11.28.2007

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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Late Scooter Libby Rant


This is a rant from a while back that I forgot to post. I am a rotten blogger and a disgrace to the uniform. Therefore, I will no longer wear the uniform. I hope you enjoy this late post...



President Bush commuted the sentence of Scooter Libby the former Chief of Staff to Vice President Dick Cheney today. Libby had been sentenced to 30 months in prison, two years of probation , and a $250,000.00 dollar fine after being convicted of two counts of perjury, one count of  obstruction of justice, and one count of making false statements to federal investigators. To put this into terms that we all can understand, this guy went out and told the press the true identity of a covert, or undercover, CIA agent. In addition, the leak enabled the identification of the CIA agent as an employee of the CIA front company, Brewster Jennings & Associates, and in doing so enabled the identification of other CIA agents who were "employed" there. Libby lied about doing it, and he did things that served to foul up the investigation of not only his crimes, but those of others in the Bush administration.


Beginning in mid-June 2003, according to federal court records, Bush Administration officials discussed with various reporters the employment of a classified, covert, CIA agent, Valerie E. Wilson (also known as Valerie Plame). Consequently, a newspaper column of July 14, 2003, entitled "Mission to Niger" by Robert Novak, disclosed Valerie Plame's name and status as an "operative" who worked in a CIA division on the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction. Following that public disclosure, in various interviews and subsequent writings (as listed in his 2004 memoir The Politics of Truth), Mrs. Wilson's husband, Ambassador Joseph C. Wilson stated that his wife's identity was covert and that members of the George W. Bush administration knowingly revealed that information as retribution for his op-ed entitled "What I Didn't Find in Africa", published in The New York Times on July 6, 2003. On September 16, 2003 the CIA sent a letter to the United States Department of Justice, asserting that Plame's status as a CIA undercover operative was classified information and requesting a federal investigation, because leaking the identity of a covert agent knowingly is a criminal violation of the Intelligence Identities Protection Act (IIPA), and the CIA is required by law to report any such possible criminal violations.


The entry from Wikepedia on this matter states that after the CIA's request for a federal investigation, Attorney General John Ashcroft referred the matter to the U.S. Department of Justice Office of Special Counsel, directed by Patrick Fitzgerald, who convened a grand jury. The only indictment (and conviction) resulting from the CIA leak grand jury investigation has been of Vice President Dick Cheney's Chief of Staff I. Lewis Libby, who resigned hours after his indictment on five counts involving obstruction of justice, perjury, and false statements to the grand jury and federal investigators on October 28, 2005. The ensuing federal trial United States v. Libby began on January 16, 2007. On March 6, 2007, Libby was convicted on four counts of perjury, obstruction of justice, and making false statements, and he was acquitted of one count of making false statements. Initially, his lawyers announced that they would seek a new trial and that, if that were to fail, they would appeal his conviction. Later, prior to his sentencing on June 5, 2007, his defense team decided not to seek a new trial, but, after the sentencing of Libby to 30 months in prison, a fine of US$250,000, and two years of supervised release after the expiration of his prison term, CNN News reported that Libby still "plans to appeal the verdict." After the verdict, Special Counsel Fitzgerald stated that he did not expect anyone else to be charged in the case: "We're all going back to our day jobs." Libby is, however, still named as a party in an on-going civil suit that the Wilsons have brought against Libby, Vice President Cheney, Karl Rove, and Richard Armitage.


I have a five yearold nephew named Sam. If you ask him, he will insist that he is almost six. He loves to be around pretty girls, and he used to be afraid of monsters until I explained to him that there was no such thing. After the events that have taken place during the last thirty days, in order for me to be the man of integrity and the role model I live to be in his eyes, I must now go to him and explain that he lives in a world where pretty girls, i.e. Paris Hilton, go to jail for driving infractions, while real live monsters like Lewis Libby commit acts of treason, endanger the lives of millions of people around the world, cause the deaths of untold numbers of souls, lie about doing it, and, in the end, get convicted of these felonies only to be given a pat on the back by the leader of this great nation in which we live, and a fine that doesn't even amount to a slap on the wrist. Now that I think about it, I'm going to have to explain to Sam that there are people who are in prison for twenty years and more because they were caught growing the same plant that the first American flag was made out of, a plant that made the sails of the Mayflower and the ropes used to secure it at Plymouth Rock  - a plant that was grown by the fathers of the United States of America, but I digress.  It makes me more than mad. I am infuriated and insulted and you should feel the same way too. 


We shouldn't stand for this. This is the stuff of revolutions. This is the kind of corruption that has toppled nations since the beginning of history. Yet the thing that really frightens me is the realization that nothing will come of the entire matter. It will pass and become the stuff that makes up the jokes we will laugh at while we watch late night TV, or the ones we tell while we take time out from work at the water fountain with the other drones who have become so complacent and placated and misled into believing that they are anything other than the mindless sheep, the grist for the mill, the pawns of the neo-feudal corporate empires that really pull the strings of the puppets who play before us and re read the lines of script from the tired old drama that ended long ago- the lines that proclaim that all men are free in this land of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It will pass because of a single thread of truth that runs through the tattered fabric of this arrogant society. The truth is that this shameful government of flagrant criminal, contempt filled, lying, murderous, bigoted, corruption is not made up of a group of untouchable, unreachable, unquestionable super beings. It is a government of the people, by the people, and for the people- we, the people. Each one of us bears responsibility for this embarrassing abomination that is careening out of control like an unmanned hell ride at the carnival of the absurd. The bottom line is this is who we are, and we are like this because there is no one there to stop us. We should be ashamed. And the next time we hear about a car bomb, or a feeble terrorist attack launched by so called fundamental religious savages, perhaps we should have the balls to wipe that stupid look of disbelief off of our seemingly dumbstruck faces and acknowledge the idea that there are a couple of billion people riding on the rock with us who simply don't care to take a bite of the same rancid apple pie we choose to dose ourselves with on the path to judgement day.


Scooter Libby, and anyone who supports, condones, enables, approves, or in any way causes him to escape the responsibility he bears for his actions and the full punishment he was sentenced to serve should either be shot for treason or convicted  as accomplices and given the harshest punishment under the law without the possibility of any departure. Either that, or there are a whole lot of men and women doing time for the same or lesser crimes that need to be set free in this country with our deepest apologies and some fat payments of cash. Now. Right this very minute. 


It ain't gonna happen. Shame on us. Shame on us all.    

  

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Are you making 100% ROI on your real estate investments?



Hello, fellow investors! Isn’t it a wonderful time to be a big time real estate investor in America? I mean, if you weren’t certain about whether real estate was the absolute best vehicle to catapult your financial portfolio into the stratosphere during the last eight or ten years, there can’t be a smidgen of doubt left in your trembling little soul now. Right?


I suppose the best thing about being an independent real estate investor today has got to be the overwhelming amount of opportunity that exists in the market. Where else can you be assured that you are going to make 100% - 200% return on your investment – each and every time you close a transaction?


What’s that? You aren’t making that kind of return? It’s an impossibility? Maybe for you snooty, spoiled little wannabe Donalds who have kidded yourselves into thinking that you were anything other than guests in the big sandbox that is real estate investing. It was only a matter of time before you ran the market up and took advantage of the subprime lending frenzy to the point where the only thing left for the market to do was to POP!


And so it goes. But don’t you get a hitch in your giddy-up just yet. Your favorite uncle Madjik is here to give you another little move you can still make that will satisfy your hunger for the kinds of kills you thought you would always find in this business – the kind that have all but dried up now.


It works like this. If you live and invest in one of the major metro areas around the country, you have seen prices for single family residences skyrocket out of sight. Median prices have raged ahead of salary growth to the point that there is no place for the average American family in the average American city. You, the investor, who has been able to snap up the red tags, and condemned properties, then the drug rehabs, then the regentrification candidates are now swimming in a pool  where a first time homebuyer would have to shell out a minimum of at least $225,000.00 in many cases. And although you hate to admit it, you know damn well that that is a preposterous figure. We’re talking about first time home buyers. Not the ones you have lead yourselves to believe exist, but the real ones with real jobs and those…what are they…oh yeah, kids, dogs, medical bills, parents, school loans, etc.


OK, I’ve tortured you enough. Here is you solution. Have you noticed lately that although an average duplex can go for between $350,000.00 - $600,000.00, there are numerous multi-family properties, i.e. 10-30 units, that are going for prices between $1,500,000.00 - $3,500,000.00? For example I just found a 28 unit property that was going for $1,800,000.00. Rounding off the numbers, the individual units were going for around $65,000.00 each.  Of course, each and every one of you knows that the only difference between an apartment and a condominium is a document called a condominium charter. If bells aren’t going off in your head yet, keep reading. 


I bought the 28 unit complex and gave the seller his full asking price. Why? Because when I put up a sign that advertised two bedroom condos starting at $120,000.00 I had 82 calls the first day. There were so many qualified and eager buyers beating on my door for the next two weeks it wasn’t even funny. Two weeks, of course is all it took  to liquidate the inventory I had in that property. It left me with a qualified buyers list a mile long. You can see that I more than doubled my investment, and all I did was file a few documents which constituted what is commonly known as a “Condo – conversion”.


Its as easy as that. Now go out there and make some money. Big money. Glad I could help. Oh, keep watching for other little tidbits like this from time to time, and feel free to let me know how you are doing.   

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How I Dealt with the Liars, Power Mongers, and Mindless Drones of the Department of Motor Vehicles




My wallet was stolen last week. I'm not upset about that. It's one of those things that happens in life that you can't really do anything about. It's one of those "Don't sweat the small stuff," issues. So, I don't. Sweat the small stuff. By the way if you are one of the many thousands of persons across this great land of ours who is employed by the Department of Motor Vehicles, I'd like to take this brief opportunity to speak directly to you when I emphatically say, "suck the rancid puss from my free flowing, rotten putrid gangrenous wounds you herpetic syphilis spreading bunch of vile bottom feeding parasitic bile infused brain dead soulless inbred vomit slurping excuses for excretion covered butt plugs. "


Those of you who don't work for DMV, but who have at one point or another had to deal with those I just mentioned above may be wondering why I am being so very kind hearted in my salutation to them. Well, you see, I had to get my license replaced after my wallet was stolen this week so I went into the DMV located in the downtown central business district of the major metropolis where I live. When I arrived, I was amazed to find that there were only three other people ahead of me and all of them were at the counter. I walked up to the front of the line, which was me, and stood patiently behind the thick yellow line that is drawn on the floor indicating where you should patiently stand.


After about ten minutes, with the realization that all three of the people at the counter were having their little issues which they needed to deal with, I grabbed a driver's manual, sat down, and started to read it. I was still the only other person in the room. I chuckled when the guy at the counter closest to me stormed away looking very exasperated. I stood once again behind the thick yellow line about 6 feet from the counter and waited for the, shall I say, female behind the counter to summon me. 


And I waited. And I waited. And I sniffed the way you do when you are in a public restroom and someone comes in and begins to approach the stall you are in. It's not a rude sniff. It's a "Hey, I'm just letting you know I'm in here," kind of a sniff. Not a snooty sniff , nor a snotty sniff, and certainly not a stiff sniff. For there is nothing worse that a snooty, snotty, stiffy, sniff. I digress.


So, I gave my little sniff and once again waited to be acknowledged. The, shall I say, female behind the counter waited a beat or two, then picked up the microphone attached to the counter and said,"71". I raised my hand and made my best "are you talking to me?" face while slightly pointing back at myself. I struck that pose and waited for, shall I say, her to look up. Once again she picked up the microphone, looked right through me and said "71". I was still stuck in my "does that mean me?" pose and she never even blinked at me. In disbelief, I turned and looked around the empty room just in time to see a happy little orange faced man (who oddly resembled one of Willy Wonka's Oompa Loompas) step up to a mechanical looking box, punch a little red button and tear off the paper ticket that was being fed to him.


"HEEEYYA! Wa I nebber get a such looky in my days! I'na nuhber sebendy wahn, mang! He exclaimed.


I turned back to see the, shall I say, female spreading, shall I say, her hairy upper lip into what I think was a grin, and begin motioning the little loompa man up to her counter. I blurted out something about not wanting to be rude but just wanting to let her know that I had already been waiting there for about 15-20 minutes and maybe it would be possible for me to just step up and get a quick license replacement. The, shall I say, female scowled at me and I felt my spleen begin to atrophy. 


Then, shall I say, she, hissed, "What is your number?"


"Number?" I quipped. 


"Jess, Mang! I'na goat de nuhber for da mi looky boy is nebber I done no," said the little loompa man.


"Well, I didn't think I needed a number. There were only three people in front of me."


As the little loompa man handed his papers to, shall I say, her, she took great delight in telling me that there were four people in front of me counting Mr. Vladechesxjpqmez.


"Jess, Mang I gotta looky den into a hangd oh mang," he confirmed.


As they started to transact their business I went back to the mechanical box and pushed the button. Nothing happened. I pushed the button again. Nothing. I pushed it about 28 times really fast. The box, of course, started spewing out tickets like... well, like a mechanical ticket box that has just had its button pushed about 28 times really fast. I gathered up the jackpot and took one for myself throwing the others away. Then I waited.


I had been nodding off for about 10 minutes when I was awakened by the little loompa man storming by me on his way out the door. He was waving his little loompa fist and grumbling something about something that sounded like a ploofborg and a mitlenboger. The only word I could truly understand was the word "bitch" which he slipped in almost every other word. I stood behind the thick yellow line and waited. 


The, shall I say, female behind the counter picked up the microphone and said, "72".


I looked down at my ticked and cringed when I saw that the ticket I had was numbered 84.


The digital number reader board on the wall clicked. And the, shall I say, female said,"73". And smiled.


I think I muttered, "You gotta be kidding me ." I walked back to the waste can where I had deposited the other tickets and started rifling through the trash trying to find a lower numbered ticket. By the time I found the one numbered 74, shall I say, she was on number 75. I wasn't going to play that game. I looked down and saw number 76 just as number 76 was called. 


I held up my ticket and said, "I am number 76."


Shall I say, she motioned to me to proceed toward her. 


"I suppose you'll want to see my ticket, right?" 


The ever so hairy lipped grin reappeared across the 40 miles of bad hiway that made up her face and the oversized hacky sack head that it was attached to nodded in agreement.


I handed her my ticket which she tore in half in the most dramatic way possible. She looked at me and said, "May I help you?"


I told her that I needed to have my license replaced. She asked me what I had as proof of my identification. I produced four bank cards, one of which had my picture laminated into it, several pieces of certified mail, my electricity bill, and some notices from the county including court documents. I had called my state's DMV headquarters just before coming in to see if I had enough of the correct documents to get my license replaced and had been told that I had plenty. She scanned my proof of ID and told me that she wasn't going to issue me a new license. I asked her why and she told me I didn't have enough proper identification documents. She brought out a blue sheet of paper that listed three different categories of acceptable ID; primary, secondary, and alternative. She told me that I would need to have at least 1 primary, and two secondary, or 2 secondary and 2 alternative, or 2 primary, 1 secondary, and 1 alternative. 


My head started to spin and I told her that I understood the list she was showing me, but the only documents I had were the ones in front of me. I asked why they wouldn't suffice. I asked why I had been told by DMV headquarters that my documentation would be fine. I wanted to unzip her human female costume and let her giant alien lizard head come out so I could se her giant red alien lizard forked tongue, but my spleen started to atrophy again which was a sure sine that she would have eaten me right then and there had I done so. So, I went on to explain that all of the normal forms of backup ID that I had - my copy of my birth certificate; my voter's registration card; my social security card; were in my wallet. Then it occurred to me that, shall I say, she, was sitting in front of a computer monitor. She was sitting in front of an LCD monitor that was newer than the one I have, and bigger too.


"Can I see your screen for a second," I asked.


"I'm sorry I can't do that," she said


The monitor was at such an angle that if I just leaned over the counter a little I could see the screen. So, I did. Just as I suspected, there on the screen was a full color, larger than life photograph of me, my own self, as I appeared on my last license. And down below were pictures of me from previous licenses.


I began to argue that the blue sheet of paper with the lists of acceptable proofs of ID stated that a bankcard and a letter or notice from a county, state, or federal court was all that was required. She told me that the court notices had to be from either a court proceeding involving a divorce, a name change, or an adoption. She asked me if I had my marriage license with me. I told her I wasn't married. She asked me if I had my voter's registration card. I told her it was in my wallet. She advised me to go fill out a voter's registration and wait for the card to come in the mail. I just looked at her with eyes that were having my soul sucked out of them, then I asked why the bank cards, especially the one with my picture laminated into it, along with the photo on file from my actual driver's license wouldn't be sufficient. She shot back that the rule stated that I would have to have a second bank card with or without a picture. Well, I did have a second bank card! I showed it to her. She said that it would have to come from a different issuing agency. 


"But the accounts are different and they were started at two different branches."


"Yes, I understand your frustration," she drooled. Then she did the hairy lip grin, this time revealing a few of the little brown fossils in the collection of what I'm sure she thought of as teeth. I think I could smell them. Yes, I smelled them, and they smelled like butt. Bad butt. Big bad bathless butt.


I felt the best thing to do at this point was to simply throw myself at her mercy; bare my throat to her, and plead for the bottomless compassion I knew she must posses deep down inside of her voluminous bile pumping heart. I heard my spleen start to squeal in horror. So, I said, " I can't believe that you can't use the very ID your agency issued for me to use as official ID in all matters related to your agency as definitive proof of my unquestionable identity." And with that, she said, " I'm done dealing with you. Step aside."


"I'm not done here. I don't have my new license, do I?"


"No, and you'll not be getting one today," she flatulated ( there is no such word as "flatulated" , but there should be. If it comes up for a vote, please remember how very well I used it and how you knew exactly what I meant at the time. Then, please cast your vote with me in favor of "flatulated" as used in the sentence - The quadulator flatulated.) ( there is no such word as "quadulator", but there should be...I digress, again.)


"There are people out there committing identity theft with ill gotten state IDs and licenses whom were able to get them with less proof of identification than I have here today," I said.


"Yes, there are," she snorted. "But you still won't be getting your license here today."


Dear Reader, I know that this is a bit unconventional, but after writing the last 2,148 words I have come to realize two things: 1.) This short snappy and very entertaining story could easily become a really boring and commercially weak novel. 2.) It makes me just as enraged to write about what happened as it did to live the events, and that will lead to nothing but the same vengeful retaliation you are about to become privy to momentarily.


So, to be brief... I demanded to speak to her superior who was at lunch. I waited 15 minutes past the time the branch manager was due back, and when she finally swaggered into the room my she demon lizard princess got to her before I could and conspired with her to just stick a big fat "NO" up my already painful barbed wire raped rectum. 


I left telling the supervisor that I really, really, really hoped that she was in the same kind of situation I found my self in someday, but I really, really, really, really hoped that I was on the other side of the counter. As I left, the other two pasty fleshed, marrow sucking, vomit mongers who were on duty behind the DMV counter gave me a very sarcastic elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist wave goodbye. 


I got into my car and started driving home, but I'll be damned if I was going to be defeated by this butt licking puke depository. I picked up my cell phone and called DMV headquarters. When the customer service rep answered the phone I told her on no uncertain terms what had happened and what I thought of the entire DMV which wasn't much to say the least. Then it got even worse. The woman I was talking to told me to go to another office. Another office? That would mean that the crap I had just gone through was not due to any sort of official identification policy, or methodology, but in fact, it would be due to a judgment call, meaning the question of whether or not I received my license was being answered by how a whimsical wind blew up the skirt of that abominable likeness of a putrid pile of pungent pig leavings. I was not going to be defeated.


I drove directly to a suburban DMV express outpost by my house, collected my self and walked in. Once inside I noticed that I was, once again one of three people waiting to be seen. I went to the box, gently pushed the button and received my ticket. Then, I proceeded to stand in line. I was able to suppress my anger and act as though I was even a bit bored. When I was called to the counter I walked slowly. When I got in front of the robot who was to help me I said, " Uh, I lost my wallet. Oh, and uh I need to uh, I need uh..."


The robot in front of me said, "You need a replacement?"


"Uhhh, yeah. I guess. But I don't have any ID." I said.


"Well let me see what you do have. You'd be surprised at what counts for ID." She said.


I gave her less than I gave the first shall I say, female, and didn't say a word. Tap, tap, tap went her fingers on the keyboard and up came my picture.


"There you are. OK, what is your mother's maiden name?"


I told her.


"Aaaaand, what is your address?"


I told her.


"Ally righty! Just step over there in front of the blue curtain," she said.


She took my picture and in about five minutes I was legal as Perry Mason (I know that was cheesy, forgive me.).


I took my new license and left. That should be the end. It was far from it, however. I felt my spleen start building up a spleenular resentment that was going to explode with all of the force of Mt. St. Helens and though I tried to resist it, every bone in my body forced me to drive like a bat out of hell back down to that G-d forsaken hell hole of a DMV office where I parked and strode right in like the pissed off, hell bent for election, advocate of the American people that I was. The room was packed. I waited until the poor sap at shall I say, her counter was done being flacked up the bart with a porpoise, then I walked up without a little numbered ticket, took my ID shoved it in shall I say her face and asked, "Do you know what that is?"


Before she could spread her ever so very hairy and massively scary lip I said, "It's my new license: The one I just got from the express office with half of the doc.s I came in here with for you." My voice rose to a level that could be heard in the outer reaches of the galaxy. 


I turned to face the people: My people: We the people, and proclaimed, "That's right! I just got this license using half of the documentation I used to get turned down here. And the reason is because this piece of drek (Yiddish for... look it up), is a living piece of human garbage and a liar."


"Well I..." she stammered.


"You are garbage and a liar and we all know it. Listen people. Don't let her infect your life with her thought vomit. Don't take any crap! You don't have to. We are Americans!"


And with that the crowd broke into applause as I walked gallantly out the door. Avenged and proud. Head held high. The DMV employees crowded the window to get a look at my license plate and were terrified when I turned and rushed up to the glass with my license and growled, "Filthy lying pieces of garbage."


It has got to be one of the dumbest things I have ever done.


It felt great. I highly recommend it over constructing a device that when placed well, and effectively, goes BOOM!

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