Donald Trump Is My Hero. (Eat That, Twitter #trump)

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Let’s get this going: I like the way the debate ran last week. I think Fox did it right. I like Megyn Kelly. I am amused by Donald Trump. I admire Ben Carson, Carly Fiorina, and still have reservations about the rest of the herd.

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Quit screaming. Yes, you. I heard you. I am neither an imbecile or a corporate republican.

The simple fact is that Fox doubled the tune-in to a debate 16 months before the election. Doubled. That means that someone other than political junkies like me actually tuned in and watched what happened.

I enjoyed the fact that Fox put on a good show. It was fast paced, didn’t allow a lot of bloviating and nonsense like we’ve seen in previous debates. It also showed some candidates not being worshiped early on. That’s pretty rare. Looking at their blemishes will help thin the herd.

Megyn. Well, I enjoy her most of the time. She’s mean on occasion – that is what I want. Did she do a racy interview with Howard Stern a while back. Yes. So? Her points were still valid. Yes, her sweater picture on the internet is borderline porn. Thank goodness there’s at least one smart, sexy, spirited woman in the world beside my wife. She’d be so alone if not for Megyn. (To those of you obsessing over Megyn and her treatment of Trump, I’d advise getting over it. Ratings, people. What have you been talking about this week?)

The Donald. I think he’s a boor. I never enjoyed him in his shows, my tolerance for him is slightly less than I have for ionizing radiation. But he’s actually right on a wide range of topics. He doesn’t plan on being president. He does plan on shaking things up and having fun. He’ll be back later on television. No publicity is bad publicity.

In the meantime, he’s making all the stiffs nervous. Very nervous. He’s forcing the rest of the field to come out from under their rocks and address the topics we all (conservatives and Joe-lunch-pail’s) want to talk about but are told “you don’t win elections with that topic.” I think that’s changed for the moment. Example: I may have missed one in the hubbub, but seemed to me everyone on the stage for the late debate came out pro-life. Strongly. Even Donald. Some are complaining that that’s a new position for him. So? I kind of vaguely remember being wrong about a lot of things earlier in my life and coming around on them. Good for you, Donald.

I hope he doesn’t do the third party thing if he gets hammered in the early going. His role as the loose cannon is wonderful. I can now identify people who don’t have my fetish for political stuff by their reactions to him. Doesn’t make them horrible people, but it does tell me how closely they pay attention, and whether or not they merely share Facebook posts or actually learn about the subject matter.

I will now retire to the couch where Stormy is waiting. I do believe we have some excellent viewing from Spike television on the DVR. Jon Taffer time and a new Bar Rescue.

Go, Donald, Go. You too, Megyn. And Carly: get ready for the big-leagues, it’s time for you, ma’am.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Death At My House.

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Nobody you’ve read about before by name, it was just one of Mrs. Bunny’s kids. But it was sad to watch. Let me introduce the late Baby Bunny.

So near, and yet so far... (Nest is to the left about a foot from this little one.)

So near, and yet so far… (Nest is to the left about a foot from this little one.)

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Our neighborhood has more rabbits than the enchanted forest. The Velveteen Rabbit won’t come around due to the competition. Even the dogs are nervous: if the rabbits ever organized it’d be a matter of numbers and time.

This past year we’ve seen more than the usual number of the floppy eared louts hanging about. This spring, when the snow melted, my yard appeared to be a storage bin for brown jelly beans. Honestly, the volume of rabbit poop far exceeded Sheltie droppings. I knew it would be a long summer and elected not to put in a garden. I play the numbers as well.

We have a saying around the house, coined by my old boy (rest his furry little soul) Edzell: Bunnies are crunchy.

Bunnies are crunchy.

Bunnies are crunchy.


Once upon a time, Ed found a nest of rabbits in the back yard. (They aren’t know as “dumb bunnies” for nothing.) Ed thought that was magnificent! A dirt bowl full of snacks. He enjoyed them all and then strutted around covered in the remains like a zombie who’d just found an unattended daycare center.

But I digress.

Saturday I found baby bunny outside the nest adjacent to my back wall. Not moving much, but that’s how nature sorts this kind of thing out. I’d seen it before, and figured the mom moved him out for her own reasons. I checked on him throughout the day- he never tried to get back in the nest.

Late in the afternoon mamma bunny was watching the spot where I’d last seen him from about ten feet away. I walked over and she didn’t even move. Just stared. In the middle of the rhubarb patch her child was as stiff as a board. Not just pining for the fjords, but very much dead.

I looked back at her: she was still watching. I doffed my hat and said a prayer for her and her child. I don’t like what the rabbits do to my garden, but it seemed appropriate.

I went to the garage and grabbed a shovel. Gently scooping up her baby, I took him to the yard next door where there is a perfect spot for such things. My neighbor’s house is abandoned, and in the back yard there is a large patch of wild flowers growing over the stump of an enormous oak tree. Gotta be ten feet across and mushy soft as it decomposes.

Mamma followed me into the yard and stood nearby as I buried her little one. For the next 24 hours she stayed within ten feet of his grave and kept a silent vigil. She’s gone now, off to do rabbit stuff. Her child has a beautifully decorated grave.

Mourning?

Mourning?

It makes me wonder: How much do animals think about things for which we never give them credit? I began to suspect a long time ago that they don’t “live in the moment” but until recently the depths of their intellectual world escaped me. I know the dogs I’ve lived with remembered things from years before, and anticipated things they knew were going to happen in the future. But rabbits?

God numbers the hairs on our heads and is concerned with sparrows. Saturday, I suspect He welcomed a small rabbit to His Kingdom. His mother will join him soon in relative years. But will his death trouble her beyond that 24 hours?

I’ll have to wait until I meet my creator to ask that question.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

A Little Housekeeping.

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First, thanks to all of you who read last week’s blogs. True to my word/threat/promise, I’ve posted none of your comments. My purpose is to avoid making this a personal issue with any of my readers. I did read them, found out where you stand on some issues, and thank you all for your time.

I will be writing a blog or two in the near future about what I did this past weekend. Unlike some of you (you know who you are…) I don’t have to worry about mug shots showing up on the web. But I will share two pictures with you today. I’d share more, but the time it takes to process all of this data (video and stills) is mind-boggling. I’m still uploading from memory cards and I’ve been home for hours.

I took a road trip with my very best buddy Frank. We go way back to Rota. We live near each other. We’ve taken other road trips. This weekend we went to Iowa where I flew with heroes aboard a B-29 Superfortress named Fifi. It was her 70th birthday this weekend.

Two of my fellow passengers had been crew members/maintainers of this beautiful bird during the forties and fifties. It was an honor to be in this magnificent warbird with them. Much more to come later.

For now, a picture of her on takeoff, and a picture of her reflected in her own propeller hub.

FIFI at the moment of takeoff.

FIFI at the moment of takeoff.

FIFI reflected in her own propeller hub.

FIFI reflected in her own propeller hub.

It Was A Cat. Not A Baby.

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For those of you who spent your time on Facebook, or outside a dental clinic, or whining in the break area about the dead lion yesterday, I’d like to point out that it was a cat.

A big, beautiful cat. An old cat. A famous cat. A cat that was possibly legally taken by the hunter in question, perhaps not. I wasn’t there. So the technical nature of the kill is beyond my current knowledge base.

I did, however, happen to spend a few minutes of my morning praying outside a Planned Death (they call it parenthood) abortion mill in my home town. There were three of us there at 8:15 this morning. Oh, and one woman in a ‘we-kill-babies’ smock who wouldn’t make eye contact while we prayed on the sidewalk. They rip children out of their mothers under the protection of the law. They use my tax dollars to do this unspeakable act.

Sad that the puddy-tat died. Much more sad that members of our own species are wiped out by the thousands every day in this country in abortions. Even more sad, and grotesque, the parts are sold off to make a nifty profit. The procedure has been modified so that it’s not so “crunchy.” Crunchy. Like the noise made when babies are crushed by forceps.

For those of you spitting at your computer and shreiking about what a misogynist I am, and that it’s the law to allow legal and safe abortions, go ahead. It’s not safe for the children they are killing. It is legal.

So were the Nuremberg laws at one time. So was wife-beating. So was slavery (it’s called by other names, but it’s the same thing in some countries.) So were gas chambers, death camps, and gulags. It is by definition legal if the state does it in most places.

I’d like to think a human being is more important to mourn than a cat. After all, you can teach a human to do calculus, but you can’t teach a cat.

Those of you who get the joke will weep when you think about it.

I’ll be on the sidewalk again next week. I’m done pretending that abortion is a choice of anything but death for a kid.

If you support that foul group of Sangerites that scrape children out of their mothers to turn a profit, I hope you come to your senses before judgement day. I’m a sinner and have a lot to answer for in this life. I’m devoutly glad that is not on the list. Hasn’t been since I hit adulthood. No United Way. No Combined Federal Campaign. Nada. I give my money to life affirming groups. (By the way, the really wonderful part of Christianity is the concept that if you confess your sins and repent (ask forgiveness and acknowledge your wrong) you can be washed clean in the process. Jesus is very good in that way. Well, in every way. Never to late to make up for an abortion if you want.)

Defund the death merchants. Which reminds me: Mitch McConnell, you stink like death if you continue to play games on this issue. Be clear, be forthright, and don’t try the double-dazzle bait-and-switch that you have in progress.

I’ll also spare any of you the pain of writing to me in the comments about why the death of the cat is bad and the death of babies helps medical science. If it’s so hot, how about volunteering your children? Or yourself? I mean, it’s really important research, right? Oh… well, never mind. I won’t be posting your comments anyway.

Now, back to the missing Malaysian airliner, the guy wearing a dress and claiming to be a woman, and the crucially important celebrity divorce in country music.

On The Soggy Side Of The Street. Loyalty Goes Two Ways.

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I wrote the other morning about my beloved/annoying dog Stormy and her demands that I protect her from thunderstorms. This morning was a repeat. There is, however, a twist and a realization that went along with it all.

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I had a migraine yesterday that laid me low. Not only was the headache a pure misery, but the cure was almost as bad. It’s a tough choice: blinding pain or nausea and the jitters from the medication. I suffered through the ordeal at work and slumped home, rather a wreck.

Upon arrival my little friend comforted me on the back steps where we spend some time each day. Much like her following me around the house a week ago when I was doing prep for a procedure, she showed her loyalty once again. If I’m hurting, she’s there with me. Maybe not on my lap, maybe not at my side, but definitely in the room watching over me. She’s biologically programmed to do these things and she does them well.

Early this morning the storms rolled in again and she was upset. Loud noise is her enemy. One she can’t fight. One she wants to flee. But with no thumbs the doorknobs stop her cold. So she wakes me up to warn me and seek comfort.

Once again I pulled her on the bed in an effort to quiet/calm her for a time. I needed more sleep. It worked for an hour or two, but again she got me up (this time with a rake of her claw) to alert me to the impending danger.

Okay. Within half an hour of my alarm so what the heck. Brush teeth, turn off alarm, open door so she can go out and do her business. Outside that door the storm is raging. Thunder, heavy rain, the whole enchilada.

Three steps out the door and an about face. She’s sweet, but she’s not made of sugar. I know that, but she evidently melts when the thunder and rain are out there. Following my tenth admonition to “go poop” it was quite clear that she wouldn’t leave the top step.

That’s where the two way street comes in: I don’t want her holding her bladder for twenty hours. She doesn’t want to leave the safety of the step. Answer: go down the step, stand under the tree in the thunderstorm (yeah, genius level work) and encourage her to follow and do her business. It works.

I was wet and smiling when we came back inside. Her bladder empty, my heart full. Sometimes you need to do the unpleasant or difficult thing for a friend in need. It’s part of your DNA if you’re worth anything as a human – or a dog.

Consequently my favorite smell in the whole world permeates the living room as I write this: wet dog. Seriously. It means comfort, memories of my first dog, and the joy that a good hug from your dog brings.

Get out there and hug your wet dog (what ever that may be) today. They’re counting on you.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.