and the school psychologist. We have a zero tolerance policy in this school.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Little Jimmy: Suzy? I'm sorry you're a real fourteen carat chrome plated bitch on a stick whose only natural talent is playing the victim, so I had to belt you in the snot locker.
Principal: James! Did you really say that?
Little Jimmy: No, not really. I'm only a literary device and the author got a bit carried away. I was supposed to say, "I'm sorry I had to hit you in the snot locker."
Principal: Jack? Mad Jack! Knock it off, and I mean now. I don't know why you ever bother to come to school anyway. It's not like you're learning anything.
Mad Jack: You're the reason I come to school, Mister Principal. You're my idol. When I grow up, I want to be a great big zero, just like you.

That last got me an additional three day suspension, but it was worth it.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

I fear I've digressed a bit. Therefore, I urge you to point your browser at Ma-story (pronounced mastery only spelled different) Accomplished and leave a congratulatory note in the comments section.

Thank you.


Page created: Sat, Apr 20, 2019 - 09:05 AM GMT