“WASHINGTON (AP) - A new report says the U.S. health care system squanders $750 billion … a year - roughly US30 cents of every medical dollar.”
http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/breaking-news/us-health-care-wastes-us750b-a-year/story-e6frf7k6-1226466885765
We Republicans have a plan to fix the problem.
We Democrats have a better plan.
The Democratic plan sucks.
The Republican plan sucks big time.
The Democratic plan will give government complete control over all health care.
The Republican plan will keep health care away from the poor and middle class and union members and minorities and immigrants. Only the wealthy 1 percent will be able to afford health care.
The Democrats are waging class war.
Nixonite!
LBJ Great Society socialist!
*$&%)#% 69!
&$*@)&^^@ Pound sign this!
Thursday, September 6, 2012
She hit him with an alligator head
and it’s not even in Florida.
“LITTLE ROCK, Ark. (AP) - The former girlfriend of state Sen. Jeremy Hutchinson was charged Wednesday with third-degree domestic battery after allegedly hitting the Republican with a preserved alligator head during a dispute.”
http://www.fox16.com/news/local/story/Ark-senators-ex-girlfriend-accused-of-battery/YdvDiDD6FEWj_9m3HW7slQ.cspx
This is so messed up in so many ways other than the alligator head. If she had called him “alligator head …”
“You are nothing but an alligator head!!” and then hit him with one that just happened to be handy …
Domestic battery from an ex-girlfriend? How in the wide wide world of Arkansas law does an ex-girlfriend fit in the domestic category of assault?
She said he threw her onto a couch, “but investigators discounted that assertion. The report says McGee had ‘a swollen lip, scratches to her wrists and redness to her left arm,’ but notes ‘that the injuries to McGee were inconsistent with her statements and they did not appear to be contemporaneous with the current incident.’"
“contemporaneous with the current incident.” Is this really from a po-leece report? Some days I can’t even spell contemp … contim … “didn’t happen the way she said.”
The first comment is good. Alligator head control.
“LITTLE ROCK, Ark. (AP) - The former girlfriend of state Sen. Jeremy Hutchinson was charged Wednesday with third-degree domestic battery after allegedly hitting the Republican with a preserved alligator head during a dispute.”
http://www.fox16.com/news/local/story/Ark-senators-ex-girlfriend-accused-of-battery/YdvDiDD6FEWj_9m3HW7slQ.cspx
This is so messed up in so many ways other than the alligator head. If she had called him “alligator head …”
“You are nothing but an alligator head!!” and then hit him with one that just happened to be handy …
Domestic battery from an ex-girlfriend? How in the wide wide world of Arkansas law does an ex-girlfriend fit in the domestic category of assault?
She said he threw her onto a couch, “but investigators discounted that assertion. The report says McGee had ‘a swollen lip, scratches to her wrists and redness to her left arm,’ but notes ‘that the injuries to McGee were inconsistent with her statements and they did not appear to be contemporaneous with the current incident.’"
“contemporaneous with the current incident.” Is this really from a po-leece report? Some days I can’t even spell contemp … contim … “didn’t happen the way she said.”
The first comment is good. Alligator head control.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Intercepted phone call
The caller said, “Mr. Merriman, you don’t know me, but I’ve got some information you might be interested in.”
I didn’t like to get calls like that. You never do at a newspaper, because, even though the information truly might be interesting, you know the caller will not disclose his name, and you will have to verify whatever he says while working blind.
I didn’t say any of that, though. As I said, the information might really be interesting. “Go on,” I said.
“Is there a man named **** who works at the newspaper?” I said there was. He named the publisher’s son. He asked, “And is there a woman named ****?” Again, yes.
The caller said he had monitored one side of a mobile phone call a couple of nights before. He and his son were watching Monday Night Football, and he had his police scanner nearby. (The man) had called (The woman), but the caller got only the man’s side of the conversation. It was 1992, and mobile phones were big clunky things that plugged into a car cigarette lighter. A mobile phone was a transmitter and sometimes conversations bled into scanner frequencies.
“(The man) told (The woman) he and his daughter were looking at Christmas lights,” the caller said. “His wife was at home.”
The man also told the woman when they were at work “she should pretend like nothing had happened” between them.
“Then he started talking about you,” the caller said. “He said they’re going to fire you after the first of the year.”
I said, “I sort of had that figured out, but it’s nice to have it verified.”
He said, “You’re a Vietnam veteran, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“(The man) said you’ve got a steel plate in your head?”
“Something like that.” It’s a stainless steel, spring-loaded aneurysm clip, but if people want to believe a steel plate, that’s fine with me. It lends seriousness to those times when I take on dufuses.
The caller said, “I asked around, and people said you are one of the good guys.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I thought you might be able to use information that (The man) is having an affair with (The woman).”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t ask for his name. And, I was fired five weeks later. I didn’t say anything about the call. It wouldn’t have mattered.
It was nice to know, though, that there are people who know when a wrong is being done.
I didn’t like to get calls like that. You never do at a newspaper, because, even though the information truly might be interesting, you know the caller will not disclose his name, and you will have to verify whatever he says while working blind.
I didn’t say any of that, though. As I said, the information might really be interesting. “Go on,” I said.
“Is there a man named **** who works at the newspaper?” I said there was. He named the publisher’s son. He asked, “And is there a woman named ****?” Again, yes.
The caller said he had monitored one side of a mobile phone call a couple of nights before. He and his son were watching Monday Night Football, and he had his police scanner nearby. (The man) had called (The woman), but the caller got only the man’s side of the conversation. It was 1992, and mobile phones were big clunky things that plugged into a car cigarette lighter. A mobile phone was a transmitter and sometimes conversations bled into scanner frequencies.
“(The man) told (The woman) he and his daughter were looking at Christmas lights,” the caller said. “His wife was at home.”
The man also told the woman when they were at work “she should pretend like nothing had happened” between them.
“Then he started talking about you,” the caller said. “He said they’re going to fire you after the first of the year.”
I said, “I sort of had that figured out, but it’s nice to have it verified.”
He said, “You’re a Vietnam veteran, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“(The man) said you’ve got a steel plate in your head?”
“Something like that.” It’s a stainless steel, spring-loaded aneurysm clip, but if people want to believe a steel plate, that’s fine with me. It lends seriousness to those times when I take on dufuses.
The caller said, “I asked around, and people said you are one of the good guys.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I thought you might be able to use information that (The man) is having an affair with (The woman).”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t ask for his name. And, I was fired five weeks later. I didn’t say anything about the call. It wouldn’t have mattered.
It was nice to know, though, that there are people who know when a wrong is being done.
‘Internal Army Poll: Only 26% of Officers Say Army Headed in Right Direction—“Political Correctness” Cited’
http://cnsnews.com/news/article/internal-army-poll-only-26-officers-say-army-headed-right-direction-political
A couple of things:
When seeing the headline part “Officers Say,” I no longer gave any credence to the article’s importance. Ninety-nine percent of Army officers are completely out of the loop when it comes to running things and getting real results. Officers can issue orders, but they are not the do-ers. NCOs and enlisted soldiers do the stuff required for mission accomplishment. Officers complain about political correctness, but NCOs and enlisted soldiers take care of the problem, if one exists. Besides, the by-far-majority of Army officers are not in combat arms, and in combat arms, little things don’t mean nothin’.
Second, look at the officer complaints:
-- 58 percent cited the Army’s inability to “retain quality leaders.”
-- 57 percent cited “a lack of discipline, or the “Army is too soft”
-- 53 percent pointed to “Ineffective leaders at senior levels”
-- 52 percent said “senior leaders focus on the wrong priorities”
-- 46 percent said junior leader promotions/advancements are happening too soon
-- 39 percent said “resources/funding or technology are insufficient”
The Army has always been too soft. Just ask any veteran of a previous war. Junior leaders have always thought their seniors ineffective. Senior leaders have always focused on the wrong priorities. There never has been enough funding for necessary technology. An officer never has enough equipment, ammunition or soldiers.
Move along. Nothing new in the poll.
Link from gatesfofvienna.
A couple of things:
When seeing the headline part “Officers Say,” I no longer gave any credence to the article’s importance. Ninety-nine percent of Army officers are completely out of the loop when it comes to running things and getting real results. Officers can issue orders, but they are not the do-ers. NCOs and enlisted soldiers do the stuff required for mission accomplishment. Officers complain about political correctness, but NCOs and enlisted soldiers take care of the problem, if one exists. Besides, the by-far-majority of Army officers are not in combat arms, and in combat arms, little things don’t mean nothin’.
Second, look at the officer complaints:
-- 58 percent cited the Army’s inability to “retain quality leaders.”
-- 57 percent cited “a lack of discipline, or the “Army is too soft”
-- 53 percent pointed to “Ineffective leaders at senior levels”
-- 52 percent said “senior leaders focus on the wrong priorities”
-- 46 percent said junior leader promotions/advancements are happening too soon
-- 39 percent said “resources/funding or technology are insufficient”
The Army has always been too soft. Just ask any veteran of a previous war. Junior leaders have always thought their seniors ineffective. Senior leaders have always focused on the wrong priorities. There never has been enough funding for necessary technology. An officer never has enough equipment, ammunition or soldiers.
Move along. Nothing new in the poll.
Link from gatesfofvienna.
Who cleans up after a murder?
It was motion and arraignment day in 62nd District Court, in the criminal cases the usual suspects for DWI, burglary, methamphetamine or marijuana possession or both, sometimes a charge with intent to distribute if the seized white powdery substance or green leafy substance was over a certain weight.
The 20 or so accused sat in a specific area of the courtroom, in pews near the north wall. All were in the bright orange uniform of the day; all wore two shiny steel bracelets, with small chains connecting the bracelets.
The judge got divorce motions out of the way and then went to the alleged criminals. He might recognize some by name, fewer by face, all by charges. Just about every one was a frequent flyer.
About 15 lawyers hung around as the bailiff called individual names. Each call brought an orange-suited man to a spot before the judge on high. For each man, the judge opened a folder and read the charge and asked, “Do you have a lawyer?” Each answer was, “No, Sir.” The judge then looked around and said, “Mr. Jensen is your attorney.” The so named stepped forward and told the judge, “My client wishes to enter a plea of not guilty.” Neither Mr. Jensen nor any other attorney appointed had ever seen his client before that day, unless the accused had racked up a measure of frequent flyer time.
The number of usual suspects dwindled, but no one left the courtroom. People not involved in cases were there to see the star of the day, a man accused of killing his special education school teacher live-in girl friend, specifically by shooting her with a 12-guage shotgun in the kitchen of his and her house.
By the time the judge arraigned the accused before the alleged murderer and was looking at paperwork from the district clerk, every lawyer in the courtroom had made his or her way somewhere else on the other side of the swinging doors. No one wanted appointment to that case. There was no defense. The man had shot the woman in the kitchen. Everybody knew that as a fact.
Everybody also knew the woman had left the man several times, but she always went back. Her friends told her, “One of these days he’s going to kill you.” But the woman loved him, and she knew he loved her and he said he was sorry and he wouldn’t beat her again. He promised.
The judge picked up a folder and called the accused. The murderer stood and, accompanied by two deputy sheriffs, went forward. The judge looked around. He knew the man did not have an attorney. And for a few seconds, he also knew there was not a lawyer in sight.
And then the swinging doors opened and George (last name not important) strolled in. Apparently, or obviously, the attorneys who had scurried away did not see fit to inform George.
The judge asked the murderer if he had an attorney. “No,” the man said, and then remembering courtroom decorum, reluctantly said, “No, Sir.” The judge looked up and saw George walking slowly, taking his time, for the moment without a care in the world. “Mr. (Smith),” the judge said. “Come up here and meet your new client.” George walked faster then. When the judge read the charge of murder, George said, “Not guilty.”
Somebody one day mentioned George had never won a trial. The best way of lawyering, though, is not to go to trial. George made a living with divorce cases and other things that would never go before a jury. In this case, though, it would not have mattered who the judge assigned to defend the murderer. The man was guilty, and he would spend the rest of his life in prison. The state could not ask for death, because the murder had not occurred during the commission of another felony. It was another case of a man killing his girlfriend in a house they shared.
George got a change of venue to Paris, 30 miles away. It didn’t matter. East Texas juries take a dim view of men who kill their girlfriends or women who kill their boyfriends.
In the trial, the prosecution made its case. George asked questions, as a defense attorney should. When the prosecution rested, the judge called on George, who stood and said, “The defense calls no witnesses, your honor.” The jury was out about 20 minutes.
One time after watching a particularly bloody TV drama murder scene, my wife asked, “Who cleans up after a murder?” I said, “The family, I guess. It’s not a police responsibility.”
A deputy sheriff and her constable husband cleaned up the kitchen murder scene. Their daughter was engaged to the murdered woman’s son. “It was awful,” she said.
The 20 or so accused sat in a specific area of the courtroom, in pews near the north wall. All were in the bright orange uniform of the day; all wore two shiny steel bracelets, with small chains connecting the bracelets.
The judge got divorce motions out of the way and then went to the alleged criminals. He might recognize some by name, fewer by face, all by charges. Just about every one was a frequent flyer.
About 15 lawyers hung around as the bailiff called individual names. Each call brought an orange-suited man to a spot before the judge on high. For each man, the judge opened a folder and read the charge and asked, “Do you have a lawyer?” Each answer was, “No, Sir.” The judge then looked around and said, “Mr. Jensen is your attorney.” The so named stepped forward and told the judge, “My client wishes to enter a plea of not guilty.” Neither Mr. Jensen nor any other attorney appointed had ever seen his client before that day, unless the accused had racked up a measure of frequent flyer time.
The number of usual suspects dwindled, but no one left the courtroom. People not involved in cases were there to see the star of the day, a man accused of killing his special education school teacher live-in girl friend, specifically by shooting her with a 12-guage shotgun in the kitchen of his and her house.
By the time the judge arraigned the accused before the alleged murderer and was looking at paperwork from the district clerk, every lawyer in the courtroom had made his or her way somewhere else on the other side of the swinging doors. No one wanted appointment to that case. There was no defense. The man had shot the woman in the kitchen. Everybody knew that as a fact.
Everybody also knew the woman had left the man several times, but she always went back. Her friends told her, “One of these days he’s going to kill you.” But the woman loved him, and she knew he loved her and he said he was sorry and he wouldn’t beat her again. He promised.
The judge picked up a folder and called the accused. The murderer stood and, accompanied by two deputy sheriffs, went forward. The judge looked around. He knew the man did not have an attorney. And for a few seconds, he also knew there was not a lawyer in sight.
And then the swinging doors opened and George (last name not important) strolled in. Apparently, or obviously, the attorneys who had scurried away did not see fit to inform George.
The judge asked the murderer if he had an attorney. “No,” the man said, and then remembering courtroom decorum, reluctantly said, “No, Sir.” The judge looked up and saw George walking slowly, taking his time, for the moment without a care in the world. “Mr. (Smith),” the judge said. “Come up here and meet your new client.” George walked faster then. When the judge read the charge of murder, George said, “Not guilty.”
Somebody one day mentioned George had never won a trial. The best way of lawyering, though, is not to go to trial. George made a living with divorce cases and other things that would never go before a jury. In this case, though, it would not have mattered who the judge assigned to defend the murderer. The man was guilty, and he would spend the rest of his life in prison. The state could not ask for death, because the murder had not occurred during the commission of another felony. It was another case of a man killing his girlfriend in a house they shared.
George got a change of venue to Paris, 30 miles away. It didn’t matter. East Texas juries take a dim view of men who kill their girlfriends or women who kill their boyfriends.
In the trial, the prosecution made its case. George asked questions, as a defense attorney should. When the prosecution rested, the judge called on George, who stood and said, “The defense calls no witnesses, your honor.” The jury was out about 20 minutes.
One time after watching a particularly bloody TV drama murder scene, my wife asked, “Who cleans up after a murder?” I said, “The family, I guess. It’s not a police responsibility.”
A deputy sheriff and her constable husband cleaned up the kitchen murder scene. Their daughter was engaged to the murdered woman’s son. “It was awful,” she said.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
How not to write
“Chuck Norris loves freedom more than you.”
http://popwatch.ew.com/2012/09/04/churck-norris-poltical-commercia/
Does that mean Norris loves freedom more than he loves me, or he loves freedom more than I love freedom?
The article is a smarmy slap to Mr. Norris and his religious beliefs. Of course, anyone who has religious beliefs is a dufus redneck. The article so leads one to believe.
http://popwatch.ew.com/2012/09/04/churck-norris-poltical-commercia/
Does that mean Norris loves freedom more than he loves me, or he loves freedom more than I love freedom?
The article is a smarmy slap to Mr. Norris and his religious beliefs. Of course, anyone who has religious beliefs is a dufus redneck. The article so leads one to believe.
Monday, September 3, 2012
The house that burned
Momma, Ruby and I stepped outside the café and saw the long pillar of dark smoke off to the northwest.
“Wanda,” Ruby said, “that looks like it’s out by your place.”
“Watch Bob!” Momma said, and she jumped into hers and Daddy’s 1938 Oldsmobile and scattered gravel as she sped from the parking area and onto Highway 67.
It was early September 1952. We lived in an old, metal-roofed, unpainted house off a dirt road three or so miles northwest of Maud. Momma and Daddy had opened the café about a year before. The café was attached to a much bigger wooden building that during the war had been a machine shop.
Daddy bought the building using a VA small business loan. He first got rid of all the machines inside and turned the building into a bowling alley, refurbishing the building’s hardwood floors. The bowling alley didn’t catch on, so Daddy made the place into a honky tonk. Almost all of Texas was dry then, so selling beer and mixed drinks was illegal. Daddy sold Coke in bottles and small buckets of ice and provided glasses, and didn’t check brown paper bags people brought in.
I was at the café that day after a reaction to smallpox vaccine. Ruby was Daddy’s older sister. She was a vocational nurse and sometimes cooked at the café. After Momma left, Ruby and I watched the dark smoke spiral higher and become wider.
“I sure hope that’s not your house,” Ruby said.
It was our house. Daddy was asleep when the fire started. He had worked graveyard shift at Red River Army Depot the night before. Smoke woke him up. The house was just about all on fire when he woke up. He didn’t have a chance to save anything. He pushed out the window screen and got out of the house.
Momma drove the Oldsmobile as fast as it would go, through Maud and then down the dirt road toward the house. “I took a couple of corners on two tires,” she later said.
Carolyn, my older sister, was at school that day. Francis, 3, and Bill, 2, were with Geraldine, Momma’s older sister.
I don’t remember anything about the rest of the day. We all spent the night with Momma’s relatives or Daddy’s, or maybe split up and with both.
Next day, Momma and Daddy took us kids to the burned down house. It was the first burned house I remember seeing.
Everything was burned. There were charred pieces of wood and blackened tin. That was the first house of my memory.
We stayed with relatives two more days, until Momma and Daddy found another rent house. It was bigger than the house that burned.
By then people had given us boxes and sacks of used clothing. What we got was not any more worn than what burned. I didn’t particularly care for any of the charity clothes. But, people did what they could.
“Wanda,” Ruby said, “that looks like it’s out by your place.”
“Watch Bob!” Momma said, and she jumped into hers and Daddy’s 1938 Oldsmobile and scattered gravel as she sped from the parking area and onto Highway 67.
It was early September 1952. We lived in an old, metal-roofed, unpainted house off a dirt road three or so miles northwest of Maud. Momma and Daddy had opened the café about a year before. The café was attached to a much bigger wooden building that during the war had been a machine shop.
Daddy bought the building using a VA small business loan. He first got rid of all the machines inside and turned the building into a bowling alley, refurbishing the building’s hardwood floors. The bowling alley didn’t catch on, so Daddy made the place into a honky tonk. Almost all of Texas was dry then, so selling beer and mixed drinks was illegal. Daddy sold Coke in bottles and small buckets of ice and provided glasses, and didn’t check brown paper bags people brought in.
I was at the café that day after a reaction to smallpox vaccine. Ruby was Daddy’s older sister. She was a vocational nurse and sometimes cooked at the café. After Momma left, Ruby and I watched the dark smoke spiral higher and become wider.
“I sure hope that’s not your house,” Ruby said.
It was our house. Daddy was asleep when the fire started. He had worked graveyard shift at Red River Army Depot the night before. Smoke woke him up. The house was just about all on fire when he woke up. He didn’t have a chance to save anything. He pushed out the window screen and got out of the house.
Momma drove the Oldsmobile as fast as it would go, through Maud and then down the dirt road toward the house. “I took a couple of corners on two tires,” she later said.
Carolyn, my older sister, was at school that day. Francis, 3, and Bill, 2, were with Geraldine, Momma’s older sister.
I don’t remember anything about the rest of the day. We all spent the night with Momma’s relatives or Daddy’s, or maybe split up and with both.
Next day, Momma and Daddy took us kids to the burned down house. It was the first burned house I remember seeing.
Everything was burned. There were charred pieces of wood and blackened tin. That was the first house of my memory.
We stayed with relatives two more days, until Momma and Daddy found another rent house. It was bigger than the house that burned.
By then people had given us boxes and sacks of used clothing. What we got was not any more worn than what burned. I didn’t particularly care for any of the charity clothes. But, people did what they could.
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