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Member since: 2002
Number of posts: 15,124

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I suspect that some of the"conservative" commentators now criticizing the exchange of

arms merchant Bout for a "black WNBA player" when speaking publicly are raging about "choosing to rescue an "overpaid queer n----- and abandoning a marine" when "among friends".

Isn't it strange that the same people who urge us to "look forward, not backward" when

it comes to the January 6th insurrection have no problem relitigating Trump's 2020 loss and "investigating" Hunter Biden's several years old laptop?

I do not know how long this post will last. It is intended not to advocate violence, but to

analogize it to intolerance.

It is often pointed out and easily understood that if we insist on tolerance with "no exceptions", we---the tolerant--- will be destroyed.

The question I would pose is: Are there not times and circumstances that justify the use of violence in response to violence or the imminent threat of violence?

To those who easily answer that "self defense" is the only exception, I think I agree. BUT, must we wait for those who admit their intent to destroy us to "actually" open fire before our use of violence against them qualifies as "self defense"?

I believe there are a variety of reasonable answers to those questions and I don't think there are any that are helpful in all situations.

I hope some agree, but welcome all comments.

In view of the MAGA criticism of the release of Ms Griner, an allegory:

Sissy and Bubba, walked into a pizza restaurant, took a seat at a booth and were soon asked by a waitress what they'd like.

Bubba said "I'll have a Caesar salad, a 16 ounce Porterhouse and a baked potato with butter and sour cream. The lady would like a salad of artichoke heart and asparagus tips, a cedar planked salmon filet and risotto with wild rice".

Stunned, the waitress looked a round and quietly responded "Sir, this is a pizza place."

"Uh-huh", Bubba agreed.

"Well, all those thing you ordered sound really nice, but none are on the menu", the waitress explained. "Can I bring you something that IS on the menu?"

"Nah, we'd like what I ordered", Bubba persisted.

"I can't bring you that. It's not one of the choices!" the now irritated waitress stated somewhat loudly, glancing toward her boss at the register for support.

"You could give us what we ordered if you were any kind of waitress!" Sissy spat out while pointing a glitter-encrusted claw at the woman.

At this point, the rather large owner/manager stepped in front of his poor employee, sighed and said "That's enough---leave---NOW!"

The couple headed for the door after Bubba loudly told the entire room "This place STINKS! Lots of people---good Americans---say the food will make you sick!"

As the manager closed the door behind them as they left, the folks enjoying slices of his excellent pies gave him a round of applause. He smiled and responded "Ya gotta do what ya gotta do!"

Some days dawn grey and cold and match the December in one's soul

And it is a chore to count blessings that lie nearly hidden by despair
There is often nothing that can be done in the now except
And hope to greet tomorrow's sun

Regular gasoline is $2.99/gallon at the corner station. nt

A brief message for "Christian" Nationalists:

Stop blaming your Supreme Being for the fact that you are cowardly mean-spirited assholes!

Carry on.

I believe that we all house our personal Muse somewhere deep within us.

In our souls, in our hearts or in the marrow of our bones----it matters not.

That divine ethereal spark streaks out of somewhere---nowhere, round the corner or a distant nebula--- and says "Damn! This is vital, elemental, true!"

And those who by predilection or happenstance refuse to be embarrassed by the flush of beauty and "rightness" sometimes speak it or scribble it down to prove to themselves that, for a moment, they were a witness to divinity. If they share the experience with others, we dub them "poets" and judge them to be "sensitive" souls somehow apart from those whose muse lies buried and silent.

The best poems are stained with the blood of a poet who dared to seek out and confront their Muse rather than relate occasional fleeting glimpses of the thing.

MAGA in Siberia?

Not saying this is true, but the way I heard it told was:

Not so long ago, in an impoverished village in frigid Siberia, every family was given a goat. All of the hungry households feasted on goat meat for several days--- except for Yevgeni's. Yevgeni milked his goat and in a week or so, had enough milk to make cheese. His family had cheese and fresh goat's milk for their dinner.

They eventually became so proficient at cheesemaking that they had more than they needed and they were able to barter it for a few turnips and beets and the occasional small hare. To those who were starving and had nothing to barter, they gave enough cheese and milk to let them survive the winter and were loved by the grateful people for their generosity.

Yevgeni's wife daily brushed their goat and saved every hair from the brush. She spun a fine wool yarn of the goat's hair and knitted mittens and caps and scarves for everyone in her family.

The goat's manure was stockpiled and turned under in their garden plot as soon as spring warmed the ground. Their cabbages that year were the largest the village had ever seen.

Throughout the year, Yevgeni's prosperity was jealously watched by his neighbor, Vladimir. "I work hard! Why is my life so miserable while that lucky Yevgeni does so well and has so much? Why is he so loved and respected while I go unnoticed?" he muttered one spring morning as he began to dig in his own backyard to try his hand at gardening.

He soon uncovered a strange bottle.

After examining his find, he uncorked it and jumped back in terror as a smoke poured out, rose and formed into a vague countenance which turned to Vlad and intoned: "For freeing me from that bottle after all these centuries, I will grant you any wish you request!"

The stunned Vladimir incredulously asked: "ANYTHING?"

"As I said, " the spectre assured him, "anything you wish."

After considering the wonderful life that Yevgeni's goat had provided him---the rich milk, delicious cheese, warm wool clothing and a bountiful garden, Vladimir knew what his wish must be.

"I wish," he said with a strange smile on his face, "that Yevgeni's goat should DIE!"

We don't use self-checkouts. Period. Ever. When standing in a long line at an

employee-operated register and a smiling "Asst. Manager" tells us "There are plenty of self-checkout stations open!", we reply that we never use them, never will and they should hire more people and pay them more.

The employee at the register often has trouble concealing his or her smile and they are VERY nice to us as they total and bag our purchases.

ADDENDUM: I did mention "unionize" once and I thought we were gonna need a "Cleanup at register three!"
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