ssǝɹddns ɹou ɹɐǝɟ ɹǝɥʇıǝu plnoʍ ʎʇǝıɔos ǝǝɹɟ ʎlnɹʇ ɐ ʇɐɥʇ ƃuıʇnɔolɯnɔɹıɔ suıɐʇuoɔ ǝʇıs sıɥʇ



Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Morning walkabout

I dunno.

I felt compelled to visit...






Later

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Denouement

Coming from someone who loved working at Percy A. Brown & Co.: Foods of Distinction, the following makes me sad.












G'nite

Hotel Sterling: Rise and Demise

This video runs 30:01 but it's worth the investment in time.

It was produced by a few students from Kings College.

Give it a whirl.



Later

Bradford County?

You can stream this movie--Ring of Fire--on Netflix.

I think it comes in at four hours.

During the earlier stages of the movie, I so wanted to call KD and ask him to rate the geologic and fracking  similarities and the like. At some points, it's kind of spooky.

Anyway, I thought the movie was fun and all.



'Til next we frack.

Later

The new plague

I've only seen one this bad.

It was at a public housing unit in which the walls were covered with fecal material from cove base to ceiling.

The tenants were relocated with only the clothes on their backs, with the rest of their worldly possessions  having been shrink-wrapped and trucked off to the landfill.

We removed the receptacles, the cove base, window trims, kitchen and bathroom cabinets, lighting fixtures, etc., etc., etc. We made trip after trip while trying to get things under control, but to no avail.

Finally, I drove a speed bit through the drywall, revealing the fact that the little sumbitches were behind the drywall. And being that the joint had blown-in insulation between every stud and every cripple, there was no way to eliminate the invaders.

So, the entire unit had to be completely gutted from the slab to the roof rafters. Gutted. Completely. Gone. Party over. And the adjoining units were treated for weeks on end.

Total cost to housing authority? Last I heard, about $50,000.

  

And know this: the entire disaster started when the tenants brought home a hand-me-down couch.

My advice to you? Be very leary of used furniture, garage and yard sales.

Later 

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Relief

Since this post will not be of much interest to most people, humor me for a spell.

My mother married and subsequently divorced three times. And during my formative years, I was there for all of that dizzying marital discord gone full-blown marital combat.

I’m not whining, so hear me out.

Each and every time my mom divorced her husbands, I felt nothing but blessed relief. I’m still on record (Google News Archives) as a toddler saying, “I want to go to grandma’s” when the prolonged kidnapping debacle finally ended in a Florida courtroom.

When she divorced in 1971, culminating in our hurried resettlement to Wilkes-Barre with nothing more than the clothes on our backs and my Matchbox collection, I knew both the physical beatings and the mental anguish were in the rear-view mirror. A long overdue sigh of relief, if you will.

And when the final marital go-round turned into a mess when I was a teenager, I was then old enough and large enough to dish out the pain, rather than have any of us receive any more of it. I’m not proud of some of what I did, but both my brother and my sister idolized me for having done it.

While I carry some mental marring as well as the physical scars of that bygone segment of my life, one thing stands out in my memory: Divorce always led to a period of relief, readjustment and later happiness, brief as it may have been.

I’ve been married to a woman for, uh, we’re but days away from 34 years. In my spinning mind, despite my many warts and scars, I have provided for my three children the ultimate in stability and predictability. Daddy works and works some more. Mommy nurtures, coddles and occasionally freaks out.

It worked for me. It seemed to work for Wifey. And our three kids definitely had a much better go of childhood than either one of us had had before them. And it is and always has been for that reason, that model of stability and predictability, that I always pictured my kids and then their kids living life happily thereafter.

But, as fate would have it, we’re not all Mike Brady, nor are we all Donna Reed clones. As fate would have it, a common law “divorce” has not brought relief to three of my grandchildren. Quite the opposite has been afoot of late. They are in limbo, and they don’t like it none too much. And neither do I.

To be blunt as all get-out, they are pawns, they are confused, they are conflicted and they are not happy. They have become what I once was, shell-shocked refugees not quite all the way back from the marital combat zone. And if something doesn’t change and change real, real soon, I’m going to do something that some might idolize me for at some later date.

For me, this is simple. And as some of you know full well, I like simplicity.

If you’re supposedly divorced, then move on and get on with your lives. You need as much. I need as much. Wifey needs as much. Your siblings need as much. But most importantly, the vertically-challenged pawns need some relief and soon.

I’ve harkened back to my scattershot upbringing many times over by saying, “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

The thing is, I don’t want any of my grandkids repeating that retort if and when they grow up.

Relief.

Later

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Go! Go! Go Speed Racer

I'm the type that travels at the posted speed limits.

Yep, that's me. You've raced past me hundreds of times. I'm one of those guys that passed the defensive driving course for truckers. I'm one of those guys that was trained to spot a hazard well before it becomes an emergency.

And from what I'm seeing, the lot of you are hazards bordering on emergencies simply because you drive too damn fast. There is no recognition of the speed limits, no safe following distance, no notice of yield signs, etc. There is no courtesy. And there is no civility. And yet, you wonder where your children get it from.

And when I drive on past your vehicle sitting on it's roof, know that I'll be chuckling at your apparent stupidity.


G'nite

Friday, July 26, 2013

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Reading assignment

Trust me on this one.

With the current goings-on down there by the river in downtown Wilkes-Barre, this is a must read...

The Hotel Sterling: Five History Lessons

I toured the structure in 2001. Can't remember the exact date now since the date-stamped pictures I published afterwards were lost when my first PC went rogue on me coupled with the fact that my first-ever Web site was deleted by the host company after a local claimed to be "offended" by it. Fu>kin' dullard!

I'm not sure what was used to distort the pictures in that outstanding post, but they reminded me of the H.M.S. Titanic.

Later

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

The Bridge to Nowhere

I read today that black males commit homicides at seven times the rate of whites and Hispanics combined. And the great majority of said homicides are of the black-on-black variety, with a staggering percentage being committed with illegally obtained handguns.

With that typed, it’s undeniable that certain politicians, media types and the civil-rights-for-hire agitators benefit by the relentlessly pounded charges whereby white folk are charged, tried and convicted in absentia of being “fortunate” bigots, racists and all-around evil-doers.

But when you consider those aforementioned stats, it seems to me that the black folk have far, far less to fear from the white folk than they do from their own communities.

I’m just saying.

I find it hard to believe that our County government would allow a derelict railroad bridge that transverses the Susquehanna river to be purchased by a local man.

First of all, what was he going to do with it? Fix it? Was he going to have the bridge rebuilt even though it leads to a miles-long rail bed that most likely needs to be completely replaced, even if (that’s a huge if) anyone would have considered using it again. Face it, it is a bridge to nowhere.


Secondly, we river paddlers have been publishing pictures of that bridge’s fast-deteriorating foundation for years on end. The running joke has been that you ought to paddle like all hell when you arrive at the failing bridge so as to not be crushed by it when it finally drops.

So, with that having been typed, what, was it a closely guarded secret that this bridge was destined to fail, and sooner rather than later? Why allow a failing river bridge to be purchased by a local on a supposed whim? What was the point of that sale? Why relinquish control of a hulking structure---for a measly $5,000---soon to become a public safety issue?

When it drops (and it will), it will become a strainer during the next high-water event. It will trap floating debris until it finally dams the river, with the potential to remove both West Pittston and Exeter from the map.

Anyway, the way I see it, the sale of that obviously dilapidated bridge was yet another egregious mistake made by our elected and appointed “leaders.”

Sez me.

Later

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

I'm no Rising

As far as I’m concerned, this is very bad news…

NBC Sports Radio to replace The Mountain at 102.3 FM

Since I dumped local talk radio between 3 pm and 7 pm a while back, I’ve become addicted to The Mountain. Loved the hour of Beatles every Sunday. I enjoy the wildly erratic, always meandering Cathy Donnelly.

Fact is, I cannot bare a return to Rock 107, since those folks steadfastly insist on playing Radar Love freaking day-in and freaking day-out. A little known fact about myself is I freaking hate Radar Love, that pedestrian, near mindless drivel!!!!!!!

Sorry about that.

I certainly can’t go back to that metal channel. I mean, I can listen to metal, but not all day long. Besides, darn near anyone can jack into a distortion pedal, crash, bash and rumble the foundation loose. You’d swear I’ve done it, right?

The big honcho at Entercom says he can’t “monetize” The Mountain. Really? So how is there a jump in profitability in going head-to-head with the other local sports stations?

Oops. Forgot. Eliminate jobs, it’s the Amerikan way. And corporate Amerika can’t figure out why the country to going to hell in front of their very eyes? No jobs. No benefits. No options but to suck on the Govmint teat. Whatever.

I wonder if this is the same honcho who accepted our $35,000 advertising check, and then called one of our competitors when the swarmers got to swarming? That was a nice, class move.

Yep, the same outfit that has The Joe Thomas, one of this area’s most entertaining talk jocks working over a board instead of where he should be working…over a microphone. The same one that put the kibosh to Joe's wildly entertaining sports talk show?

Ah, what do I know about radio?

Although, I was nominated to do talk radio back in 2001 or so when Entercom made Fred Williams take a walk. True story. I was nominated---by name---by a few callers. As a result, I was even invited to do a demo or some such thing. Sadly, I had to decline.

You see, Entercom has this Christmas soiree when they gather together all of their on-air personalities for a night of, well, for a night of drinking. And the way I pictured it, if I got a few too many in me at the big drinking soiree, there was a certain WARM refugee I would have surely invited out to the parking lot for a quick (very quick) round of fisticuffs. Why keep with the smack-talking on the radio when we could do it person?

And being one of those left-leaning beta males, he would have run away, complained to management and had me fired. Anyway, it wasn’t meant to be.

Besides, I’m no Rising.

Later

Monday, July 22, 2013

Alice in W-B & the W-B slideshow

I am sooooo there.

Alice Cooper coming to Kirby Center

I first saw AC in 1973 during a visit to the old homestead in Connecticut. The Hartford Civic Center, or some such clever name. Next up was in 1988 at the Kingston Armory with Wifey in tow (her first ever concert). Then came 2007 at the aforementioned Kirby Center. And now…2013.

Halo of Flies, man!

Somebody contacted me yesterday about this video thingy I put together some years ago. Actually, I haven’t looked at it for a few years, but I did so earlier today.

Basically, the guy wanted to know where I had gotten the pictures from. And when I responded and told him that I had taken the vast, vast majority of those pictures, he shot back in astonishment via electronic pulse within a minute.

Fact is, I personally captured 99.9% of the images contained herewith. And even more remarkably, I shot just about every one while I was out and about on my trusty Hummer bicycle.

During that timeframe, I averaged 4,000 miles pedaled a year. These days it’s closer to 1,000 per year.
Anyway, 2004-2006 was a very good period for Wilkes-Barre. Sadly, two years later the economy blew apart and Americans who vote elected a fast-talking nincompoop of a president who enacted a policy of agenda-driven stagflation ever since. And I completely loathe his very (smug) existence at this point.

Anyway, the sheer volume of work, energy and tenacity duly noted, I did this...



Crazy, wasn't I?

Or, crazy, ain't I?

Later

Sunday, July 21, 2013

From my pay stub all the way to Timfu>ktu

Oh, goodie.

Now economic “fairness” not only extends directly from my pay stub to illegal aliens, the fast-growing “disability” demographic, the beer pong-playing unemployed, the ruinous “Obama phone” thieves and the generations-long “entitlement” underclass commonly known as welfare recipients…now my hard-earned overtime goes to feed some nameless, faceless scammers overseas.

NY food stamp recipients are shipping welfare-funded groceries to relatives in Jamaica, Dominican Republic and Haiti

Yet, the asinine, dictatorial Mayor of NYC has the unmitigated audacity to try to tell us what we should and should not eat, what we should and should not drink, and what amounts would be allowable by law if he and his fellow Democrats were to employ enough naked tyrannies thereby, once and for all, suspending the Constitution of the United States.

Uh, you know, suspending your freedoms.

It’s high time that we sequester the numerous, obvious and out-of-control entreaties that we were never a party to.

Or, as they used to say when freedom, self-reliance and independence was the order of the day, we demand our remonstrance!

Later

Staycation II or: Barry's coming Sh*t Storm

Now that the Great Heat Storm of 2013 is histoire, we can no longer blame our bad behavior on "heat rage."

On a political note, I'm stunned to learn that the Senate passed Resolution 65, whereby the U.S. claims to be all in for a third world war if and when Israel decides it needs to bomb, bomb, bomb; bomb, bomb Iran.

Yeah, a conflagration of historical proportions sounds like a great idea while the powder keg that is the Middle East further devolves into chaos, and the U.S. economy teeters on the tippy top of a ramshackle house of cards. Nice! Smart. How's that pillar of our foreign policy---Arab Spring---looking now?

The Russians have evacuated their millitary forces from Tartus, Syria, while keeping a naval task force on alert and very closeby. Those very same Russians are shipping some of their most advanced surface-to-air missiles to Syria in anticipation of a possible Israeli, American or NATO air bombardment. American's have recently been deployed to Turkey, Syria, Israel, Jordan and the Suez. Two U.S. amphibious assualt ships remain off the coast of Egypt, with 2,600 Marines on alert. Iran's Republican Guard have been forward-deployed to Syria, as have Hezbollah and Hamas forces. Israel has called up it's reserves, this after having launched at least two air sorties into Syria. And they have deployed their Iron Dome missile interceptors to cities far and wide.

And while the Stratego pieces are all being put in place at a quickening pace, our incompetant leader tells us he could have been shot to death because of the color of his skin 35 years ago, even though he was at that time a slacker, an admitted pothead attending an exclusive school.

Meanwhile, the Democrats want us to believe that the invading, illegal hordes need to be legalized, same-sex marriages need to be the 'norm and abortions need to skyrocket so as to save Amerika herself.

Trust me, I would not want a "D" before my name when those next mid-term elections come about. Well, then again, that's assuming that the DOJ, DOD, NEST, IRS, NSA, FBI, CIA, DEA, EPA and the DCNR are not all actively working to suppress the Republican turnout.

With that having been typed, they probably are.

Basically, we are but one ill-advised high-velocity round short of a major military entanglement and the economic downturn that would surely follow. So much for Oblahblah's "red line" having been drawn in the blood-soaked Syrian sands. So much for the so-called economic "recovery." So much for Democrats making nice with the world.

But on a lighter note, I'm still enjoying some much-deserved time off from work.







"When the world is running down, you make the best of what's still around."

Later


Friday, July 19, 2013

Staycation

I haven't taken a week off since September of 2012, so I'm loving not having to work throughout the entirety of the Great Heat Storm of 2013.

Trust me on this, working this past Monday through Wednesday was enough, thank you very much.







Later



Thursday, July 18, 2013

Even organized labor?

Unions to Dems: "We have a problem; you need to fix it."

Affordable Care Act "creating nightmare scenarios"

Interesting. So, now the unions are racists, too?

Later

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Affirmation, anyone?

Thanks to this Zimmerman trial down there in alligator country, there’s been a lot of electronic noise made about rioting, looting, retaliation and such.

Face it, that unfortunate incident was a series of compounding errors in judgment, not racism on parade: The crime watch runt stupidly profiled the black kid. The crime watch runt ignored some sound advice offered up by the 911 employee. The candy-toting black kid, realizing he was being stalked by some persistent runt, instantly decided that violence was his best available option. And since runts tend to carry & conceal, the runt’s lack of physical prowess caused him to reach for his gun.

The end result? A needless death followed by yet more racial animosity and divide. And this entire racial scrum is like a repeating loop that seems likely to never stop. None of it makes sense anymore.

First of all, not a single white resident of Wilkes-Barre ever owned a slave. And not a single black resident of Wilkes-Barre can ever claim to have been a slave.

Still though, whether they wish to admit to it or not, blacks look upon whites with a jaundiced eye. And being a card-carrying white, I can tell you that many whites resent being accused of a crime against humanity that they had no part in. Personally, I resent that hateful glance that often comes way my way from plenty of “minorities,” being that I have never done anything to them or any of their forbearers.

The black folk claim that the police regularly engage in racial profiling. Yet, after the people who feel wronged call 911, my police scanner rings out with “black male” all day long. So which is it already? Are the cops profiling? Or are black males committing a disproportionate number of crimes?

Whites are generally distrustful of blacks. Blacks point to that as proof of racism. So goes the destructive, unending loop.

Many in Wilkes-Barre would have you believe that the city’s recent trends are the fault of one man. In response, I would tell you that Wilkes-Barre’s purported death by demography began immediately following the Agnes flood in 1972, when many of it’s better heeled residents abandoned the flood zone. And in their place came the absentee landlords, the dearth of Section 8 properties, the complete relocation of the indigenous population of the downtown and the city-wide reverse-gentrification that would quickly follow.

In addition, we now live in a country where gainful employment has gone by the wayside, meaning far too many people have too much time on their hands. Couple that with the fact that the clueless leftists in this country have convinced too many of us that we are victims who should be offended and outraged at every turn, and you’ve got a recipe for violence and strife that manifests itself day-in and day-out.

Basically, we’ve got a bored, drunk, and drug-addled populace ready to go all ‘self-esteem’ on the first fother-mucker who wants some.

Still, far too many of the born-and-raised folks seem to think that Wilkes-Barre would be just fine and dandy all over again if the “outsiders” were made to return to their original points of call. Outsiders? That’s not-so-veiled code demanding that embattled Mayor Tom Leighton do something about those folks with the less desirable pigmentations. You know, flat-out racism.

Thing is, local or otherwise, the gangs, the gang-bangers and the people producing and/or peddling drugs are here for a reason. And that reason is that societal decay has finally transformed Wilkes-Barre and it’s immediate environs into a booming drug bazaar, a microcosm among thousands of microcosms of the United States of Amerika.

Face it, they shoot at each other for fear of declining profits. It’s just business, since there are no more cradle-to-grave steel mill jobs providing decent wages and health care benefits.

And as the old adage would have it: The brown kids grow it, the black kids sell it and the white kids buy it. The point being, the brown folks, the black folks and the white folks are all equal and willing participants in the systematic destruction of our society.

We all profile. We all feel safer with our own. We’re all distrustful of the opposite camps. Those facts are undeniable. And, sad as it may be, we’re all going to be on the receiving end of even more racial animosity and divide until our so-called “leaders” dispense with the race-baiting in the name of political expediency. Because, to politicize a thing is to make it a much worse thing.

And while we remain deeply embittered and opposite camps, the people that purposely made us that way continue to make off with the treasury.

Them’s all I got.

Later

Friday, July 12, 2013

Parts-per-million

Not much time for this of late. Er, working late.

Not only am I an award-winning termite specialist, I am now also categorized as a trainee.

And in my spinning mind, continuing your education is a win-win no matter your age, your level of expertise, or the number of plaques you may have on display.

A couple of pics and I'm off to my CD-ROM game.







Later

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Truck, train, or pipeline?

I really hate to rain on President Barry's parade of imbecility, but that Keystone pipeline doesn't sound like such a bad idea after seeing this.

It runs at 10:46, starts a bit slow but is compelling video.



People, every single day you are practically surrounded by trains and trucks carrying corrosives, flammables; solid, liquid and gaseous poisons, explosives, radioactive materials, nuclear wastes, etc., etc., etc.

Yet, know-it-all Barry thinks a pipeline running through the various and sundry countrysides puts our lives or environments at risk.

If there is something he is truly good at, I'm certain he has yet to find it.

Later



Frick Frackin'

Follow me here.

The Top 5 Lies about Fracking

The very first paragraph…

Gasland Part II, the sequel to director/activist Josh Fox's earlier anti-fracking docudrama Gasland, will run on HBO next Monday. It appears to have rounded up the usual corporate villains and appealing victims of profit-hungry capitalist skullduggery, rather than telling the more substantial story: that fracking combined with horizontal drilling has unleashed a bonanza of cheap natural gas.

Wow. Cheap gas. No foolin’?

Why Anti-Fracking Environmentalists Are Holding Back the U.S.

The real story on fracking, say scientists, is that the risks are small and the rewards immense. Fracking lowered the price of natural gas so much that Americans heat our homes for less, and manufacturing that once left America has returned.
Wow. Lower natural gas prices. Cheaper to heat our homes.

But, hold on a second. Here in Northeast Pennsylfrackia, our natural gas rates are set to increase and soon.

So, what’s up with that?

Will the Natural Gas Boom Lead to Increased Exports?

The boom in natural gas continues to bring up questions about what to do with excess. Companies acting in their best interest want to sell it to countries outside U.S. free trade zones that are eager to buy. However, it has been a slow-developing process to get permission to trade with these countries, and companies are getting frustrated.

And there you have it. They want to export the natural gas.

So, thanks to our current Governor, the state’s coffers are not being filled by the fracking boom. Local natural gas customers are not benefiting. And so far, I’ve seen one natural gas filling station. And that was built and is owned by a local private sector company running plenty of large commercial vehicles.

So, if frickin’ frackin’ is so freakin’ wonderful, where’s the benefit?

You sure got me by the ball bearings.

Later

Monday, July 8, 2013

Freak show

My grandson Zach snapped the following picture.

After I find my handgun and some extra ammo clips, I'm off to Foxboro for my walk-on tryout with the New England Patriots.



When Wifey spied that pic, she said, "You look like a jackass," what, with those tattoo sleeve thingamabobs on my arms.

And to that, I said, "Exactly! You nailed it!" Very perceptive. Currently, something approaching half of the Amerikan population spends my hard-earned, redistributed income so they can look like jackasses. You know, like 60s-era circus freak show tent oddities.

You know, if what folks really want to do is express themselves, they ought to dispense with the ink, the pins and needles and the Hula Hoop-laden ears and try revisiting a long-lost relic formerly known as the English language.

Sez me.

Later 

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Affordable Care Act: Oblahblah's can of economic whoop-ass

I’ve been following the political back-and-forth whereas OblahblahCare is concerned, the so-called Affordable Care Act.

Affordable? As if!

For some spirited local banter, check the latest posts and especially the reader’s comments on The Yonkster’s blog.

Sorry, kiddies. But this boondoggle in the making promises nothing but more bureaucracy, more red tape and increased costs. If you refuse to believe as much, I’ve got a government surplus toilet seat all picked out for you…and for as little as a week’s pay.

The way I see it, the blinded supporters of Mr. Barry Incompetence have yet to admit that he is in over his swollen head, and they still mistakenly believe he is the best thing since sliced pumpernickel. Meanwhile, they reflexively dismiss legitimate criticisms of the Prez as the ranting of racists and bigots and homophobes and (insert further idiocy here).

Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but no one---left or right---has ever accused the Fedrule Govmint of being efficient, economical or proactive. But, now, all of a sudden, the Govmint will do no wrong?

Take another gulp of bath salts and climb something owned by PP&L!

My employer wants me to be an emergency backup to one of our technicians who regularly accesses a local Govmint facility. Mind you, there are no nukes, chemical weapons or top secret drones on this site. Just a lot of paper and those who push them around.

I have been trying to pass an F.B.I. background check since January. They have been provided every proctologic detail they have demanded, they have my life’s history and my fingerprints that I had to pay thirty dollars to have taken, they have added burning hoop after burning hoop after napalmed hoop…and still, no access for Markie.

Moreover, I have a commercial driver’s license with an air brakes endorsement. Due to the fact that I’m about to be licensed to apply poison gases, I needed to add a hazardous materials endorsement so as to be legally qualified to transport said gasses.

First, I passed the exhaustive physical to obtain my medical examiner certificate. Then came the check for $23.50 to PENNDot for the Hazmat test. Aced it. Crushed it, in fact.

Then came the charge of $68.50 to obtain my birth certificate from the State of New York so that the Department of Homeland Security can make with yet another proctologic exam. Yes, $68.50 for a freaking scrap of paper!

And if that's not enough Fedrule dung for you, I still have to write a check for $60 to the DHS for the redundant background check. Yup. They don't ram Amerikans in the poop shoot for free, you know. I have to pay them to check on me, while our borders are so porous, the entire Taliban could relocate to Arizona without being noticed.

And get this, I have to write yet another check to the PA State Police for yet another set of fingerprints. Why? Because, according to the PENNDot employee, the DHS folks cannot cross reference the fingerprints I already provided to the FBI.

How the fu>k is that possible?

What, those two agencies do not talk to each other? Apparently not. And with that disturbing revelation, it’s no wonder we’ve got Chechnyan rebels on welfare out bombing marathons!

And then there’s little old me. Basically born ‘n’ raised in one small town. Attended the same high school for six long years. Never been arrested. One speeding ticket. One run-in with Ed Soltis. No child porn. Hates Jihad goofs. Me, I’m the check-writing machine who needs to be thoroughly investigated and then thoroughly investigated all over again!

Sorry, Oblahblah apologists, but if you honestly believe that the Fedrule Govmint is going to abscond with the entire health care industry and make it more affordable or more easily accessed, you completely deserve the destructive can of economic whoop-ass that you are beckoning your way. Get ready to suck on it!

Yes, well-meaning (?) apologists, the current “leadership” of the ‘Naked Communists’ in the Democrat Party are to competence what Charles Manson is to sainthood.

Back alley abortions?

Get ready for back alley sutures!

Quicker and cheaper.

There! I said it. Obviously, I'm a racist.

Right?

Later

Friday, July 5, 2013

Mark Marc Matthew Joseph Ugak Dumond-Cour: Put that on my headstone!

Today I received my birth certificate from the office of the New York State Vital Records department.

Silly as it may sound, I’m fifty-three years old and this delivery had me all excited and filled with anticipation.

Listed under “Full Name of Child” was Mark Cour. And I sat here staring down at it while thinking, “That’s it? No middle name?”

From the lips of my Bible-thumping mother came this story about how she wanted to give birth to two boys. And, if and when it all came to pass, those two boys would be named “Mark Matthew” and “Luke John.”
As far as I always knew, my name was Mark Mathew.

And due to the fact that my first step-father was a total prick all of the time, my brother’s decades-in-the-making predetermined name quickly went by the wayside while my mother was still recovering from a caesarian section birth.

Mark, Matthew, Ray & Leo. Not quite what my dear mother had in mind.

When I was old enough to register for kindergarten at Ferry School in Derby, CT, it was decided that my name would be Mark Dumond. And not being old enough to be trusted with a bottle of Flintstone’s vitamins, I don’t remember that being an issue for me.

But after years of physical and mental and still more physical abuse at the hands of the step-dad, I spurned his effort to legally adopt me. And in retrospect, I honestly believe that finger-in-the-eye spurning of mine signaled the end of their on-again, off-again marriage that then rapidly descended into chaos, violence, arrest, divorce and finally…rejoice-fully...relocation.

Feeling my feeble oats for the very first time, I cast off that Dumond surname. Overnight, I became Marc, not Mark…I was reborn as Marc Matthew Cour. I was done with all that I supposedly was. Take that!

Crazy as it might sound, when my mother begrudgingly answered some of the litany of questions I had about the kidnapping debacle (excellent recall to this day), she told me my father wanted to name me Ugak. Yes, that’s Ugak. That is not a typo. Ugak.

And then many years passed. A couple of decades, in fact. And then my daughter Peace launched into the wonderful world of genealogy, with one eye on the history of the surnames, and the other wide-open eye on the whereabouts of my father after I had long since abandoned the “Marc” thing. Sorry, but anger does funny things to some people.

Her early Internet successes got me all involved and worked up and when I discovered the lush riches that the Google News Archives contained, my name changed once again. Or did it?

In news report after news report from the kidnapping period, the newspapers reported my name as being Mark Joseph. Shock as it was, it made perfect sense to me since both my father and grandfather sported Joseph as a middle name.

So, even though we were dredging up oodles and oodles of answers after decades had passed with no answers, now it wasn’t Mark Matthew? Now it was Mark Joseph?

Anyway, clearly you can see why I was so excited about finally getting my grubby hands on my own birth certificate. In short, I wanted to know what my full, legal name is. And with the arrival of said document, as fate (that prick) would have it, my real name is just another one of the too-many-to-count unanswerable questions that suggest that my parents really made a complete mess of marital things.

So, is it any wonder that two of my three children have no middle names, and the third has a middle name only because the Catholic Church outright refused to baptize a child named Peace?

According to the do-as-we-say, centuries-in-the-muck Church, her middle name is Peace. According to me---her father---her middle name is Rebecca. Somehow, oddly enough, much to my dismay, the weirdness continued.

And still does.

So, obviously, in lieu of a full legal name, Markie will work just fine.

But know this: Being a welfare queen, a drug addict, a hopeless alcoholic, a deadbeat dad, an abusive step-assh*le, a nihilist, a self-centered jerk or one just unconcerned about finishing what one started can leave children yearning for illusive answers for decades on end. And in this bizarro-world case, for an entire lifetime.

For lack of a better plan, wear a condom.

What’s my name?

Markie in Parsons

Later

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Commodities: Can't live without 'em

Not only am I a certified, bonded and licensed expert on the behavior and biology of wood-destroying insects, I am very close to being certified by the State of PA for the fumigation of structures as well as commodities.

Fact is, both you, yours and your pets have likely consumed foodstuffs that were fumigated during storage, and during or after transport. You see, when rodents or grain-destroying insects infest said commodities, they are not necessarily destroyed. Most often, they are fumigated, later processed and still later consumed.

So, when a trailer is delivered by truck and the cargo is infested, the load is fumigated before being unloaded. When shipping containers are known to have stowaways, a fumigant is called for before shipping. And in the case of railway boxcars, the same is true. Fumigation is not cheap, but it's more economically feasible than the wholesale destruction of commodities under attack.

To put it another way, Markie is soon going to be dealing in poison gases. And trust me, it's far more interesting and challenging than you might want to imagine.







So, call me what you will, but I'll soon be working to ensure the delivery of the many, many commodities you desire and/or require.

Later