Get My Gun, Annie Mac

The past few days have been a daze.  I was dog sitting at a friend's house ( a future Olympic swimmer if you ask me), and the ever present and almost as annoying insomnia monster came a calling. He finds me no matter where I am.  Since I was staying at their house, so that Kenai and Isabul would feel more comfortable, I could not blog.  Maybe it's a good thing.  I fell asleep at 0300, and at 0600 was awakened by the local Denver station.  I usually watch Fox & Friends, but what I saw on Denver's NBC affiliate took my breath away.  Massacre at Batman Premier in Aurora, CO - 12 dead, dozens injured,  Wait a cotton pickin' minute - now I know that with the pain killers and the insomnia meds I have on board due to a couple of herniated discs, maybe, just maybe, the warning labels meant to say, "Danger, Bizarre dreams and unexplained disasters are possible".  But this was no joke, and I sat up in bed, wondering how in the hell did this occur? 

Shit, I still recall Columbine.  The lack on control you find in your spirit the what ifs, how comes, whys and of  course, the OH my God;  they all come racing in.  A school?  A school full of kids!  You are helpless to day anything at all.  If you have an ounce of compassion, these are the emotions that race through our minds.

I rolled out of bed, which lately is the easiest way to get out of bed due to my back.  Took the dog downstairs for his morning ritual, fed the cat, and then got a fresh ice pack.  At this point I wasn't going to be missing much as every channel had the same thing on.  Well, of course there was the moronic reporter who attempted to link the Tea Party to all of this mess.  Really, what fool of a journalist seizes a moment of terror, and turns it into a mocking, finger pointing debacle? PINHEAD AWARD TODAY.

In my mind, I surmised the next finger that was going to start getting pointed would be those who are against gun control and the Second Amendment.  Shortly after 0800 MST, the first utterances of gun control started to come forth.  I seemed more confused as to what kind of parent brings a 6 year old little girl to a midnight showing of BATMAN.  For drying out loud. you should have called me; I would have babysat for free.  Do not take me for a person who does not care, but really, 6 year olds belong at home, in bed, dreaming about ice cream cones, fairy princesses and bike riding all summer long.  Then came the further irritation of the mother who takes the prize of toting along her 3 month old.  Unfortunately, the is no cure for stupidity and dumb.  There, I said it.

So, back to the Second Amendment and gun  control.  Some lament that if any of the poor souls in the front rows had legally concealed weapons, perhaps they could have taken this orange haired crazy fool down.  Easy to say, hard to do.  I'm a fairly good shot, but to be blinded by a tear gas canister, in blackness, and chaos, the last thing we'd want to see is unprofessional gun ownership, taking shots at anything moving.  And before any one disputes me, GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE, PEOPLE KILL PEOPLE.

So, here we are, back on the Right to Bear Arms and the Second Amendment.  This country has been around for some 237 years, and up until the POTUS started thinking he could, should and most undoubtedly will re-write some of our constitutional  rights and "guidelines", there has never been a fear that resonates through my law abiding body more than the thought of someone attempting to legally remove me from my guns.  This house has some plurality to it, and neither my husband nor I are irrational human beings.  My husband, a former military soldier and retired police officer is an excellent shot.  I feel safe around him.  I've got a rather mean right hook, and some nice red hot pepper spray that will put you down fast.  We feel safe.

What scares the living hell out of me is that when horrific, and unexplainable tragedies occur here in our country, the first thing nut bag politicians want to do is start a gun ban.  They compare us to foreign shores who have gun control.  Sure, other countries may have control, but they also lack precious civil rights,  And after this madman exterminated 12 innocent people he then told them how he had booby trapped his apartment.  So, what do you do when facing a madman who is dead set on killing?  Anyone who experiences violence and reality on the streets, knows that guns are easy to but for a price.  No waiting periods, nothing.  You simply put the word out that you want a "piece".  And I am not joking.

People can use England as an example when it comes to guns.  Bobbies don't carry weapons.  But, look back into Britis history and read about how many people have been killed.  Go to Ireland and ask how many of our poor Irish relatives have lost their lives due to other killing devices, including bombs.

Meanwhile, Mr. Responsible is at a gun store, looking and learning about guns and how they operate, what is best for home protection, what he can and should be able to handle.  People take CCW classes for the purpose of carrying a weapon, legally.

The Second Amendment was written for a reason.  To protect us from our government, which lately is dangerously close to stripping our rights from us.  Shame on each and every person who thought hope and change were going to save us all.  But, that's another blog.

What I want, and thus far are still legally to do is put a hole in the face of a bad man illegally entering my home with the intent to inflict harm against me or my family.  I will not hesitate to put a hole in them.  I'm a God fearing Catholic who thinks nothing of pulling the trigger on a criminal who enters my home illegally, or whom I might meet on a street, hell bent on rape.

I don't tread lightly.  And I'm not dead either.

GOD BLESS ALL THOSE FROM AURORA WHO FELL WHERE THEY STOOD, THE HEROES WHO TRIED TO SHIELD THEIR LOVED ONES, AND TO THOSE RECOVERING OF THEIR WOUNDS.  GOD IS WITH YOU!

B. Hussein Obama's Mailing List

So, friends with Irish lineage - what the hell to do with them?  You gotta love 'em, well, mostly because they're of the fine line of Craic, which you can really only possess if you have Irish genes.  The Craic that is - not the friend.  Although truth be told, being Irish does give some of us a head start.

So, this fine Irish friend, who thought she was being funny (more like HILARIOUS), got her little fingers planted on her Internet keyboard and signed my name to B. Hussein Obama's mailing list.  Oh the joy and frivolities she must have been having, as she was typing in my email address, giggling and thinking, "Oh, I'm getting Annie Mac good this time".  It's insulting enough, and actually illegal, that some angry liberal (believe me folks, they ain't all loving, peace filled hippies)scratched the "R" off my ROMNEY bumper sticker on my car.  A crime by the way - and when I find YOU - well watch out, I'm Irish and I am just going to mention the BOONDOCK SAINTS once.

Back to the mailing list.  This cracker of the Craic entered my name to the list.  I suppose she thought she was being clever.  Well, here's where the story goes awry.  Apparently, there are only wooden headed dummies working at B. Hussein Obama's re-election headquarters.  For months I have tried, in vain, to get my name off their lists.  First, I did the rational thing, which was to push the "unsubscribe" button.  This did nothing.  Wow, just like the POTUS' presidency thus far.  Nothing.  See, even his website propaganda is filled with lies.  Then I actually emailed the website master and politely asked (I know some of you find that one difficult to imagine)  to be removed from their mailing lists.  No go.  The emails keep coming.

They've been so much fun to read.  At least a hundred.  Do you know what it's like to push the "delete" button 100+times, and get no results?   Again, it's just like Barry's presidency.  NO RESULTS. I have felt a surge of female power, because Michelle Obama also sends me emails inviting me to events that will not cost too much; a couple thousand.  Since I am one of the many UNEMPLOYED Americans unable to find a job right now, a couple thousand should be no problem at all.  I can just pull it out of my ass, the $100k, I mean. In times of a recession, just where do these clueless pinheads think the money is going to come from?  And quite frankly, eating a bowl of white rice and beans, which costs about .99, while watching Bill O'Reilly is more appealing than having to listen to windbag Barry O' at a dinner where the meal was prepared by one of those lucky "Dream Act" recipients.

Now, again, being Irish, we have luck.  I find pennies on the ground from time to time.  Pennies from heaven.  Thank you God.  You do hear my prayers.  I'm not complaining, mind you, but a $50 might help a little bit more.  But, if a penny is all you can give in this recession; rain, rain, rain!  But, that Irish luck thus far has been unable to get me off this stupid mailing list.

Why, just the other day, I saw that I had over looked an email from Sarah Jessica Parker.  I thought she was busy with SEX IN THE CITY and making Patenene commercials.  But no, Sarah (since she has my email address, we're on a first name basis) was inviting me to her house for a dinner date with Barry.  Oh, the joy and elation of getting that invitation.  Next thing you know, I might even get invited to her next colonoscopy or rectal bleaching.  SO, I ask myself, "Annie Mac, should you have gone?  If you had that kind of money would you have gone to your new BFF's house for $100k, and had an overcooked meal with Barry?"

What THE HECK is this country coming to?  Oh Lord please forgive me, as I have said a curse word.  I take an Irish blessing for that one.  Sorry.  But, this mailing list is driving me nuts.

So, two days ago, in the state of mourning, and on some serious painkillers for my back, I wrote to Mrs. Barry O'Bunny and told her that if she got my name off the mailing list, I'd dip my hair in a vat of acid.  Can you believe that?  Now, for those who do not like me - the list is simply too  long to mention, doesn't the mere image of my head in a vat of acid sound like something fun?  Apparently, Mrs. O'Bunny and I must be "friends" now.  That's how her emails are addressed to me..."Dear Friend".

I am not quite sure what my next step is.  I've been unable to locate a phone number on any of these emails. And the "contact us" site has just stirred my loins into getting even more emails.  It also managed to get me the BFF Sarah invite.

This whack job, O'Bummy, who apparently has failed to keep any of his hope and change promises is now haunting me.  It's a morning ritual:  A cup of coffee, Fox & Friends on the tele, and emails from my friend Barry.

Oh wait, I forgot that other morning ritual that involves a flush.  Maybe that will work.  Cheers folks!

The 4 Letter Word HATE . And then the F word!

Recent sadness rocked the small ranching community of Routt County, Colorado.  July 11, 2012 will be celebrated again in the future; after memories shuffle through our minds and we forget the news of that day.  We will forget the weather, what might have been on television.  The All Star Game, the Yankees beating the Angels, the price of hay, or even what we had for dinner.  Memories are like that.  Sometimes such tragedies occur that we simply have to store them in the back of our minds.  Leave them alone, let them evaporate into nothing.

I used to feel like that.  What day did someone close to me pass away?  What event happened on a particular day that might have had some affect on something I was doing?  I can recall the feeling when I wore a baseball glove for the first time.  The smell of fresh leather, and the aroma of the oil to loosen the glove.  I can still remember the first L.A. Dodger game I attended with my family; watching Steve Garvey play first base.  The taste of a famous Dodger Dog. Relish and mustard, of course.  My first new bike that was pink; and how I soared the mean streets of Porter Ranch, CA, and upscale neighborhood where you played outside all day.

Then there are the days you want to forget.  MLK being shot.  Bobby Kennedy, Medgar Evans.  You want to forget about the day your favorite next door neighbor passed away.  My brother Paul has informed me that while my parents were watching the televised funeral of LBJ, I was dancing around exclaiming "We should have a party".  Apparently my Mother was very annoyed with such a suggestions, being the Democratic she was.  How was I to know at such a young age, the LBJ would turn out to be one of the worst and most corrupt presidents in history.  But, back to the real purpose of the blog. You thought, "Death, it will never come this close to me again".  You watch the news, and hear the horrific stories of children murdered by their parents and what they must be feeling; the survivors of those families.  You remember the space shuttle exploding in 1986, and President Reagan's eloquent epitaph that night, on the news.  Our lives are like patchwork quilts, and every little event that happens along the way is just another little square in our life.

I still recall March 1995 when my own personal hero, my beloved Daddy died and the anger and hate I had towards God.  It ate at me all night.  I walked the beach at one point, in the rain, listening to the crashing of the waves, the sound of the pounding surf and screaming in my soul as to why God could take my Daddy from me.  No answer came.  At least not that day; nor in the way I intended it.

So, where do you go when you harbor hate and anger towards someone who takes the life of someone else?  Where does that emotion go?  Do you stuff it deep inside, down deep, in the bowels of your body so that it might go away?  Does it sit in your gut, or at the back of your throat?  Where?  Surely, no one can proclaim an exemption from it.  If they say it - they're only fooling themselves.

2 days after learning about my sweet sister's Christie Appel's death (pseudo sister) I was mad.  Mad as a hatter.  Mad as a crazy jaybird in a jail cell, trapped by bars.  I was mad.  I wanted someone to hurt as much as I felt at that very moment. I wanted someone to feel the pain I felt.  Writing it now, I sound selfish, self absorbed and selfish.

I started to talk to God.  I talked to my departed  Daddy, and yes, I talked to Chris.  These 3 sources of excellent information all told us the same thing throughout their lives. FORGIVENESS.  It's a tough "F" word to swallow.  Where does HATE go, and how does FORGIVENESS come in?  Are they like dueling emotions that play a game with our heart strings, and ping pong back and forth, causing emotions to reach the point of just this side of sanity?

Elie Wiesel, as some of you may know, is one of my favorite writers.  And for some of you (I really hope alot of you know this) Mr. Wiesel is a survivor of the death camps of Hitler.  He lost everything.  His entire family - gone.  Another man I think of often is Brother Peter O.S.B. who survived the torture camps in Communist China for refusing to relinquish his faith in Our Lord. The Abbey where Brother Peter resides, St. Andrew's Abbey, in Valyermo, CA is also the monastery where my father was laid to rest.  To listen to Brother Peter's stories, through his numerous books, and more remarkably, to actually see the PHYSICAL SCARS given to him via his Chinese captors,  you might be left with the question - How do these men forgive?  Isn't it the scriptural saying on how its "divine to forgive"?  And aren't we all just fallible spirits walking around waiting to reach the other side?

I thought about Keith & Mike Appel and their surviving families throughout this last week.  They not only suffered the loss of their mother, but their father as well.  I am not saying nor implying that what Larry did was right.  But I can't judge him.  I'm not God.  I can honestly say I hated him for a good 36 hours.  Not him personally, but what he did.  But then it occurred to me.  That hate, that anger, that resentment...was it affecting Larry?  No.  Who was it hurting?  Me.

If there is a lesson (of the dozens and dozens that dear sweet Chris taught us) , was that life must be filled with forgiveness.  Life is too damn short to carry around bitter feelings, hatred towards someone, when ultimately it eats only us.  Chris left us with a "set of guidelines" through her book, "Christian's Story".  She left us with lessons in her simple acts of grace, daily forgiveness, loving encouragement and undying love for her Lord.

In the end, I'd rather honor the life of the woman who taught me so much through life then to hold on to one more second of anger.  I rejoice because she is now my angel in heaven

*****************************************************************************

I wish that, with the grace of God and with the assistance of our heavenly loving Mother and all the Saints, all of us will continue to do our best to heed, to answer and to follow Christ’s call. His vocation for us is generally the same but individually different. May we do it as well as we can until we arrive at the end of our pilgrimage of faith! Thus, all of us will enter His Kindgom and see His face for ever and ever! This should be our common and joyful ending and hope so well described in the Chinese proverb: Reaching the same goal by different roads!

That is all!

Many thanks to all of you for listening with great patience!

Br. Peter Zhou Bang-Jiu, O.S.B.

Melted Popsicles for my friend Chris Appel

June 9, 2012 I celebrated 3 years of being sober.  One of the friends that got me there was a dear angel, otherwise disguised as Chris Appel, R.N. and author of Christian's Story..  I know she wouldn't mind me using her name today.  How do I know?  Because that's just the kind of woman Chris was.

Let's face it - I piss the shit out of people a lot.  I have harsh, abrasive, and stubborn viewpoints that would drive most sane people in the other direction.  Why Chris, in all the wisdom she had, did not pick up and run is beyond me.  Maybe she saw something that I did not see in myself.

I recall the day I called down to "Lambie's" office (some of you will understand that reference) and asked for a script of Antabuse.  For lushes like me, the nasty drug Antabuse (am I even spelling that right?) is the magic drug that makes alcohol entering your system like having to relive another 4 years of Barack Obama.  The purging begins and never stops.  At any rate, Chris called me about an hour later, asking me why I needed this drug.  "Today I have decided to stop drinking forever, and I might need some help, just in case".  No lectures, no judgments...just a simple acceptance of "You have begun a new day and God is watching over you.  I am proud of you".  She filled the script.  I took only 3, over the course of one week, although I quit cold turkey after years of being a functional alcoholic. So, I never had to live that purge and wretch fest...although the thought of Barack Obama ever being re-elected just might bring me to a heave.

Over the months, Chris reminded me that the demon that is booze is a tough one.  He knows how to sneak his way in to our lives.  Dear sweet Chris reminded me that aside from her loving me, God loved me too and that I could overcome the addiction with prayer, determination and people that believed in me.  Let me tell you - she wasn't kidding.

Not too long ago, Chris and I had a great conversation, late at night, because I was feeling the "urge".  Very calmly, over the phone, I felt this surge of love comes through the telephone lines.  Not condemnation, nor judgment.  She listened to me, heard what was eating at me, and then we prayed at about.  Within minutes, the urge was gone.

When she wrote "Christian's Story" which I have included in previous blogs, I started to really be able to recognize what I had done to my own children, to my husband and my friends.  First and foremost..thank you for all thinking me worthy of the efforts for tolerating me.  Chris' wisdom, along with her son's bravery and grandson's excellent observations have given me the determination not to fail. And I mean NEVER, EVER FAIL.  To do so would dishonor not only those that love me, but ruin the memory of one incredible woman-Chris.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a beach chair, in Ventura, CA...and took a picture of my feet.  Its a very odd habit I have of making sure my feet are remembered in vacations or journeys.  I called Chris and had a few minutes to chat.  I told her of my misery at being unemployed, and wondering about God's plan for me.  She told me about the doors that open to us.  She made suggestions of what might be a spot for me in life.  She encouraged me to keep blogging, never give up the dream of becoming a published author and to believe in myself as much as she did me.  Just what can you say about that?

Today, when my friend (another fool who tolerates me) called me with the news of Chris' passing, I sat in shock.  There next to Central Park Liquor and also with a bag of groceries in the back of the car.  I had to laugh and cry at the same time.  No, the Jameson might have been easy to swig, but the challenge of eating a once frozen, now melted coconut Popsicle seems much more what Chris would have wanted from me.

So, sweetest of sisters, and giver of eternal hope, wisdom and undying love for everyone - I eat a melted Coconut Popsicle in your honor.  Sleep well in our Lord's loving arms.  Thank You!. 

12 gauge shotguns, siblings & suntans

I've been on the road for almost a month now. How has it been?  Well, not bad.  My first stop along the journey of "Annie Mac needs a job" hit parade, was stopping by southern California and spending a few weeks there.  Having been on a few job interviews during my lifetime, the one I had while at Henry Mayo Hospital was quite possibly the most strange.  The ER , and people like myself who get some sort of bizarre high from adrenaline,  seek out emergency drama with gusto.  A severed head, and I am about as happy as a diary cow on a lactose intolerant farm.  However, the job interview was not fruitful, and so I had some free time on my hands.

I wonder if I am one of those jobless people that Barry O says are going to be succeeding soon?

My brother, a retired U.S. Navy vet, took me out shooting while I was in southern CA. We set up targets in the desert, exercised our rights, and we bore some arms. Lots of arms. Some 3 weeks later, and my left shoulder is still reminding me of the power of guns. I held the shotgun cleanly and very snug in the crook of my shoulder, just below the AC joint, and between the humerus head and slightly below the clavicle, not to interfere with the first rib. I fired off several rounds, blowing away my imaginary enemy, the orange water cooler with the small water bottle on top. My shoulder is killing me, still. But, it felt good to get out and spend some quality time with my brother and the guns. Siblings can be monumental pains, but nothing says I love you more, than a brother who teaches his sister how to blow holes in bad men who might wish to harm me. It's an afternoon I am not likely to forget anytime soon.

Sadly, as of this writing, I am still without employment.  I'm now in Arizona.  Apparently California just doesn't need any more conservative Republicans.  Phooey on that...California's trouble is that they don't have ENOUGH conservative Republicans.  I enjoyed the time with my son, had some fantastic meals, visited friends, saw my pseudo nephew graduate from high school,  and even helped out a close friend who was drifting off into la-la land from falling blood sugars.  As of this post, she is now back home after breaking her ankle in 3 places, during her diabetic day dream.  I am happy I found her, or my friend list would be down to 2. 

Jan Brewer, the governor of Arizona, is my kind of gal.  She has, in my opinion, an obvious dislike or distrust of the POTUS.  I'd venture to say that those feelings are warranted, given that the POTUS has been invoking his executive privileges lately.  It's been a hell of a week, with the press conference that Barry O' gave and his intentions to somehow re-write laws, sans that centuries old document, better referred to as the U.S. Constitution, to get around SB 1070.  Why bother even holding elections in the future-Barry O' just waves his magic wand and all laws are subject to change?

Here in Arizona as I type, I see the results of immigration that has gone on far too long, illegally that is.  Chime into the state's evening news and you will hear about illegal aliens who run rampant throughout the southwest, committing crime.  Seems to me, that no President in his right mind (ah ha...Barry has a left brain) would wish to help out illegals with a red carpet invitation to stay awhile. 

A great deal has happened this week.  I started to think that since I had not blogged in 2 weeks, had I lost my groove.  Thankfully, with a 100mg of Tramadol on board for my aching shoulder, my writing juices have started to flow.  Actually, it's more for the abundance of news this week. 

Old Rodney King (the dude was younger than me) met his fate at the bottom of a pool.  Sadness on my part is not quick for him.  I believe he was NOT a man for the century nor a "civil rights leader" as dense capped Rev Al Sharpton wants to believe.  Mr. King was a criminal.  Sorry, but the guy made a mockery of not only the judicial system, but got a couple million laughs from a payout from Los Angeles, and made famous the phrase, "Can't we all just get along"?  Civil rights leaders for me are more the likes of Rosa Parks. 

Then old fashioned mistress,  loose legs Rielle Hunter came out with her smutty tell all book about her dirty business with "Johnny" Edwards.   The extra weight I have acquired from my trip thus far will fall off shortly, after seeing Ms. Hunter's interview on 20/20.  Jeez lady.  Have a little self respect.  The guy is a scallywag, and you are nothing more then his mistress.  I'm going to run right out and get her book, and maybe even Barry O's book...just to show I still have some audacity. (Sounds of the toilet flushing can be added here for effect)

Barry's teasing of the Dream Act and doing away by modifying SB1070 has also sounded across the media waves.  At every step, Barry can be heard running our beloved constitution up and down a cheese grater.   

Lets see, what else?  Oh Sandusky.  As of tonight, the sinister pedophile was found guilty of 45 counts of molestation.  In order to pay back all his victims, Sandusky might be better served doing prison soap commercials....filmed in the showers of course.  Along those lines, Greece is out of the euro,  and this is action is starting to make the other nations quiver with fear of what lays ahead in Europe's troubled economic woes.  Take heed America; reelecting Barry will steer us much quicker and closer to the PIGS (Portugal, Ireland, Greece & Spain).  Socialism does not work. 

I could go on and on tonight, but that Tramadol is starting to lay claim to my brain running without a filter.  When that happens, I find myself apologizing the next morning.  Oh, perhaps that's something Barry might want to try.  I knew there was one more thing on my list of annoyances for the week.  Gay rights groups at the White House, on the invitation of Barry, took pictures of a few of themselves giving the bird to beloved Ronald Reagan.  Hm mm, maybe that shotgun practice was worth a sore arm.

Life from John Edwards' Haircut

I flew over the cuckoo's nest about 1 week ago; leaving the Rocky Mountains in search of employment in warmer climates.  Where did I land?  Santa Clarita Valley - a somewhat less populated valley, north of Los Angeles, and all the city of angels' turmoil that seems to swirl from every sewage grate on the mean streets of the angelic, modern day ghetto.

Day dreams and aspiring thoughts have a way of birthing ambitious moves.  Some are thought out and well planned while others are so spur of the moment that the end result hardly seems like the trouble we go through to strive to the ultimate goal.

Job searching is never a thrill.  At my age, the butterflies in my stomach have long since begun to metamorphosis into a moth, cocoon type slumber, and going to interviews isn't quite a nerve racking as it once was. The uncomfortable shoes, pinched toes, and adapting to walking on heels seems to have become less bearable than they were 20+ ago.  And, what makes job hunting even more of a thrill (like that of the mandatory pap smear and colonoscopy that comes with age) is the snotty youngster who is the sub-human guppy who decides your fate.  Forget that most people I have encountered are nearly 25 years younger than me; and I am old enough to be their mom. 

A friend informed me that pantie hose no longer are a normal aspect of dressing in business attire, and that wearing  half slip is not a crucial part of  becoming a lady.  What the hell do we have Victoria Secret for?  Push up bras and thongs are run off the mill under garments.  Who the hell feels any sense of domesticated comfort with underpants creeping towards an exit only?

In the drive to garner some reversal of years, I chopped my long hair off, and fell into the theory (who the hell came up with this hair fashion faux pas) that women over a certain age should not have long hair?  So, I was relegated to a salon chair, and spent hours being cut, textured, colored and had loads of costly "product" applied to my head.  What has happened to dippity-doo?  Or the semi permanent Aqua Net?  I got a chic hairstyle,, some high lights, low lights and even some red at the nape of my neck to give the impression that I watch E Channel, Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and even know who Justin Beiber is.

With this make over into middle aged rejuvenating rebirth, I then sat in shock with the total for looking younger.  Almost $300 for all of this bullshit, that hardly seems necessary.  The pre-pubescent manager of Employment Agency 101 is going to take one look at me and giggle.  For all I know, I've hiked my dress into my granny panties, and no one wishes to offend this old nanny granny.

So, with the cost of my hair cut, color and re-vamping, I still sit with confusion as to why the dirty scoundrel John Edwards would need to have ever spent $300 on his short, nothing head.  Could it be that while he is being groomed, there was some sort of surgical procedure going on, wherein the stylist was actually some Manchurian Mastermind, injecting Edwards' scalp with long lost brain cells and a wholesome moral compass?  I'd ask for a refund Mr. Edwards.

Last week, the jury system once again failed us.  John Edwards walked out of a court room, with not so much as a slap on the hand; although a whack upside his vacant head would have been far more entertaining to watch.  Reports of brain dead jurors winking, smiling, making giggly-eyes at the lowest form of pond scum are still fresh on talk radio.  What is it with juries nowadays? 

The peace I can draw from this whole thing is that scum film Edwards has a lifetime to contemplate hell.  I suspect GOD and maybe even Joan of Arc, and without a doubt, Elizabeth Edwards herself, have some overhead projector and the strikes against John are being tallied.  Edwards spewed this speech after his court room dating game about how sorry he is, how he loves his children, yada, yada, yada.  Had I not been driving a friend's car, I would have hurled my lunch all over the windshield.  Does this man know nothing of being humble?  Or maybe he is just bumbling boob.

Alas, I am still searching for a job, there are still teenagers interviewing me, and John Edwards is still getting over-charged for his slick willy hair cut.  Maybe he should seal his mouth shut with a good dousing of Aqua Net.

Boxers, Briefs or a Thong?

Recent headlines made mention of yet another thwarted attempt by our envious terrorist group, Al Qeada and the Taliban to sneak a bomb on to a plane, lingerie style.  Seems that the shoe attempts were failures, and that at least, for the time being, our great nation is rising above all the Taliban's lame attempts to bring Lady Liberty to her knees.

After 9/11, this country has buckled down and shouted, in deafening chants, "We will not falter"!!!!!  Bravo to the U.S.A.  Even with an absurd and feeble attempt to build a mosque close to Ground Zero, where 2996 people lost their lives, America has prevailed by keeping our dignity in check.  Of all the zip codes where one might erect a mosque, what good is it to build such a place of worship near a still healing wound?

Not too long ago (early May, 2012) , the POTUS was quoted as saying that  Reconciliation with the Taliban could be possible,  Excuse me, Mr. President?  Surely you must have some lingering and nasty residual side affects from your pot smoking days to think for even one minute that lunatics such as the Taliban have no interest in making nice with the United States.

The latest attempt against the United States was a pantie-filled eplosive load, not to be confused with literal fecal matter of  Al-Qeada, coming out of Yemen. How is it that any rational human being would even entertain the notion that the United States should reach some sort of reconciliation with such radical groups who would like nothing more than to see another 9/11 strike our shores.  Most people celebrating anniversaries do so in a respectful manner; i.e. flowers on the grave of a loved one, or even having a Mass said in the memory of a loved one.  However, such barbarians as innovative terrorists out of the middle east, interpret the most effective and dignified way to mark the death of their leader supreme, Bin Laden,  by shoving a bomb into a pair of men's unmentionables, and attempting to remind the United States that the terrorist groups are still in control.  Wouldn't a delivery of Mr. Ripple's favorite toilet paper, Charmin, and its squeezable soft roll say so much more?

With all the recent headlines, such as Greek Banks failing, the Euro faltering, even the gay marriage CRISIS (good grief), what's our POTUS doing to calm the nation?  He's headed to yet another guest spot on the womens' crack pot show, The View.  What does this make, Mr. President - 4 appearances thus far?  Surely you have better things to do?  And if things were not bad enough, the joker in the White House, who doubles as a President, can answer, correctly, that Kim Kardashian was married for a mere lifetime of 72 days before tossing in the towel on what must have been a harrowing ordeal to say the very least.  And of all the questions that someone could ask a President, during an election year, it was the ding-a-ling Joy Behar who poised that very intellectual question to Barry O.

Common sense dictates to me, and millions of other concerned Americans that if the Taliban and Al Qeada are persistent in their attempts to re-locate parts of every day America with shoe bombs, or underwear, why on Earth would we, the greatest country on the planet, even make one single, solitary step towards making peace with a group of thugs who haven't a clue on the proper use of underwear.