It'll Only Take One...

Several years ago when a judge was dumb enough to allow me on a jury it proved to be a real education in American jurisprudence.  After hearing more than twenty lounge lizards  testify  that the defendant had indeed emptied an entire clip of ammunition into the belly of a bar patron he felt had disrespected him, I was certain our panel's deliberation would be brief.  

He did it.  People saw him do it.  GUILTY!  In California it was too much to hope for a death sentence, but I was confident that he would spend the rest of his life as a prom date for the general prison population.  (He appeared to have the legs for it.)

My first inkling of trouble began as soon as we jurors sat down to deliberate.  An older gentleman on our panel said, "I feel like the blind man examining the elephant.  It's hard to see the big picture."

Stunned, I thought the guy had to be kidding around or was indigent and needed the meal money and maybe a place to crash.  NOBODY could be this stupid!

He was.

What should have been about a sixty second deliberation stretched out for a couple of days.  The man was clearly an idiot and if the guys on the jury had prevailed would have been dead in an hour but, thankfully, the women in the room knew exactly how to handle the situation.  They used their feminine wiles on the old husk and very carefully flattered and flirted him into believing that he might have a chance with one or all of them.  (As I mentioned...he was a moron.) We got his vote and got the hell out of the courthouse after waving a tearful "see you in hell" to our freshly convicted miscreant.

By the way, that's all it takes.  ONE MORON!  

One nitwit on the Barry Bonds perjury tribunal and he gets away with his massive bullshit lie about never having  used steroids.  My guess is there is at least ONE dope dumb enough to hold out.  

Actually the trial, now underway in the Bay Area, is not about whether the ex-slugger for the San Francisco Giants used steroids to boost his performance.  No, it's to determine if he lied to a grand jury investigating his use of steroids.  

HE DID.

To be more specific, he did do steroids, (check out the before and after pictures), and he did lie about it  to the grand jury.  If you believe otherwise then you also believe that somewhere there is a gal who is just right for Tim Gunn.

Get a load of some of the jury questionnaire responses from potential members of this panel:

"I'm a Barry Bonds fan and I'm a huge Giants fan.  It's my life.  I don't know if I could judge Mr. Bonds after providing me with so much entertainment.  It's an intimate relationship." (prospective juror #22)

Prospective juror #29 said, "My opinion is that steroids is okay to be used since these are the jobs of athletes.  If a player must advance in his/her jobs, supplements should be able to be used."

These two mental midgets were dismissed.  The final jury consists of four men and eight women.  I hope the women take charge.  Common sense dictates that the moron or MORONS on the jury will be among the men.

Before steroids

Let's hope that after hearing from Barry's mistress the women will do whatever it takes to administer justice to one of the most arrogant, disagreeable liars to ever don a major league uniform.  But, don't count on it.  The nitwits have us surrounded.

Prospective jurors
"Me and her is on our way to the Mensa picnic."

After steroids

Tax Reform Anyone?

Like a carp at feeding time

I like to keep a picture of Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid on my desk as I go about the ever increasing nonsense required to pay the dues for living in what used to be a pretty cool country.  It becomes more difficult with each passing year.

Beginning in January when the first 1099s, W-2s and K-1s get dropped like live hand grenades by mailman Russ, I struggle to keep my temper as I prepare for the first meeting with Bob the tax guy.  These days it takes someone like Bob, both a lawyer and accountant, to decipher the myriad of changes and tweaks in our ever more complex tax code.  Like mob protection in a bad neighborhood, it is entirely necessary to pay this toll if you want to keep walking on two good legs.  SEND US YOUR MONEY, OR ELSE!


It would be tolerable if only the morons running the show in Washington didn't insist on behaving like the drunk at the end of the bar.  You know, the guy who in spite of the fact he has no money and is no longer allowed to run a tab insists on buying a round "for everyone".  It's easy to get re-elected when you promise to give your constituents all they desire and then do it with their own money.  The only problem is they have run out of money....yours, mine, China's....EVERBODY'S!  The United States congress has managed to accomplish the heretofore unimaginable feat of presiding over the world's only money LOSING whorehouse.  What's more is that the house is on fire and all the working gals have given notice, and they still don't get it.

Our country is broke.  Even if the government took every penny away from all the folks they consider "rich", (and they have a very low threshold of rich),  America would still be IN THE HOLE.  For those with political aspirations, that would be BEYOND BROKE.

Village Idiot

The solution?  A flat tax for ALL and a complete change of management in D.C.  No more professional politicians!  Term limits for everyone and no exemptions from programs required for other Americans.  (See social security and the odious medicare.)  I propose three tax brackets: 10, 15, and 20 percent, with NO exemptions for ANYTHING.  That would put an end to most Washington lobbying and would insure that all citizens have some skin in the game.  When it truly is everyone's money, we'll see more attention being paid to how it is spent.

Of course my plan will send tax preparation gurus like bean counter Bob to the unemployment office, but he'll be able to take all that loot he has made from clueless clowns like me to his hideout in the South Pacific.  Maybe he has a plan involving some of those unfortunate out of work ladies from our nation's capital?

Backyard Harmony

"AL"

He's early this year.
Al, the extremely good natured alligator lizard who lives in our backyard is stretching his legs a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.
"Couldn't hibernate any longer," he says.
Actually I welcome his company on the patio as another baseball season draws near.  Many warm afternoons have passed between us as we listen to Jerry Coleman call Padres games.  To be fair, Jerry doesn't call all that many hardball tilts these days but he has always been our favorite.
"You used to work with old Jer didn't you?"
"Yes", I reply.  "He was a war hero too....a superior human being."
"The friars should do well this season.  I like some of the moves they've made...sure improved at shortstop, and the outfield should be more productive".
I concur with this analysis and tingle with the knowledge that opening day is only a couple of weeks away.
"How's the family?  I see that your new grandson is tearing around the yard now."  I'll tell Alice, (Al's wife),to make sure that our youngsters don't bite him."  "I can't make any promises about the old ball and chain herself.  She's been in a foul mood all winter.  Bitching about the the lack of quality bugs to eat and the fact that I talk while I hibernate.  Of course there is the gassiness thing...I tell her I can't help it.  I'm a LIZARD dammit!! I get into an occasional rancid spider"
He continues...
"Oh...I really appreciate the diaper on the grandkid.  The folks who lived here before you not only didn't cotton to a lizard who talks, they also had a dog.  Believe me, it's no picnic to be dodging dog logs while I'm roaming your spread.   Appreciate it.  Now if you could just keep your low life friends from peeing in the bushes..."
I assure Al that I always curtail beer consumption in the backyard after the seventh inning.  Only later do I recall that I no longer drink and can't remember the last time drunken friends were allowed free range of the backyard.  I make a mental note to see if grandson Dan is indeed wearing a diaper.

It really is good to see old Al, my pal, back on the patio sunning himself once again.  I can see that he and the Mrs. were busy before the weather cooled.  Lots of little Als and Alices scurry around the palm trees.  Everybody looks healthy and well fed.  It'll be a good season for us all.

"Al, I can't help but notice that you look a little more green this year.  What's up with that?"

"Bite me.  I'm Irish!"

Stylin' With Mr. C.

"I'll be in Rock Rapids, Sioux Center, Orange City,  Le Mars, and Cherokee today,"the old man would say as he headed for the garage after breakfast.  It would be another long day of driving the back roads of Northwest Iowa .  Some days he would range as far West as Inwood or way out to Fort Dodge or Webster City if he was eastbound.  He peddled mortgage loan money to farmers and banks for the Prudential Insurance company.  I still don't know why he announced his itinerary before hitting the road.  Car phones, cell phones, even CB radios weren't on our radar in the early 1960's.  From Spencer, Iowa mom couldn't get in touch with him if she needed and frankly the only reason she would want to contact him would be to complain about something horrible my brother and I had done.  We boys welcomed his time out of range as an opportunity to hone any elaborate stories required to cover our ALWAYS guilty asses.

What inspired this trip into the time tunnel containing my misspent youth was a recent series of ads in the Wall Street Journal.  It was a special weekend supplement that featured, I guess, what were the latest styles in mens' suits.  Generally speaking I am not what anyone would call a fashion plate.  Hell, I am a SLOB.   Those who know me consider it a compliment if I break out a new t-shirt for a meet up.  Dad was never like that.  He always dressed as if he planned to run into William F. Buckley or Lady Astor. (Perhaps in Cherokee??) His suits, and there were several, were always impeccably tailored; shirts and ties carefully coordinated.  Sunday afternoons were reserved for shining his shoe collection as he watched sports on television.  He even shaved on the weekends!

Naturally, my brother Steve and I steered a steady course for careers where dressing up didn't matter.  Okay...we got into jobs where showing up for work in pants was considered a major concession.  I blabbed on the radio for nearly forty years and Steve still toils as an ink stained newspaper clown.  No "best dressed" awards rest on our mantles.

One of my most vivid memories of Dad is from 1981.  He and mom were visiting me and my family in San Francisco.  I was 32 years-old and hosting a morning radio show on a major San Francisco station.  One weekday morning I suggested that my wife bring mom and dad into the city for lunch after my show was over.  They would take the BART train in from our home in an East bay suburb and we would have a nice lunch after touring the radio station.  The station was a show place.  It was located in an historic building directly across from the Trans America pyramid and right nextdoor to Melvin Beli's office.  I was proud to work there.

The folks arrived just before noon and I gave them the complete tour.  We covered three floors of offices and studios and it was fun to introduce them to all the talented people on staff.  Afterward, as we walked to a nearby restaurant, I said something like, "Well, what did you think of the station Dad?"  I will never forget his reply.

"You sure work with a bunch of bums."

I don't know what I expected.  All my co-workers, just as I did, dressed like we were still in eighth grade.   It's one of the bennies of the job.  Shaving is optional too.  It's radio.

I made sure he picked up the check at lunch.

These days I still mostly dress the same way I did in junior high, but I also own a few suits.  (You never know when a friend is going to have the temerity to die.)  Of course I don't often wear them which means it is always a surprise when I put one on.  Recently I have managed to slather on an extra five pounds and notice that the pants are becoming just a "scosh" on the snug side.  Judging by the ads in the Journal  I'd say I'm just about another five pounds away from looking cutting edge stylish.  Every single suit looks too tight!

Give me another couple of weeks and a few dozen Krispy Kremes and I'll be ready for a spread in GQ.

Now if I can only find that shoe shine kit.