Ted Talks

Poor Ted Cruz. He just never gets a rest.

After abandoning his freezing and electricity-free electorate to frolick in the sunny—and not freezing—Caribbean last month, poor Ted now has to contend with libtards and their ongoing desire for gun control.

Sigh. It never ends.

"Can't I just restrict voting to wealthy white people, gift what's left of the country to the one-percent, outlaw any and all media not named 'Fox' and have the rest of you shut the fuck up? Is that too much to ask?"

Yes, Ted's rancor was on full display yesterday when he was asked to comment on the Boulder, Colorado shootings. Said the great man: “...and every time there's a shooting we play this ridiculous theater where this committee gets together and proposes a bunch of...laws...that would do nothing to stop these murders.

The senator from Connecticut just said the folks on the other side of the aisle have no solutions. Well, the senator from Connecticut knows that is false. And he knows that's false because Senator Grassley and I together introduced legislation Grassley-Cruz targeted at violent criminals. Targeted at felons. Targeted at fugitives. Targeted at those with serious mental disease.

To stop them from getting firearms. To put them in prison when they try to illegally buy guns.

What happens in this committee after every mass shooting is Democrats propose taking away gun from law-abiding citizens because that's their political objective. But what they propose not only does it not reduce crime it makes it worse.”

Ah, Ted. Wonderful words. Mind if we take a look under the hood at that get-tough legislation you and Senator Grassley propose?

Now, you said it would “...stop 'them' from getting firearms”, by which I assume you to mean violent criminals, felons, fugitives and the like.

But on closer inspection, that's not quite right. Let's take a look at how your bill would inhibit “straw” purchases (gun shop and gun show sales where a person with a clean record buys a gun for a person with a record).

According to your bill, such a purchase would only be prohibited if a prosecutor could prove the purchaser knew the recipient either had a record or intended to use the gun in the commission of a crime.

Wait. What's that sound? Oh! It's violent criminals, felons and fugitives laughing—hard!

Seriously, Ted? So how are things in Shirley Templeland, anyway? Here in Illinois, our gang-bangers and would-be felons are just a tad more-wily than your incisive Texas intellect assumes.

Prosecutor: You knew he had a record!

Straw buyer: No. Honest.

Prosecutor: But you knew what he was planning to do with the gun!

Straw buyer. No sir.

Prosecutor. Umm. Well...no further questions your honor.

That's showing 'em, Ted! You're just a real ass-kicker, aren't you?

Okay. Moving on, let's examine the rest of your comments. 

Unlike Democrats, who only seek to fulfill their political agenda, you go ahead and push the time-honored NRA panic button when you reiterate the same tired, threadbare rhetoric Republicans have always reiterated when you say Democrats only want to take guns away from law-abiding gun-owners.

Ted? Be amazingly and strenuously specific and tell me the legislation and the section where Democrats propose this. Please. 'Cause I'd love to see it.

Fact is, you can't. Because it's never been their intent. It exists only in your overstimulated and fevered imagination. But it's a proven pathway to achieving your (ahem) political objective, isn't it?

Finally, please tell me—in excruciating detail—how mandating deeper and more-thorough background checks and outlawing assault weapons is going to make our gun problem worse.

I know you said it would, but you didn't say how it would. Please, Ted. A little detail if you don't mind.

I can wait. 

In an odd kind of way, I'm kind of grateful the whole Trump thing happened. All that swagger and all that adrenaline has gone straight to your head. It has emboldened you and stripped you. Your contempt and your greed and the once-unfathomable depths of your stupidity are now on display for all to see.

It is said that beauty is only skin deep. But ugly goes all the way to the bone, doesn't it?

Groundhog Day

In a long-ago episode of X-Files, Fox Mulder observed “Don't all the nuts roll down to Florida.” And while Florida certainly provides us with a bounty of evidence, it can't blame its most-recent bout of stupidity on imports. Nope. This one is wholly homegrown.

Swollen with indignation and suffused with self-righteousness, Florida made it clear that no collection of Big Government bureaucrats and White House Yankees were going to derail Florida's gravy train of robust, free-market riches. No sir!

As has been its m.o., Florida was again an early adopter of the cast-off COVID precautions aesthetic and announced itself open and ready for business. This because in certain states, COVID was beginning to regress. And besides, there were vaccines now—not that everyone was bothering.

But the COVID-is-gone dream Republicans can't stop having proved otherwise. Not only is COVID resurgent in Florida, but its variants are as well. (At least they didn't listen to the CDC, right? Because that would have just been stupid!)

Instead, Florida listened to its businessmen. People with the integrity of a death row felon and the far-sightedness of an Amoeba. “Open it up! Make me some money!”

And everything was going just fine. Bikini-clad coeds were frolicking on the beach, encouraging boxer-clad males to drink to excess and fantasize. Motel rooms were occupied. Bars were packed. Dance floors were an undulating mass of thirsty bodies—the way God intended.

Yay!

But then irksome facts began to surface. You know, the kind that routinely pierce the helium-filled foil balloon of Republican propaganda. Contrary to the Republican-propagated COVID-is-dead storyline, COVID wasn't. And isn't.

Which is why Miami police had to break-up a huge gathering of young spring breakers when they refused to acknowledge that, yes, COVID is in Florida, too. And that they needed to follow the same dreary and un-fun precautions they did back home.

Like a poorly-behaved guest who overstays their welcome, COVID isn't leaving the party because you're annoyed with it. Or bored with it. Nope. COVID ain't going anywhere. Get used to it.

What's more, the harder we try to pretend it's no longer a thing the longer it will be.

I hate COVID. You hate COVID. And they only way we're going to delete it from our lives is to clench. To bear down. To treat it the way Michael Jordan did opponents in the fourth-quarter of a big game.

To paraphrase a memorable line from Cleo King in Mike & Molly, we need to beat on COVID like it owes us money. Capisce?

This is the most serious threat to our well-being most of us are ever going to face. And if we treat it as anything less—even for a week while in Florida—it's going to kick us in the ass.

Just sayin'.

Questions. I Have Questions.

When they're not opposing the ninety-nine percent, Republicans generate questions. Questions like:

Why do you think the economy can be restarted without first conquering COVID? (Hint: COVID fatigue and your boredom-slash-impatience are not acceptable responses.)

Why do you feel being vaccinated should be a personal choice? Should observing school zone speed limits or any other law, statute or mandate that runs counter to your Trumpishness be one also?

And why is your politicized contempt more-important than the larger issue of public health?

How do Republicans who unanimously voted against a COVID relief package endorsed by up to three-quarters of the population remain in power?

And in light of that, how is it Republicans can initiate legislation immediately afterwards that would eliminate the estate tax and are still able to call Democrats elites?

Huh?

People, Republicans work for the one-percent—which by simple probability likely isn't you. They don't care about you. They don't care about your struggles or your ambitions. They have the moral fibre of a drug dealer. They care about entrenching and expanding the control the one-percent wield over the ninety-nine percent.

To wit, twenty-one Republican state attorney generals have drafted a letter to the Biden administration, questioning the relief package's stipulation that state aid be used solely to address revenue shortfalls and may not be used to finance tax cuts. Especially the Republican kind.

Let's hazard a big, giant, pie-in-the-sky, out-of-the-blue guess as to who would benefit from those.

Yeah.

To the addled and easily-provoked conservative mind, this is a non-issue. What matters is that the stultifying demands of a changing populace be stifled and ignored in favor of...them. That regardless of the demographics, America remains a country by, for and of white men.

Any other idea does not compute.

Unless you wish America to become a place bent on the fulfillment of billionaires whims and wishes and their whims and wishes only, you/me/us need to fight Republicans every step of the way. On everything. All the time.

Left unchallenged, Republicans are the rot that will destroy the ninety-nine percent from the inside out. (And that includes Republicans not a part of the one-percent. )

They have shown us who they are. Forewarned is forearmed.

Gone to the Dogs

It is, at this point, a cliché. Something so common and ubiquitous it barely merits notice: yappy little dogs. You know, those dark-eyed little mutts with the wiry, dirty-looking fur. 

For some of us, they are the essence of cute. Especially when this seemingly stout-hearted little mongrel opens its mouth and barks.

At everything.

Awww. Isn't he just precious? 

Little Sparky appears to be the dog world's David, taking on a world of Goliaths. And yes, for two or three milliseconds (I've never actually timed it) it is cute. 

But the reality is he's just a hyper, overstimulated nuisance. Short of the guy who insists on leaving his car's music playing at 120 decibels while he refuels, few things in life are as annoying.

Perhaps I suffer from shakey self-esteem. Or need to bolster my self-confidence. But when I approach my home on foot or even in my car and am barked at as if I were a home invader, I take offense. In fact, it extends far beyond 'offense'.

Namely, can I put Sparky on the end of a stick and use him as a mop? How about a duster?

Either would be more useful.

I'm sure Sparky's owners would react negatively to my hostility. Don't I understand that for empty-nesters little Sparky fills the void of a houseful of frolicking children, long gone?

Guess not. I only see in Sparky the canine embodiment of the short man syndrome. Plagued by insecurity, those so afflicted attempt to compensate for their small stature by being twice as loud and twice as obnoxious as everyone else.

As a big dog, I'd like to re-establish the natural order and toss Sparky over the shrubbery

And yet, is a creature who can't distinguish between the threat presented by an automobile and a snarling pit bull really going to take anything away from that?

Probably not.

Unlike Sparky's owners, I am made content that I don't require noisy and constant diversions to distract myself from, well, practically everything. Thankful that I can exist in quiet solitude without going mad.

Relieved to be without the four-legged car alarm that informs me whenever the phone rings. Or when someone's at the door. Or when the neighbor is pulling up the driveway in their car.

(You know I have ears too, right Sparky?) 

Grateful that I don't need incessant, high-pitched yelping to feel alive.

Whew.

If the owners of dogs like Sparky are in such dire need of stimulation, may I suggest coffee? How about over-the-counter stimulants? They're easily available and hardly bark at all.

They might even make engaging with your neighbors feel like you're not attempting to have a conversation on an airport runway.

Ahh. But I live in a world where, owing to our ever-increasing fragmentation, people are finding it harder and harder to connect with other human beings. Or even co-exist. Driven by divisions and divisiveness we are angry and fearful and afraid. We are insecure.

And so we have turned to dogs. The servile animal who lavishes us with knee-jerk adoration. Why can't my neighbors love me like this? Or my co-workers? Or my children?

That is another post for another day.

In the meantime, I'm eyeing a very attractive lease on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Hmmm. Might be fun to sign-off on one and call it Sparky.

Yeah.

Cutting Off Your Nose

The most unsettling words in the English language are 'Installs in minutes'. Or 'No assembly required'. Things like 'Republican majority', 'Looming toilet paper shortage' and 'Road Construction Ahead—Expect Delays' pale in comparison.

In this careless creation of overly-optimistic expectations, they also create a craving for Maalox and various kinds of sedatives when those expectations go unfulfilled. (Am I alone in wondering about a connection between do-it-yourself home repair and Big Pharma?)

Take my toilet. A few weeks ago it was belching. This unseemly indiscretion morphed into a kind of high-pitched stream of constant re-filling. Whereas the burping had me well and truly flummoxed, I recognized the run-on from previous experiences.

I even allowed myself to believe the solution would be a simple one. But as investment counselors so often caution: past performance is not indicative of future results. Translated, this meant that just because I had successfully relieved two previous toilets of this condition didn't mean I was going to relieve a third.

That would be too easy.

Before we go any further, I want to point out that I'm not any kind of home repair wizard. But on the other hand, I'm not a total incompetent, either. I can fix stuff.

I successfully re-wired a phone jack. Replaced a basement light fixture. Ditto the cabin air filter in my car. And attached a new plug on my wife's vacuum. And you should know that in only one of these instances did I wind up with surplus pieces.

Let's be clear: I have yet to change a light bulb and end up with extra parts, okay?

So it was with a healthy degree of confidence that I approached this project. I first removed the cumbersome over-toilet cabinet the previous residents had installed and then removed the cover on the reservoir.

There lay the culprit. A flapper that looked as if it had spent a lifetime soaking in brine was at the bottom of the tank, covering the drain like a disheveled stripper's bra. What's more, an enormous float sat atop the water, making access to the flapper difficult.

With the kind of incisive realization that typifies my work, I decided to upgrade the toilet with a new fill valve and eliminate the cumbersome bladder altogether.

I happily made the trip to a local hardware store and purchased a combination flapper and fill valve kit, blissfully unaware of the agony that lay ahead.

On returning home I promptly shut-off the water and drained the toilet. I fearlessly removed the briny flapper, the bladder and the water line. Then I turned my attention to the hexagonal nut that connected the water line and the fill valve to the water tank.

Like so many of the nuts life has asked me to remove, it was in a highly inconvenient place. Located on the underside of the tank near a wall and made still more-difficult by the bottom half of the cabinet which straddled the toilet like an irksome giraffe.

Snaking my arms around its legs while kneeling on the floor and attempting to grip the nut with the pliers in one hand while my remaining hand attempted to hold the fill valve still and provide resistance was, to put it mildly, awkward.

You see, the nuts on the previous fill valves hadn't fused to the threaded stem like Donald Trump and his tax returns, and henceforth were fairly easy to remove. But none of that mattered now.

3-in-1 oil, Liquid Wrench, warm water and grip cloths all failed. The plastic nut would not be moved. I searched in vain for a PVC saw. I consulted my homeowner's policy to see if it allowed for the use of a military-grade flame thrower and was likewise disappointed.

My irritation had risen to the point where listening to a panel of Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley and Jim Jordan speculate on governance would have been preferable. I was pissed. Sore. And out of patience. 

I recalled Naval experiments that utilized a sonar blaster capable of emitting soundwaves of 200 decibels and wondered whether those could shake the assembly sufficiently for the nut to be removed, but it was Saturday night and the Navy was closed.

Sigh.

Given my musical bent, perhaps it wasn't so surprising that I seized upon percussive maintenance. Yes. That would do it. When all else fails, the time-tested solution to just about every repair gone awry is to beat the shit out of it with a hammer.

Yes. That is what I would do.

While bereft of a PVC saw, a hammer I possessed. I eyed its gleaming stainless steel head and menacing claw. I held it at eye level. “Prepare to die!” I hissed.

I passed the bathroom mirror and was a bit shaken to realize I now resembled James Brolin near the end of The Amityville Horror, where he's finished sharpening his ax and turns to wreak domestic horror inside the piece of real estate alluded to in the title.

“A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do” I snarled to no one in particular.

Standing over the suddenly-diminshed toilet, I steeled myself. “Here's Johnny!” I said and I swung. Tiny slivers of plastic ricocheted around the tank. I swung again. More slivers. More ricochets. This was fun.

I swung again and the top of the fill valve snapped off. I felt omnipotent. Were there more balky fill valves I was unaware of?

Any baseball player can tell you it doesn't get much better than going three-for-three. And that to expect more is unrealistic. So it is unfortunate that there were no baseball players in my home that evening.

Swing number-four was slightly off the mark and the hammer connected with the left-hand wall of the ceramic reservoir.

Even when awoken from a sound slumber steel will smash ceramic materials. Even while inebriated. Or under the weather. Or a touch rusty. It doesn't matter.

Steel > ceramic.

Suffused with something darker and more malevolent than sweetness and light, I growled and grabbed the valve and bent it towards the bottom of the tank.

SNAP!

Even with a fresh wound to my palm, I was made glad that the offending valve had finally been vanquished.

Blame it on COVID. Blame it on the extended isolation of sheltering in place. Blame it on the anxiety of watching America unravel. But I had freaked. Lost it. Gone postal. Over a two-cent plastic hexagonal nut, no doubt manufactured in China.

The good news is that surgeons will be able to re-attach my nose with no visible scarring. And the new toilet arrives Tuesday.