Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Door Mats

When we moved to the building, we got a rug for in front of our door.

Here's the rug:

Somebody stole the rug. I suspected the two gentlemen who lived down the hall. They believed that all parties they held should start at 3:30 a.m. during the week -- and they acted accordingly. I think they thought that I complained about them. I know that's not proof, but who else would have done it?

We replaced it with --

-- the same kind of rug.

That rug was stolen. Fuckers. Of course, the argument goes that I asked for it.

So, I got this rug:

Fuckers. Of course, they took my rug. Apparently, they didn't get the message.

I got a new rug:

I figure that maybe they 'll get the message.

And I know. I hear you saying, "You idiot. They're going to take your new rug." That might be true, but I have technology on my side, now.

That Frog She Had for Eight-and-a-Half Years ...

You will recall that back in August, 2008, Stacey's companion of 8 1/2 years, Freddie, passed away unexpectedly. He had survived several moves and a number of traumatic falls. Well, here's the rest of the story.

Now, it turns out that Freddie wasn't a benign companion, giving and accepting unconditional love, as frogs often do. How many times did women kiss Freddie, expecting him to turn into a handsome prince, who would then slay all of their dragons. There were many, of that I'm sure -- every woman who came into our home fawned over Freddie, wanting to pet him and kiss him. It must have been his personality -- swimming to see who the lady caller might be, those large eyes blinking alluringly.

As the story is now revealed, he was quite the Lothario, actually a cross between Lothario and Typhoid Mary, spreading Salmonella to the unsuspecting women seeking their handsome prince.

Interestingly enough, there are other dangers lurking here, which I hate to report. Of course, I am of the opinion that statistics can be used to prove any thing or all things, depending upon how they are manipulated. What the heck is a "standard deviation" anyway? But I digress and will get back to the topic at hand.

Dogs. You may be aware that I walk three of them, two Boxers and a Beagle, every day at least twice a day, most times, three, and sometimes, four. Most nights, the older Boxer, Sheba, looks at me as if I'm crazy when I ask if they want to go out. It is, after all, dark; and the creatures of the night are lurking in full force, the vampires and, once a month, werewolves. The other Boxer, Bella, and the Beagle, Scout, never refuse; so, I have two dogs on those nights, two dogs willing to protect their master. Or so I thought.

It was just over four years ago that Scout tripped me -- she just stopped right when and where I was striding, and I ended up with a skinned, bloody elbow and a severely bruised ego. The Beagle seemed to be unhurt, but she hasn't gotten me in that predicament since then; so, maybe I did cause her some pain.

We had just moved to the City. The dogs were accustomed to running free on our suburban acre plot surrounded by an invisible fence, chasing moles and birds and rabbits without any constraints like a six-foot long leash attached to a human. In retrospect, I now submit that Scout did it on purpose -- made me fall, that is -- to send me a message that she didn't appreciate the loss of freedom, the loss of her right to run down small animals, her pleasure in howling at children passing by, and her daily opportunity to stay outside for hours.

Why do I think that might be true -- that she did it on purpose, made me fall, that is? Less than a year ago, the Centers for Disease Control estimated that injuries from falls caused by dogs that were serious enough to require emergency room treatment averaged about 77,000 per year in this country from 2001 to 2006. That's a lot of ... accidents.

I didn't go to the emergency room. My injury wasn't counted. Others probably went to doctor's offices and weren't counted. Still others went to the morgue and weren't counted.

I take no pleasure in pointing this out, but that is far too many injuries and deaths to be "accidental."

Drunk Driving

This is not a post in which I preach about the dangers of drinking and driving. Or drinking and living.

There are charts and informational materials describing the effects of imbibing, and most of them say that at a blood alcohol concentration (BAC) of .30% (that's the reading on the breath testing machine in most places), most people will be unconscious or on the edge of unconsciousness. And a BAC of .40% leads a lot of people to wonder why the individual is alive.

The Rapid City Journal reported that Marguerite Engle was found unconscious behind the wheel of a truck parked on the side of Interstate 90. Ms. Engle's BAC was .708%.

I guess that is legally intoxicated in South Dakota.

The police stopped to check on the truck because it was reported stolen. More interesting is that police found her a second time in a ditch in a stolen car allegedly intoxicated less tha a month later.

In general, Minnesotans that were polled are quite pleased that the one-person crime wave moved to South Dakota.

Now, a lying, conniving, scumbagwell-paid lawyer could interpose the defenses that:

(1) she wasn't driving (vehemently arguing, "How could she drive? Obviously, she was way too intoxicated to even get into the vehicles. The guy she was with must have left her there passed out in the vehicles when he couldn't have his way with her."), and

(2) she didn't steal anything (vehemently arguing, "How could she steal anything? Obviously, the guy she was with must have stolen the vehicles while she was unconscious, dragged her into the vehicles, and then left her there passed out in the vehicles when he couldn't have his way with her.").

Don't laugh. It's been done.

But if she had been in Montana, where the definition of drunk driving as a .08% BAC is considered extreme federal government interference in local affairs, the police would have taken her home because she wasn't really driving.