Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Veggie Shreds

Starbucks and Dogs

A venti Caffe Mocha at the Starbucks around the corner costs $10. Oh, the sign says $3.75, but the real cost is $10. I wanted a venti, one-pump, non-fat, no-whip, extra-hot Mocha to take the chill off while walking the three dogs. I knew they wouldn't let me in with three dogs; one was a problem, according to the baristas at my old Starbucks haunt. I stuck my head in the door of the establishment and asked if one of the baristas could bring one out to me ... no way -- too busy.

Then the homeless guy, standing over at the parking meter, said that he would fetch me my coffee if, of course, I could spare a couple dollars and the dogs would not take a bite out of him. That sounded like a good deal; after all, it is the season of giving. I gave him a $10 bill.

And that's that. Ten bucks. Oh, I got my venti, one-pump, non-fat, no-whip, extra-hot Mocha ... $3.75 and ... the $2 service fee ... and his venti Caramel Macchiato.

Merry Christmas!

Another Open Letter to George

I asked people in my administration to analyze how best for me and our government to do the job people expect us to do, which is to detect and prevent a possible attack. That's what the American people want. -- George Bush the Lesser, 11/19/05

Dear Mr. President:

Giving the people what they want is not the standard for making decisions. You have broken the law. You have ignored the will of the People who elected the members of Congress who passed the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act.

You have not upheld the oath of office you twice took with a hand on the Holy Bible.

Failing to honor the oath of your office is perjury in the purest sense. That should be Article I of the Articles of Impeachment. And your Vice President is complicit ....

Regards,

Bill

The Emperor Has No Clothes

I did not see the President's speech on television last night. I heard a little bit of his news conference on NPR this morning, and I could not help but notice that the little under-the-breath laughter that betrays his ignorant arrogance came through loud and clear on the radio. Those that know and love him may characterize his demeanor as down-home and folksy, but I characterize it as stupid and arrogant.

I suppose that wiretapping international telephone calls and e-mails, even though the calls or e-mails originate in the United States could be construed as legal because the interception of those signals is not done on domestic turf. I have my opinion about that subject. The President's counsel has his own opinion. The President, well, ... he's pleased that Texas is in the Rose Bowl ... he is doing nothing more than what he did at Yale -- leading cheers. I also think the President is an "ends-justify-the-means" kind of guy, like Nixon, only not as bright as Nixon. Being a guy who believes that the ends justify the means, Bush believes that the wiretapping he has authorized for almost four years is legal.

This activity is, though, a pixel away from tapping domestic telephone calls and e-mails and other electronic communications, including cellular telephones without a warrant.

A lot of people thought, and still do think, that the late Justice William O. Douglas, one of my personal heroes, was the devil incarnate. He defined rights not enumerated in the First Amendment, but within the "penumbra" of those rights specifically named, and within which the right to privacy is found. President Bush would not be counted as an admirer of Justice Douglas. Douglas, in a domestic wiretap case involving organized crime back in 1967, wrote:

Neither the President nor the Attorney General is a magistrate. In matters where they believe national security may be involved they are not detached, disinterested, and neutral as a court or magistrate must be. Under the separation of powers created by the Constitution, the Executive Branch is not supposed to be neutral and disinterested. Rather it should vigorously investigate and prevent breaches of national security and prosecute those who violate the pertinent federal laws. The President and Attorney General are properly interested parties, cast in the role of adversary, in national security cases. They may even be the intended victims of subversive action. Since spies and saboteurs are as entitled to the protection of the Fourth Amendment as suspected gamblers like petitioner, I cannot agree that where spies and saboteurs are involved adequate protection of Fourth Amendment rights is assured when the President and Attorney General assume both the position of adversary-and-prosecutor and disinterested, neutral magistrate.

I see that the Fourth Amendment is still attached to the Constitution, but it is unfortunate that activist judges have eviscerated it over the years so that it really has no real meaning. After all, it is now legal for police to stop mothers driving without a seatbelt with their kids strapped into car seats, cite the mother for driving without a seatbelt. and cart her off to jail while the kids were still in the car. That did happen in Texas; so, our great and noble cheerleader's views on the Fourth Amendment are understandable. But the Supreme Court said that it was okay for the cop to do that. And there's the problem.

Trash Chute

One of our pictures fell off the wall ... the glass broke. I threw the glass down the trash chute. Wow, I say! So, I got to thinking. You all could send me things to throw down the trash chute, and I'll record the noise and post it on the Internet. Maybe we could make it into a contest ... loudest sound, whatever.

Then again, what a stupid idea.

Condoms at 3

Quote of the Day: Too long in 70% alcohol causes vacuoloation in the white matter. Keep the time down to the minimum in your processing schedules.

The dogs decided at 3:00 this morning that they wanted to go outside. They have been accommodating in their sleep schedule, allowing me until at least 7 every morning. They probably don't want me to become too complacent and comfortable in my position and decided to let me know who is really in charge around here. I get the message.

But as an aside, say that you're a guy and you're entertaining your lady friend or your man friend and talk turns toward staying the night and sex and you discover that you do not have any condoms; and it is 3:15 in the morning. What do you do?

You say, "Excuse me, I'll be right back," and you run out of your apartment building up the middle of Ninth Street in your long-sleeved white T-shirt, blue jeans, and black street shoes, arms pumping like a champion sprinter, legs raising up and down like pistons, eyes on the prize, as quiet and fast as you can, lucky that snow is not yet falling, past the guy walking his two boxers and beagle, into 9th Street News & Video ("Open 24 Hours," "ADULT & Popular VIDEOS"), spend about 20 seconds in the store, and race out with the goods you require back down the center of Ninth Street past the guy with the three dogs and into the apartment building about 500 feet down the road. Round trip: Seventy seconds, tops.

It's an interesting neighborhood.

It's Physics

The snow was coming down at a steady pace. Two overcoated gentlemen stood outside the door to Sky Bank across the slushy street as I waited for the dogs, which were rooting around the statue of Cleveland's greatest mayor, Thomas L. Johnson, smelling homeless smells of those who sleep behind the monument.

While observing the two gentlemen, both wearing black overcoats, probably cashmere, I noticed that one of them, who had donned dull black rubber boots as a part of his business uniform, sported a hairpiece that blended well with his dark hair and graying beard. The other, his shoes shiny black, likely soaking up winter saltwater, large black briefcase in a black, leather-gloved hand, was hatless, also, but had a well-coifed head of dark hair. They were oblivious to the large, white flakes of snow raining down upon them in the twilight under the sodium lamps.

As to what they discussed, I was not privy. The discussion was not an animated one, neither of them gesticulating. They took turns speaking, sometimes smiling, the gentleman with the hairpiece laughing during one exchange.

And as this scene unfolded, something struck me. This was Science. The answer to all questions of the universe ... Physics was happening right there in front of me. I discovered a previously unpublished and unstated hypothesis, probably soon to be a theory, once rigorous experimentation and research has been done to test the principle, and announce it here: All things being equal, newly fallen snow melts faster on a head covered with natural hair as opposed to a head covered by a hairpiece.

Grand Theft Auto

"I wasn't driving. How could they charge me with unauthorized use when I was drunk, passed out in the passenger seat with the air bag laying in my lap?"

"They did."

"Well, I'm not copping out. I wasn't driving."

"Okay. You weren't driving the car on December 2nd. The prosecutor agrees with that, but this is for the car you were in way back in September."

"What?"

"In September. The car was wrapped around a pole; the cop found you behind the wheel; that's the accident we're talkin' about, not the one last week."

"No, no, no ... I wasn't drivin' that time either! I was drunk, passed out in the passenger seat with the air bag laying in my lap. I told the cop I wasn't drivin'!"

"Is that the story?"

"Yeah."

"Gonna stick with that same story for the earlier accident?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, but the cop says you were behind the wheel."

"Must've, y'know, leaned over or somethin' after passin' out. Was I wearin' a seatbelt."

"Doesn't say."

"See? Leaned over, y'know, like this (motioning with his whole body in the hallway)."

"Okay."

"That's how it happened."

"After you passed out."

"Yeah."

"You remember that."

"I was passed out."

"Exactly."

"Had to be what happened."

"Had to be."

"Yeah."

Artificial Tree

I needed to get an artificial tree because we can't have a dead live tree in the loft ... something about a fire hazard. And Stacey said she wanted a ten-footer. Did you know that Costco and Sam's Club already sent their artificial trees back to storage. The guy said that people who buy artificial trees "always ... well, almost always get them before today." It seems that the buying habits of artificial tree buyers and live tree buyers are different ... who knew. He said we were going to have a hard time finding anything.

I went to a place, while Stacey called around to various places to see about the stock and quality of artificial Christmas trees ... a large local garden center that was advertising on an electronic billboard near the Ontario Street exit of the Innerbelt ... and it didn't have anything over 9 1/2 feet for about 200 bucks more than I wanted to pay; but I did find a Norfolk Island Pine that was about 10 feet tall. I called Stacey to see if I should get it, then we could decorate it ... be a little different ... but ... my ... er, idea was met by ... umm ... an icy silence that carried a death-like quality.

So, the next stop was a large local craft store "in the craft business since 1954," where I found the last 12-foot-tall tree; and it had lights on it already. And it was on sale. And then I was able to get the girl at the customer service counter to knock off another 50 bucks ... a real deal. And Stacey wanted it, sight unseen! Joy of joys!

I got it home and took out the parts and found the instructions. The box let me know it was from China, and the instructions let me know that I got a real good deal:

What the fuck? I mean what the fuck? First of all, who ripped the instructions? Secondly, my hands aren't that fucking big. And there are four parts to this 12-foot fucker, plus the stand, not the parts the instructions fucking show. A lot of good these fucking "instructions" would do me. Why the fuck did they bother translating it into English? Why the fuck didn't they just put a smaller piece of paper in the box telling me, "You got a good fucking deal; now put it together, you dumb fuck!!!"

You see, I thought that this would be easy, you know, take the thing out of the huge box and it would like unfold like a modern engineering marvel ... not like with a real tree and the damn tree stands and tying it to the railing to keep it from toppling over and the fucking strings of lights ... oh, yes, the fucking lights could be a real pain in the ass. I didn't realize that I'd have to figure out what part of the fucking tree went at the bottom ... but I did figure which part was the top, so it was a little easier. And then the part that the top part of the tree slid into, there was like ... I don't know how to explain it ... an aura around it. That and the fact that it had a little hole in one end for the little pole from the top part of the tree were enough to sell me on the positioniong of that piece. Then it was, what, a 50-50 chance of being wrong, which I expect 100 percent of the time; so, when I guessed right, it was a ... hmmm ... life-satisfying moment that I will cherish always. Our first artificial tree.

But then the lights ... no, they didn't just plug in. I thought they would be all wired, and I would plug them in ... you know, some kind of clever electrical engineering feat ... and "Voila!" But no ... I had to get a couple extensions cords ... you know, I did get a real good deal on the tree ... to plug in the 182 separate plugs for the 4000 lights; but I did it. And the tree looks pretty cool, reaching up to the ceiling of the loft, all lighted. The J-dogg is coming over tomorrow to ornamentize the tree.

I might vote to keep it up all year long.

Bar Codes Never Lie

I always knew that engineering students thought they were smarter than everyone else, but when push came to shove, were pussies.

It seems that Jonathan Baldino, University of Colorado engineering student, thought that he could make his own bar code stickers and put them on boxes, thus giving him a little discount. He thought he could pass off $150 iPod speakers for $4.99. What a dumbass! He should have used an M.O. of a former client, who kept getting caught and spent three stretches in Ohio prisons because every Wal-Mart east of the Mississippi had his picture up at cash registers. Put the electronics in a large box for a cheap kid's toy and try to get through check-out paying for the kid's toy.

Anyway, Jonathan wimped out and confessed in a hand-written statement:

Then, in a second statement, he showed his true colors when he wrote:

He should have called a lawyer. Don't they teach that in engineering crime school?

Lessons in the Law: Visitation

I don't like doing domestic relations cases, but I took one on as a favor. It was about visitation. The mother was, for lack of a better word, blackmailing the father, dangling visitation like carrot before a donkey, getting him to toe the line, so to speak, so he could see his 3-year-old daughter. I filed something with he court. The two of them talked. They decided on a visitation schedule, which the court approved. Simple enough.

Things were going well. He would consistently pick up the child at the appointed 10 a.m. and bring the child to Mom's house at about 7:15 p.m., which was 45 minutes earlier than she agreed and the court ordered. The child was calling him "Dad," Mom's relatives opined that things were, in fact, going very well, and the child was happy to see her "Dad." Apparently, things were going too well for Dad because Mom went off and got a lawyer, who filed a request to modify visitation.

Setting aside all the inflammatory rhetoric in the legal papers about his prior history, what it came down to was that Mom was fearful that Dad was going to take the child to A.A. meetings and Mom wanted him to bring the child home by 7. He had not taken the child to A.A. meetings nor did he plan that. Mom thought 8 p.m. for the return time, which was what she had agreed upon and the court approved, was too late, even though Dad was consistently returning the child by 7:15. So, what were we fighting about? 15 fucking minutes.

Solution proposed by Dad's lawyer: He won't take the child to A.A. meetings. It shall be written that the child will be returned at 7 p.m. And he will be entitled to pick the child up at 9:30 instead of 10.

And the other side agreed. Mom was very happy. She got what she wanted. She won.

But when Mom figures out that Dad is, in reality, visiting with his child longer than he was before, we will be back in court.

I'm wondering why we were even in court. Why?

News of the Day

Dustin Scarbrough arrived at the Roane County Jail around 10 Sunday morning. He had four burgers from McDonald's on him, along with some crack and a couple bottles of Jack Daniels. Dustin's problem was that he escaped from the jail and was trying to get back in before he was missed.

I can understand the crack and the booze, but burgers from McDonald's on a Sunday morning? Unless, of course, he already had an Egg McMuffin and hash browns and he was saving the burgers for later.

Speaking of hamburgers, the World Wrestling Federation discovered a new carnivorous creature on Borneo. It's nice to see the WWF going to locales such as Borneo to look for new talent and being interested enough in the natural order of the world to bring to the fore a new biological discovery. My opinion of Hulk Hogan and all those wrestlers has changed somewhat ... not that much, but a little.

I know you snicker every time I mention the World Weekly News, but the WWN takes an editorial stand on free speech, supporting the woman who got kicked off a plane for wearing an "unamerican" shirt.

And in other news, Vice-President Cheney was unleashed before another friendly audience at Fort Drum, N.Y., again implying that Iraq was to blame for the September 11, 2001, attack by Al Qaeda. Why is there coverage of this propaganda?

Godzilla-Dog

A guy in the building harbors an Irish Wolfhound. I heard about this dog from the leasing agent when we discussed our dogs, but she was just trying to get me to take the place ... you know, exaggerating so that I knew how "dog-friendly" the building really was.

I found some tracks in the first snowfall a couple weeks ago. They were 5 1/2 inches long. I kid you not. Seriously, I measured them. And they were fresh tracks, too, not the kind that melted, refroze, and then are claimed to belong to Bigfoot. The dog seemed to be real. The leasing agent wasn't prevaricating. How big was this dog?

Today, on our noontime excursion, we sighted the fucking-huge, monster dog, kind of cream colored, that must have been almost 4 1/2 feet tall at the shoulder. It was like obscured somewhat by the heavy snowfall, but I'm sure that I saw a dog and not a large pony. My three hell dogs reacted vociferously, barking like they had seen the god of all dogs. I don't know what they could have done to that dog ... it would have been like those little sucker fish on the belly of a shark.

And the shit from that thing ... the guy had to stoop down and lift from the knees so he wouldn't strain his back lifting the 33-gallon garbage bag full of crap. And the run-off from the dog pee ... I'm worried about the fucking Cuyahoga River. It's been almost 40 years since the river caught on fire; but if dog pee is combustible, we are in some serious trouble come summertime. The fish kill will be bad enough, even if the pee doesn't burn.

I thought I was safe from being accosted because I have three dogs. This guy could rob the bank down the street, and the police wouldn't bother him for fear he'd sic the huge beast on them. Its hide must be impervious to bullets, you know, like dinosaur skin.

On a three-dog night, this guy needs only this huge-ass dog to keep himself warm. Speaking of that, where does this dog sleep? It needs a king-size bed all by itself. And how much food does it eat? What kind of food does it eat? From the size of the bag of shit the guy was carrying over his shoulder, the dog must eat a 40-pound bag of dog food a day ... and the water bill has to be astronomical. And what happens if it is happy to see someone? Like a weird sister-in-law who has a stuffed dog comes to the door for a visit ... and it jumps on her ...

Ratdogs

There are other dogs out there, which I categorize, risking the wrath of their owners, as rat dogs, that is, those dogs that could be confused with rats, which, of course, cause trouble when I am walking my three critters. For some reason, all three of my dogs want to play with the ratdogs. And I don't mean romping around with these tiny little mammals; I mean that my dogs want to run around with the ratdogs in their mouths and play keep-away and tug-of-war.

And the ratdog owners always have a grin on their pusses, as if they get some perverse pleasure from the encounter, my dogs trying to break free from their moorings. These ratdog owners shouldn’t be so smug and secure in such an encounter because some wimp-ass fucker might not be able to, or want to, hold back two hell-hound boxers and a crazed, snarling, drooling, single-minded beagle intent only on tracking the quarry.

What would they do, I wonder? Pick up little precious? And then what? Play tug-of-war? Heh-heh. Yeah, right.