Some worthless statistics for you...

As I listen to the statistics that are being quoted throughout this election season I am reminded of my beloved Statistics 363 class which I took in college. It was taught by Mrs. Lawrence who entered class on the first day wearing ugly black comfortable shoes, a black mid calf wool skirt, a stiff white shirt with a blue cardigan sweater, and a GINORMOUS iron cross that looked like it weighed at least 10 or 15 pounds.

She introduced herself by saying, “My name is Mrs. Lawrence. I have three loves in my life – Jesus, statistics, and my husband, in that order. I do not like to teach. That is why I wrote the book that you will be using this term. If you can’t keep up with the class schedule by reading the text, please don’t think that I am going to have any magic formula to proffer. I will not, and you will fail. I already know exactly how many of you are going to fail. If you are one of the failures, please don’t waste my time or yours trying to negotiate a position in this class, for it goes against the natural order of things in much the same way as the teachings of that blasphemer Darwin, and I’ll not allow you to blaspheme.”

I had the option of taking the class in a tutorial manner which meant that I could finish the class as fast as I could finish 13 tests, one of which was given at the end of each week if you took the class in the normal way. I finished the class with an “A” in 6 weeks with my buddy Alan Saunders. The two most important things I learned were how to solve equations that would yield standard deviations, and the principle that if you study while under the influence, you should take the test in the same frame of mind. I guess the reason for the second principle is not so much because it will help you to do better on the test, but because it will help you not to plunge into a deep state of depression when you don’t.

Anyway, here are a few statistics that you might not be aware of involving guns and doctors. I thought you might get a kick out of them.

(A) The number of physicians in the U.S. is 700,000
(B) Accidental deaths caused by Physicians per year are 120,000
(C) Accidental deaths per physician is 0.171 .

Statistics courtesy of U.S. Dept of Health Human Services.

Now think about this:


(A) The number of gun owners in the U.S. is 80,000,000. (Yes, that's 80 million...)
(B) The number of accidental gun deaths per year, all age groups, is 1,500.
(C) The number of accidental deaths per gun owner is .000188

Statistics courtesy of the FBI

Statistically, doctors are approximately 9,000 times more dangerous than gun owners.

Thus, "Guns don't kill people, doctors do."


Alert your friends and family to this alarming threat.

We must ban the doctors before this gets completely out of hand!!!!!

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A thought about the worthless and idiotic new post 9/11 security industry.

It was 4:52pm and I had to have some documents filed at my local county courthouse by 5:00pm. I had calculated the time it would take to accomplish my errand down to the last nano-second and I was sticking to my schedule like a high speed monorail with a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder thrown in for good measure. I was in the final stretch, and I was approaching my target like I had a GPS device implanted in my already too cramped cranium. I’m not going to get into a bunch of details, but the documents I was filing were highly important to my continued well being, and I had labored over them under a constant state of mega-stress for weeks. I had put off preparing them for the better part of a year. I had pushed the envelope of diligence, preparedness, and good sense right up to the very brink of disaster. I didn’t need, and couldn’t afford, to suffer any bullshit. As I’m sure you know, it is times like this when great boatloads of the afore mentioned B.S. always seem to find their way to a position located directly above my bewilderingly attractive head. Today was no different.


I walked into the front of the courthouse, and approached the official 9/11 memorial anti-terror metal detecting threshold that is now a fixture in most courthouses around the country. There weren’t any guards standing at the ready as I approached the x-ray conveyor belt, which didn’t bother me. I know the drill. I was perfectly happy to do my own homeland humiliation. I walked briskly to the little table that sits in front of the magnetic gateway and proceeded to place all of the objects made out of metal that were in my possession into the little Tupperware tub that had been placed there for my convenience. As I did this, four security guards came rushing out of a doorway behind the conveyor that looked like it lead into a room that used to be used as a small coatroom. One rushed over to a position in front of the x-ray monitor and started scanning the screen for anything that might be moving through on the conveyor belt. Another one jumped on the other side of the magnetic gateway as if to block any attempt I might make to pass through without doing the required “I’m a subservient citizen striptease”. The third guard out of the closet was a pasty faced, Napoleonic looking little troll with greasy hair, and what seemed to be the onset of some kind of nervous disorder. He hurried right over to me shaking his little head, waving his little hands, and repeating the phrase, “OK, hold on there! Hold on there! Hold on there!  Hold on there! OK.” The fourth rent-a-cop positioned himself on a nearby step, with one hand on his gun and the other on his official security guard radio microphone. He had that look on his face that lets lowly civilians like me know that he is ready, willing, and able to shoot me, call it in, and then figure out some good reason for having done it.  


I hadn’t moved, and I remained still as a statue with an “OK, I’m holding on there,” look on my pleasantly featured face. The nervous little power troll came well within my personal circle of comfort and started admonishing me that I couldn’t just pass through  this checkpoint. I had to be checked out. I had to go through the security procedure. It was for my own good. This had to be done to ensure everyone’s safety and security. It wasn’t going to take long, if I would just cooperate with him and comply with his requests. Everybody had to do this. I wasn’t being singled out. It wasn’t that bad. It would only take a minute. I had probably had to do this before. This was going to be easy. I wasn’t supposed to worry. He just wanted me to slow down for a minute. There wasn’t any need to rush. The courthouse wasn’t going anywhere ( he chuckled at his little attempt to make a big person’s joke). 


Ever still as a statue, I didn’t move.


“OK, now I need to take a step backward.”


I took a step backward.


“OK, now I need you to take everything out of your pockets,” he said.


Without moving anything else, I turned my head to look at the Tupperware tub that had been placed at the table for my convenience and which was now holding everything I had that was made with metal. It included a lighter, a pen, a paint can opener, my wallet, my keys, and a couple of paper clips.


“I put everything in the tub,” I said.


“So, you don’t have anything else in your pockets?” he quipped.


“Nothing metal,” I responded.


"OK, now. You need to listen to me. I need you to take everything out of your pockets. So, your telling me that if I pat you down I’m not going to find any receipts, or gum, or hankies, or anything? I’m not going to find weapons or drugs or medications? I’m not going to find any address books, or maybe treats for your dog, or cat, or sunglasses?"


I didn’t move. I said, “I thought I just had to take out the things that were made of metal.”


Troll boy became somewhat agitated. I noticed that his reaction caused the other guards to become a bit agitated as well. The wanna-be-a lawman on the step gripped the butt of his gun a little tighter.


The female security dolt behind the x-ray monitor piped in and said, "You better pay attention to the directions, Sir. Things don’t have to get difficult."


The guard on the other side of the magnetic gate chimed in with, “Yeah, you don’t have to make things difficult, now.”


The cop-flop on the step gripped his weapon a little tighter.


“I may have a couple of receipts in my pocket,” I said.


"OK, now I’ve asked you to empty your pockets. Are you refusing to comply?” the troll asked as he took an aggressive little step toward me.


“Not at all,” I said as I went to search my pockets.


“OK, big guy. Just slow it on down now. Let’s just take this nice and easy,” he said.


I pulled out a couple of pieces of note paper and a receipt and handed them to him.


“See now? That’s the way to do it. This is for your own safety. We’re all on the same team here. Right?” He said.


“Sure,” I answered. “Can I go through now?”


“All in good time now. We’re not running any races here. There aren’t any winners. There aren’t any losers. Are there?”


He waited until I agreed that there were no winners or losers.


The badged boy scout reject moved slowly over to the table and the Tupperware tub that had been placed there for my convenience.  He slowly looked at each item that I had placed inside. Suddenly his face became aglow with the kind of illumination one would expect to see on the face of a tomb raider who had just discovered the Holy Grail. He slowly and gently picked up my paint can opener and held it in front of his face. He inspected every millimeter of the tool and when he had etched the entire image onto the palette of the grey matter he was using as a brain, he lifted one eyebrow in a most inquisitive manner and whispered, “What do we have here?”


The other three guards now appeared to become soldiers of a grand inquisition and their gazes fixed upon me as if to say, “Indeed!”


“A paint can opener, Sir.” I replied, trying not to sound like one of the waifs in the story Oliver Twist.


“A paint can opener?” Said the grand inquisitor. We don’t allow paint can openers past the check point! Don’t you know better that to bring a…why, a…paint can opener here to the seat of justice in this county? Why this could be construed as being a deadly weapon.” He hissed.


A paint can opener, as you know, is a thin piece of metal measuring approximately 4 inches long which has been bent into a triangle shaped bottle opener at one end. At the other end, the tip has been flattened like that of a screwdriver. Then, it is blunted by a curve at the tip that allows one to insert it under the cap of a can of paint.


I will make this brief.


I apologized to the guard for making such a faux pas, and asked if he could hold on to it for about five minutes while I filed my documents with the court’s clerk.


He and the other guards informed me that they were not allowed to do this and that my little tool would have to be confiscated and disposed of in a manner that would preclude me from being able to retrieve it. I asked him if I could take a look at the little tool again and when he handed it to me, I took three steps to the front door, opened it and threw the thing so that it landed on top of a garbage can about ten feet in front of the courthouse entry.


Well, my friends, we now had trouble. Right here in River City – with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for paint can opener.


“Oh! You’re gonna be very sorry you did that! You are going straight to jail!” The guard yelled.


The little bastard then proceeded to leave his post, exit the building, retrieve my little paint can opener, and bring it back inside of the courthouse.


“You’re not getting this, Buster! This is going in the trash, and you are going straight to jail with a big fine!”


“Yes, yes,” the other guards agreed.


“Well in that case, I’ve got to get these documents filed immediately,” I said. I then grabbed my stuff from the Tupperware tub that had been placed there for my convenience, and ran through the metal detector and around the guard who had been blocking my clear path up until that time.


“You get back here right now! You haven’t been fully wanded! You are not cleared!”


“You got my paint can opener, what kind of a threat could I possibly pose?”


“You are in serious trouble, Buster!” He yelled as I ran down the hall.


When I arrived at the clerk’s desk I slid my documents through the glass partition in time to have them stamped at 4:58pm. I thanked the helpful woman behind the glass and in a most off handed manner and tone asked her if I could speak with her about a matter that had to do with the court’s security procedures. Without missing a beat, she responded that matters related to paint can openers were handled through the administrator’s office two floors above.


“They retrieved it from outside and threw it away!” I pleaded.


“It’s ridiculous, those bozos are not with the county. They are contract security providers and they pull that kind of crap all day long. Nobody usually has the courage to stand up to them because they think that they can get charged with some kind of Homeland Security terrorist crime, and the damn thing is, you actually can!”


“Well if there is one thing I’m willing to take a stand on, it’s my G-d given right to bear an American made paint can opener, and to freely place that asset in a place where I can be sure that it will either remain untouched or be stolen by someone who has as little need for it as I do. I’ll not be bullied into surrendering a perfectly useless and easily replaceable item without fighting with every ounce of by being to the very end!”


“There are those who wish they could take up such a pathetic little cause, but are prevented from doing so because they have lives of meaning. I speak for all of them when I say that I salute you. Go to the second floor. Godspeed, my son.” Said the clerk, and with that I was on my way.


I darted around the corner from the clerk’s desk and found the stairway. When I arrived at the administrators office there were two county sheriff’s deputies waiting just inside the door. I didn’t even get to address the administrator when one of the deputies advised me to keep my hands out of my pockets. You know, you can’t outrun a radio. The little midget militia had gotten on the horn and alerted the sheriff’s deputies. I still wasn’t beaten though.


“Are you the guy who had some issue with the security guards over a paint can opener?”


“Well, yes I am. I was just going to report it to the court administrator,” I said.


“We’ll take it from here,” the deputy responded.


“Step outside and keep your hands where we can see them,” he continued.


I stepped outside as instructed and told the deputies that the entire matter had been a big misunderstanding.


“We hear that allot,” one of the deputies told me.


“The funny thing is, that guard made a big deal about a little paint can opener, but look at this,” I said as I produced my pen from my pocket.


The deputies flinched and told me not to reach for anything else without telling them. I agreed.


“You see this pen? Its about two inches longer that my paint can opener and look, It tapers down to a solid brass tip that is pointed and super sharp. I mean, I could take this and…” I held the pen like a dagger and made stabbing motions, Then, I realized what I was doing. So did the deputies. After a somewhat pregnant pause, one of the deputies held out his hand. I placed the pen in his open palm.


“Let’s go downstairs and see what the other side has to say. You lead the way, ” he said.


I agreed and walked in front of the deputies down to the entry checkpoint. The Napoleonic nubhead had a crap eating smirk on his pinched up little face. The deputies asked me to wait outside, which I did.


I could see the greasy stain of a guard becoming very animated as he gave his side of the story to the deputies. Finally, after a few minutes, the deputies stepped outside and approached me.


“How did you put the paint can opener outside?” One of the deputies asked.


“Well, I tossed it on top of the garbage can there,” I said.


The guards had made their way to the doors and, I swear, they were making faces at me through the windows.


“Right,” said one of the deputies. “That was an act that could be considered littering. You could be arrested for that, given a hefty fine, or both.”


“I did not know that. I certainly wouldn’t have done what I did had I known,” I said.


One of the deputies produced my paint can opener and my pen and gave them to me. He paused before putting them into my hand and said, “We were told that you didn’t have the best attitude when this whole thing started.”


“You know, I may have been a little less than cordial. I promise you, Sir, that I will never bring anything like a paint can opener to the courthouse again. And I will keep my attitude in check as well. I am so sorry for all of this.”


The deputy put the paint can opener and my pen into my hand and said, “See that you do.”


The deputies turned and went back into the courthouse. I watched them walk down the hall and around the corner. The guards peered out of the windows in the front doors at me. I don’t know exactly what overcame me, but I had the uncontrollable urge to start doing this ridiculous jig of a dance whilst using my paint can opener in a mad pantomime that resembled the opening of hundreds of little paint cans. The guards were aghast. I could see the head guard talking on his radio frantically, but I just kept on dancing. I kept it up until I looked through the windows in the front doors of the courthouse and saw the deputies come around the corner at the end of the long entry hall. They saw me too.

With no time to waste, I bounded across the front courtyard to my girlfriends waiting auto. She was honking by now and asking me what in the hell I was doing. I jumped into the car and told her to floor it.


She refused, of course, and asked me why I had to do things like this.


I told her that I do the things I do, not for myself, but for the silent masses of Americans just like her who treasure their freedom.


“I do these things for you,” I said.


“Well, I wish you would stop,” she said.


I just smiled.


“Hey! Is that my paint can opener?” she yelled as she grabbed it from my hand.


Later that night, and for the next few days, the news was filled with reports about a gunman, a kid, who went to a mall somewhere in Nebraska and opened fire on shoppers killing 8 of them before killing himself. He had an AK47 assault rifle and a couple of handguns. There was no mention of a paint can opener.  



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Who and what...

It recently came to pass that a small population of religious zealots and terrorists invaded a nation where they immediately appropriated the land and natural resources of the indigenous people, declared the imposition of their religious beliefs and political system, and began a policy of imprisonment, enslavement, and open genocide. Literally millions and millions of native residents have already been massacred since the initial invasion of their homeland began.

This group, well known for engaging in torture technics that include burning religious non-conformists while they are tied to a stake, has not only unleashed a reign of terror upon the aboriginal masses of the land that they have invaded, they also turned upon the very government that funded and subsidized their imperialist expeditions in the first place.

They have openly engaged in international slave trading, dehumanization, and the most horrific violations of basic human rights including rape, mutilation, and disfigurement . They reap huge profits from drug trafficking and production. They are able to wreak havoc over the society they have conquered, and the their former governing body by consistently acquiring state-of-the-art weapons and technology which they openly posses and use to instill a state of constant fear, or, at the very least, subservience. 

Along with the human toll that has been taken, the environmental devastation that has resulted in the wake of the infestation by these barbarians is almost beyond measure. Among other atrocities, it is estimated that timber in some areas has been harvested until only a paltry 2.0% of the original forested areas still stands. Rivers and waterways have sustained so much damage that a great many species of indigenous fish have become extinct or are well on the way. Dumping sewage and industrial waste directly into rivers and lakes has led to pollution levels that are so high, it has not been uncommon for fires to combust and burn on the water. Many areas experience acid rain. There are countless lead indicator species that have vanished from the landscape or are in serious or unrecoverable states of distress. 

There is a lot of talk today about terrorism. It is not unwarranted. Political terrorism, in one form or another has been around since the dawn of time. There is a humorous saying that states that there is a fine line between fishing and just standing on the bank. By the same token, one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. There is no doubt that the United States Of America came to be the independent nation that it is only because of the acts of the  founding fathers which were nothing less than criminal, barbaric, and terrorist in nature to say the least. Victorious in their efforts to overpower, if not decimate the original inhabitants of North America and overthrow the provincial government, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and other familiar names associated with the birth of the new world and the United States were nothing less than the most vile, dangerous, and criminal, terrorists known to the native american nations of North America, and the United Kingdom of King George.

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How I stopped those annoying scam emails from Africa!

I used to get tons of scam email from Africa telling me that I was going to inherit vast sums of money from distant relatives who had passed away or been killed in the political upheaval of some banana republic. It seemed like there was nothing I could do to stop the scoundrels from approaching me, and the number of these items that I was receiving began to multiply out of hand. Then I started to respond to a few, and they stopped coming almost overnight. Here is an example of one of the responses I sent. I hope it helps you if you are suffering the same type of issues.

First, here is a copy of what I was being sent

>Dear Sir
>I am Barrister Haresh Daffal, a solicitor at law, personal attorney to Mr Morgan Mannis,a national Of your country,who worked with Shell Development Company in Republic of Togo.
>Here in after shall be referred to as my client.On the 11th of sep. 2001, my client ,his wife and their only daugther unfortunately lost there lives in World trade center bombing and since then I have made several enquiries to your embassy here to locate any of my client extended relatives,this has also proved unsuccessful.
>After these several unsuccessful attempts, I decided
>to track his last name to locate any of his relatives hence I have contacted you to assist in repatriating the fund valued at US$9.5 million left behind by my client before it gets confiscated or declared unserviceable by the Unitrust Security Company in Lome/Togo where this huge amount was deposited in a trunk box under the coverage of family valuables.
>The said security company has issued me a notice to
>provide the next of kin or have this box confiscated within the next twenty one official working days as they don't know the content of the box.
>Since I have been unsuccessfully in locating the relatives for over 2years now,I seek your consent to present you as the next of kin to the deceased,so that the proceedings of this box can be transfer to you.
>Therefore, on receipt of your positive response,we shall then discuss the sharing ratio and modalities for transfers as I have every necessary information and legal documents needed to back you up for claim.
>All I require from you is your honest cooperation to enable us see this transaction through. I guarantee that this will be executed under legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of
>the law.
>Please get in touch with me through this email box only(haresh_duff@yahoo.co.uk) for more details.
>Thanks and God bless
>Haresh Daffal (ESQ)

And now, here is a copy of one of my typical responses

Dear Mr. Daffal,
We have all been wondering what happened to "Morgy". All I can say is, thank heaven that blood sucking parasite finally met up with the kind of end he deserved. You know, I'll never forget the time that Morgy, my cousin Porter (Porgy), and I were all set to go into the restaurant business. Well, Morgy and Porgy wanted to specialize in selling pies made out of pudding. They wanted to do a stupid ad campaign where they threw one of the pies at the face of some unsuspecting young girl, but the pie would miss. Even so, the poor young girl would start crying out of fear. Then the TV announcer would come on and say "Morgy Porgy Puddin' Pies, Miss The Girls And Make Them Cry." I just couldn't be part of a silly stupid ad campaign like that. Not only that, but the pies they were making out of pudding were downright poopy tasting. I'm sure you know that there is nothing worse than a poopy puddin' pie.
Well enough about that. I can tell you that I sure don't mind being listed as old Morgy's next of kin if it means getting my hands on some of his winnings. You know that Morgy made most of his money betting on the snot content of platypus pups during the time he spent down under in Australia. Either way, you just let me know what you need and you'll have it faster than stink on a skunk.
Thanks Wubby,

P.S. I hope you don't mind if I call you Wubby. It makes me feel right.
P.P.S. I guess that you are probably a Jewish Muslim like Morgy and I. You know, a Jewslim?
Therefore, it is apropriate that I greet you as is the custom with...
Ha taka no maka pooly pooly dagmar - dagmar no kaka tam gooly gooly plim.
Also, as Morgy's barrister, you are entitled to my sister. She is not pleasant but we have her passport ready. Shall we begin making arrangements for her to come to you?

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A call to bloody revolution: The hatred, ignorance, and new American neo-Nazi B.S. ends now.

By popular demand, here is a reprint of  "A call to bloody revolution: The hatred, ignorance, and new American neo-Nazi B.S. ends now."

I just heard the morning news that US Border Patrol agents not only fired on, but shot and killed a man suspected of bringing up to 5 illegal immigrants into the US. Moreover, it seems that the shots that were fired were fired from the US in the direction of Mexico. What in the hell is going on? Who gave these jack boot thugs the order to kill that innocent man? That's right! You can bet that I called him an innocent man. He was never given the benefit of a trial by a jury of his peers. And in this country, which he was, people are innocent until proven guilty. And screw all of you lawyers who are snickering at the very thought of what you just read. It is bottom feeders like you who refuse to uphold at all times and in every manner, letter, and spirit of the constitution as officers of the court, and educated idiots like you, that are the biggest threat to the sanctity and fabric of our great American culture and heritage. It is you and your ilk that need to be deported to make room for more idealistic, and immigrant, seekers of the true spiritual, cultural, and political freedom that this country was founded upon.

To anyone else out there who has any thoughts about spewing this neo-Nazi xenophobic drek that seems to be rearing its ugly, tired, hateful, and intolerable head, remember one thing. There are a slew of us who have had it up to our ears with your ignorant, genocidal, thought vomit. That is putting it lightly, so let me put it this way. There are millions of people in this country who will no longer tolerate hatred, constitutional transgressions, racism in any form, and the denial of our fundamental human rights in even the slightest degree. If it has now come to the point where like minded citizens of the world are going to die at your hands, then let my statement here memorialize and reverberate for the world to hear that we will stand together and fight with every fiber of our beings to prevent your proliferation. We will even die to ensure your total and overwhelming demise. You will encounter the most vehement and pro-active aggression you never expected. We will prevail at all costs. There is only one option for us now, and that is total and undeniable victory. How dare you think that you can continue to tarnish the days and nights of our existence any further, especially after everything we just went through in the last century. Enough is enough. This is the only warning you will receive. Considering the fact that I don't expect more than a handful of people to read this transmission, this backlash I am proclaiming will come to most all of you without the slightest warning. Darn! You are about to find out that you were wrong; your jig was up; and it truly sucked to have been you.

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I was raped with barbed wire and 2 X 4!!!

It was 1:00am and I had to have a candy bar. No big deal. I hopped into my trusty ford pickup and drove down to my local 7-11 to buy one. When I got within one block of the store I noticed that there was either a really big donut sale going on behind me, or I was being pulled over by a police officer. Well, you can bet your Krispy Kremes that I was getting pulled over.

The officer came up to my window, which was convenient, and told me he had pulled me over because I was driving without a working license plate light. I thanked him and told him I would purchase a replacement bulb at the 7-11, or at the Cheveron station located directly across the street.

That wasnt going to be good enough. You see, it was impossible to tell just how many good and law abiding citizens had driven right off of the road, or off of a 1000 foot cliff, for that matter, because they were trying with all G-d gave em, to see what my license plate number was. I wondered how I had become so very callous over the years, but I have to confess I didnt care and I thought (and still do) that the best thing would have been if the officer had just told me that license plate lights are required and I needed get mine fixed immediately. It wasnt going to be that easy not on this night.

So, the officer takes my drivers license, my proof of insurance, and my title and registration and goes back to his car for the next hour. That is how long it takes to check a person out with the modern day miracle of computer science that is now in place in every police car across this great land of ours. OK, sometimes it will take an hour and a half like, when its raining. After an hour, as I said, the officer comes back to my window, which was convenient, and says he is sorry, but he wasnt able to confirm or deny that I had valid insurance because it was now 2:00am in the morning. I felt very bad for him, but I meekly suggested that the proof of insurance document that I had provided might be enough for him to assume that I had the required protection for those poor souls who had strained their beady little eyes trying to get my plate number.

No, says the boy in blue. He would just feel a lot better if he could talk to a warm body at the insurance provider who could let him rest assured that I was not a slacker and had paid my share of the state sponsored corporate terror ransom that is now mandatory in my state to maintain ones driving privileges. The officer felt that the best thing to do was to give me a whopping huge ticket for an amount equal to probably three times the amount of money he normally accepts as a common bribe especially due to all of the people who had died while squinting to see my plate in the murky dark and desolate gloom of the night. And damn my ever loving soul all to H.E. double hockey sticks for not correcting the matter sooner. By some fluke, he mistakenly ended up keeping my title and my insurance documentation worthless as it was, and it was worthless indeed.

Then, of course, he tells me that I am not allowed to drive my truck home. He gives me the choice of either starting out walking back to my house so he can be sure that I wont drive it, or he can be so kind as to have it towed to a most distant tow yard he can find at a cost of roughly half the amount he normally charges a hooker to take fake mug shots of her left ankle. So, I start to walking: Grateful that I had managed to find the one last cop with compassion left on the face of the planet. Can you even imagine my joy? It is hard, I know. He ended up sending yet another officer over to my house at 5:00am with my title, but without my insurance document. I guess the whole ordeal he went through with me earlier had just made him plum tuckered out.

As if my cornucopia of love that night wasnt enough, I immediately began looking forward to pleading not guilty and getting to have my day, rather, my 8.5 minutes, in front of the presiding magistrate. You are beginning to feel the love, arent you?

The day of my reckoning finally arrived today. I sprang from my restful slumber ready to prove my innocence and confident that I would prevail to uphold the beacon of justice for all to see. I entered the court with a spring in my step, obviously left over from earlier, when I sprang from my slumber, and armed with a bounty of supporting evidence and a chipper demeanor. The cop was there and his badge was very shiny. I was impressed by the shinyness of it. Indeed. The judge was late, but that was OK, because even though the officer was getting paid overtime, and I had taken time away from that feeble position I occupy in the workforce striving to come up with the funds to cover all of the blood sucking requirements of a lower than dirt resident of his divine majestys noble realm, the judge can do anything without regard for anything, anytime, and any way he wants, for he answers to no one. Oh, sure, he does within the bounds of common legal theory, but Im dealing with a bold example of reality here and Id appreciate it if you would too, my dear reader.

Anyway, where was I? Shiny badge; late judge; chipper demeanor, OK, lets move ahead. The judge comes in, introduces himself, says, Hello, to the officer and swears us in. Now we all could be sure that we were telling the G-ds honest truth, which took a load off of my mind. The officer gave a rundown of what had happened that night which was a little different from how I had remembered those twilight moments. He didnt say anything about keeping my insurance documents. He implied that I didnt have any documents at all. He did allude to the horrific ends that would have befallen any individual that had tried to read my license plate, and nearly demanded that I lick his jack booted foot in gratitude for him not having given me a citation for letting that light go unattended. It is hard to carry that shame, though carry it I must. It was difficult to look the judge in the face with such overwhelming guilt weighing upon my sullied soul, but I did.

When it came time for me to give my account of the events that night, I began by saying for the record how much I appreciated the officers professionalism that night, and I thanked him for not towing my truck. Then, I looked the judge square in the eye and told him that on the night in question, I had been covered by insurance and I had provided the officer with my documentation which he had forgotten to return to me even though he had returned my title when I called and asked him to do so. I then whipped out my wallet with style and flair (picture it, it was a beautiful thing) and without missing a hip-hop beat, I produced a card that had been sent to me by my insurance agent which clearly stated that its intended purpose was to be used as proof of insurance in case I was asked to prove that I was covered. I respectfully gave this little trump to the judge and quickly lowered my eyes so that he might not see the trademark twinkle they get when I am undeniably right without question.

I had done it. I had really, really done it. The eyebrow of the supreme decider of all things right and just throughout the land went up like the tail of a warthog being chased by a famished cheetah in heat. He carefully perused the affronting little offender, then lifted his gaze to examine the crass and garish big offender who had dared to reveal its unyielding truth in the light of open court me. Veins began to swell with the anger and hatred of all hells minions as the bile that was about to be propelled onto me began to muster from deep within the bowels of this unquestionable icon of all things good and fair. Then, with a calm and velvet tone you might expect from the Pope, the judge told me that the insurance card I had offered up as evidence had everything required to be admissible as proof of insurance, except for the expiration date of the policy. Furthermore, I had not offered it to the officer at the time of the citation and, therefore, even if he had been inclined to extend me the courtesy of a meager benefit of his doubt, he could not do so, nay, would not do so, as I had not given it to the officer on the night in question.

A drop of saliva glistened from the left fang of the officer just before dripping onto his ever shiny badge. I was about to become his morning snack. But I had anticipated just such a catastrophe and prepared accordingly. With all due respect, I offered the judge an 800 number that could be dialed 24 hours a day, seven days per week, and, in a fleeting blink of a gnats eye, used to verify my insured status on that given date. I then went on to provide the judge with undeniable evidence of how seriously I take my driving privileges. I threw out copies of not one, but two separate policies, underwritten by two separate national insurance providers, in my name. It made me the absolute most insured driver and safe driving risk that had been drug through the mud past this judge in, oh, Id say forever.

The judge looked at the documents; looked at me; looked back at the documents; looked at the officer; slowly lowered the papers; chuckled; looked at me, and said (read this like the guy who narrated the Grinch that stole Christmas)

You little worm. You know that I am a spasmodic sphincter sucking abomination of a soul that has been encapsulated in pasty white sputum soaked human-like flesh. Did you really suppose with that feeble gob of mush you call a brain that you could bargain your ability to drive and survive in this society with me?

I swear as G-d is my witness that he said that very phrase. But when it came out, the other people in the courtroom heard something that sounded more like this

You didnt provide this card to the officer on the night you were cited. It wouldnt have mattered much since the expiration date is not present on the face of this instrument. Im inclined to believe that you did not have insurance on that date.

That is why Ive come today with the toll free number I have given you to confirm the validity of my sworn statement, said me, my own self.

Well, Son. This is a court of law. Were not in the business of helping to validate your evidence. Im going to go ahead and cut your fine by $82.00 and you can pay the balance of $743.00 to my clerk. Thanks for coming in today.

I said, Your Honor, I dont exactly understand. The officer kept my documentation, and I have provided alternative documentation and the means to validate the entire question beyond any speculation. Not only that, but the officer never gave any evidence that I wasnt insured, he simply gave evidence that he was not able to confirm or deny my insured status at the time he pulled me over. If I am to be presumed innocent until proven guilty, and in the absence of contrary evidence, shouldnt you be more inclined to accept my sworn statement that I was insured as being the truth?

The judge didnt even pause before shooting back, I would be happy to make you the first person of the day who I fine and put in jail for contempt. Is that what you are trying to ask me for?

And with that the whole thing came to a screeching halt. I never had a chance. Dont kid yourself into thinking that you do either. You dont. If you dont know this already, rest assured that before too long you will be dealt with on some level by the same unyielding, unseeing, unhearing, and uncaring hand of unbalanced justice that I just experienced. Mark my words. 1 in every 136 Americans is in jail or prison. If I lined you up against a wall with 136 other friends, family, neighbors, colleagues, and a yutz named Bob, and I told you that one of you was about to be shot, go to prison, or just get wiped out financially, how would you feel? Just because you cant feel the cold hard reality of the bricks against your back doesnt mean the firing squad isnt ready, aiming, and about to fire. Trust me. Or, trust the power happy egocentric overlords of ignorance who weve charged with the responsibility of handing one of our most precious instruments of true freedom: Justice. Theyve raped it, tortured it, made a mockery of it, and substituted the most abhorrent vile form of an insult in its stead. American justice has become nothing more than a rubber stamping process that is as far removed from the concept of fairness, equality, and just remedy, as an amoeba is from an integrated circuit. There is no relationship between the two. None. It is an insult to imply that justice even exists within the walls of any court, or government office in this country. Get pissed. For your own sake. For the sake of those you love. Do it now while you can make a difference. Get pissed or be afraid very afraid. Or kid yourself into thinking that you are on the side of justice. Then ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.

How much did you pay for your gas today? How does that barbed wire feel?

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