Yanky Doodle by M.W. Thomas

Donald Trump Is a Woosy

I was pleased to announce in this space my candidacy for the Republican nomination for President a few short months ago.  And it wasn't a moment too late! Now it is my obligation as a True American to ride to the rescue as that faker and weakling, Donald Trump, has announced his tepid, belated plans to deny entry of Muslims to America.  The Donald is a Woosy.  His plan does not go near far enough.  Let me tell you my plan to save America from Not-America.

Let me point out that The Donald cannot bring himself to call the Catholics exactly what they are: pope-hatted naked child butt-lovers.  That's right!  It is time not only to deny them any further "entry", but they should be expelled from America immediately, right along with the Mexicans, who, not coincidentally are largely catholic.  Anyone who disagrees with me is just begging to get their kid buggered.  Clearly the Catholics believe no child's behind should be left.  It's in their catechism. Out with them!  Now! No more!

And what about those Jesus murdering Jews?  Millions of nasty, yellow-teethed Jews are here today sucking the bloody tips off of infant's penises.  INFANT PENISES!  They are as disgusting as Muslims, and we Real Patriots know it. We need internment camps for the lot of him, Muslims, Jews, Catholics, all of 'em.  Oh, we have one:  it's called Gitmo. Let's fill it up these vermin who don't vote Republican anyway.

Sure, The Donald is well-intentioned with the Muslim thing  But the road to hell is paved with good intentions, isn't it?  Grab your white robes and hood and join MY presidential campaign.  It's the REAL DEAL.  None of that Lamo-Crappo Trump stuff.  Together with me and my WAY RIGHT IDEAS we are already making America GRATE AGAIN!!

Yanky Doodle by M.W. Thomas

Yanky Doodle by M.W. Thomas

GUEST BLOG Aunt Prude Says

It was bound to happen.  Aunt Prude found out I had a blog and, as I expected, had to horn in on the action.  “I’ve got plenty to say,” she said.  “You MUST put me on your blog.”  “What do you have to say?” I asked apprehensively.  “Why, people are always asking me for advice.  I know up from down and everyone knows it, except you.”  I plucked out the barb.  “Okay, Aunt Prude,  what have you got?”

Question 1:  Dear Aunt Prude, on long trips I find that it can be hard to find radio stations through long stretches in between large towns and cities.  It can get really boring without anything to listen to.  What do you suggest? – Lost in Kansas

Aunt Prude:  I know exactly what you are talking about.  I bring my own music with me on road trips, and a cassette player.  That way I can listen to my own music like Tony Orlando and Dawn, or even Olivia Newton John.  I can’t get enough of “I Honestly Love You,” can you?  Hope this helps.

Oh, brother.

Question 2:  Dear Aunt Prude, I inherited a lab mix who really likes to play. I went down to Pet Smart to find some dog toys, but their prices are just outrageous.  What are my choices? – Cheapskate in Hoboken

Aunt Prude:  Oh, these retailers are con artists, no matter what you’re buying.  You can make do with what you have around the house.  If you tie a knot in an old dish towel, that makes a fine tug toy.  We had a medium size dog, and I just gave it the cue ball off of Uncle Jack’s pool table.  The dog loved it.  Stick to the ground game though.  A game of catch might knock all of the dog’s teeth out.

Aunt Prude is the only person I know to ever get kicked out of a dog shelter.

Question 3:  Dear Aunt Prude, I get tired of dragging my butt all over town shopping for me and the whole family.  Is there a better way? – Lazy in St. Paul

Aunt Prude:  Yes.  You can go down to the public library and “shop inline.”  You get on their TV and type in a special number called an “earl.”  Bring a list of stores with you.  The library assistant may be grumpy, but will help you.  You can find the things you want and type in your credit card number and address and it will be delivered right to your home!  Easy as pie.  Try it.  You’ll like it.

It’s called a URL Aunt Prude and it’s not a TV.  Good grief.

Sorry about this post Refuters.  I hope Aunt Prude doesn’t become a regular feature.

Yanky Doodle by M.W. Thomas

Slow Down

Speed kills.  I am not just talking about cars.  I mean in general.  Going too fast wrecks things like cars and like dating.  Excessive speed ruins projects, drains bank accounts, and scratches furniture.  It is the number one cause of bad hair days.

Speed is relative and excessive speed is judged proportionally against the scope and size of sentient action.  How fast does a python swallow a pig? Fast talking may get you that refund at Target, but it won't marry you to your soul mate.  Impatient fumbling with a paper airplane may not be consequential, but your querulous DIY brake job can lead to tragedy. Quick thinking when you're attacked by a nest of wasps may be a good thing.  But a rush to judgment can capitally punish the wrong suspect.

Life has limited throughput.  When the receiver's bandwidth is smaller than the transmitter's, something is not going to work right.  When you slow down, everything is better.  If everybody slowed down, we'd get within Zeno's distance of a utopia.

Unfortunately, the millennials are hogging all the data tubes.  They want to make a senior salary straight out of college, then retire at 35.  They are smart, but not like they think they are.  They have not yet learned how to modulate their velocity  I am sure they know the difference between taking off like a rocket and falling off a twelve story building.  But they don't act like it.

I won't be any gentler on older folks who are slow learners either.  You, who passed me on the shoulder going 70 mph yesterday, need to go back to a school of some kind.  Maybe one with bars.  There is a reason we have criminalized excessive speed.  It's reach may not be as wide as needs to be though.

So put a governor on it folks.  Slow down and smell the roses.  Speed up and you will smell the carnations at your funeral.  Or go bankrupt.  Or just make everybody who knows you wish they didn't.  Remember the fable of the tortoise and the hare?  Be a winner.

Yanky Doodle by M.W. Thomas

Meet the Candidates

The presidential field is the most exciting I've seen in my lifetime.  A parade of public servants have lined up to win my approval.  They are first-class and they work so hard it makes me cry.  How can we go wrong? America's future is very bright indeed with these all-stars in the running. Yet, we must choose among these brilliant leaders.  I can't tell you how to vote, but I can introduce these near deities to you.  Here is a summary of the candidates in five words or less, which is all you need to know.

Donald Trump - Make America Grate Again.

Ben Carson - Zzzzzz

Jeb! - Makin' Spanish Bacon!

Bernie Sanders - The American People are Idiots.

Rand Paul - Trust me, I'm a doctor.

The Huckster - The direct dial to God.

John Kasich - Rational RINO.

Hillary Clinton - I am woman.

Yanky Doodle by M.W. Thomas

I Have No Ass

Frog jeans.

#noass # flatass, the hashtags speak for themselves. The ass deficit is of great consternation in the women's body image market.  This space is one of the richest sources of butt selfies, in this case a fundamental dystopia of butt ugly. These non-Kardasians have tried everything from butt pads to orthopedic shoes. Still, no butt cheeks are to be seen. These loaves failed to rise before they got baked.

But white guys like me are genetically marked for the No-Ass Syndrome.  I guess asses were not evolutionarily useful to the western European gene stock. Come to think of it, I am not sure what purpose a plump butt is supposed to serve. The only application I am aware of is to stretch denim.

Which brings me to the subject of Casual Friday. Many workplaces like mine condone dressing down on Fridays.  Jeans are permitted. Let me tell you something, just because you can wear jeans doesn't mean you should. I can't remember the last time I saw a man over 25 who looks good in jeans. Casual is not a synonym for Ugly. No-ass white guys are better advised to consider a nice pair of khakis or some navy blue Dockers.

The first stage of No-Ass Syndrome is Grief. But let's hurry on to the second stage, which is Acceptance. Wear your 501's around the house. But leave your jeans at home. The world will be a better place if us flat ass white guys give going out in jeans a long rest.

Note: shortly after publishing this post, I got added to the  @allaboutdab00ty No-Ass-List. I'm immortal.

The Waterboard by M.W. Thomas

Hallucinating in Chinese

Plan for the New Silk Road

Holy Yak Attack! I read in the paper yesterday that China is reconstructing the Old Silk Road. The Silk Road, you will recall from your history lessons, was an ancient trade route from China to Middle Earth that carried valued commodities such as gold, frankincense, myrrh, and knock-off chariot wheels. It was originally paved with rice paper, but every time it rained, the road turned into vinegar and became pimpled with potholes. Some enterprising travelers discovered they could fill the potholes with sugar and so it became known as The Sweet and Sour Road, from which we get the famous pork dish (the food coloring was added later.)  Later, they repaved the road with silk, which was a major technological advance. The silk weathered the rain much better and a road crew had only to come out with giant steam irons and smooth out the wrinkles afterward. Eventually, the road became moth-eaten and fell into disuse.

Beijing (it was called Peking in my day) seems to think a New Silk Road will revitalize China's economy.  They should consult Coca-Cola first. This modern highway will give China back porch access to western markets where they can sell grainy copies of The Godfather, Star Wars, and Dumb and Dumber, as well imitation iPhones, and other iFads. There will be a kiosk at the Pakistani border where Americans can buy back their Social Security Numbers. Call them Land Pirates. I think this idea is as stupid as it is quaint, and it would serve them right if they exhaust themselves on this pig.

Shipping and Air Cargo are much more efficient means of transport.  The South Koreans build 10,000 cargo ships a day, so their is no shortage of sea-vehicles in the world. Perhaps by the time China emerges from its economic woes, teleportation will have been perfected. I thought the Chinese were supposed to be patient. Silicon Valley will design it, and Hong Kong will build it, and Shandong will provide the stolen illegal version.

This New Silk Road is an idea whose time has come - if you're Confucius. I urge you to write your local Chinese trade representative and tell him or her that this project is an outrageous way to spend another country's money. Then go out for some General Tso's Chicken.

h/t THE WASHINGTON POST

The Waterboard by M.W. Thomas

M.W. Thomas, Candidate for President of the United States

I am pleased today to announce my candidacy for the Republican nomination for President of the United States of America.  Let me begin by asking for your vote, before I describe my qualifications.  Because facts have a well-known liberal bias, I will stick to meaty assertions that you can take on faith.  Here’s my position on the issues.

Taxes:  Our party has been accused of fooling the public by calling tax increases “revenue enhancement.”  Not so.  No one was fooled.

Life:  I, like other Republicans, understand the importance of bondage between mother and child.  Just don’t google it.  You might get busted by the FBI, as I did in Chattanooga last year.

Compromise:  My friends, we can and we will never, never surrender to what is right.  If we don’t succeed, then we run the risk of failure.

Human Rights:  I expect the Chinese government to work toward the elimination of human rights.  I believe we are on an irreversible trend toward more freedom and democracy – but that could change.

The Lame-Stream Media:  Don’t believe what is reported about me.  I’m not a man who’s leading with his head between his legs.

The War on Terror:  The global importance of the Middle East is that it keeps the Near East and the Far East from encroaching on each other.

Transportation:  Air travel efficiency would improve more if travelers started to go to less popular places.  I am the only presidential candidate talking about this.

The Environmental Protection Agency:  It isn’t pollution that’s harming the environment.  It’s the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.

NASA:  Mars is essentially in the same orbit as I am.  It is somewhat the same distance from the sun, which is important.  We have seen pictures where there are canals, we believe, and therefore water.  If there is water, that means there is oxygen.  If oxygen, that means we can breathe.  I promise to go there.

About My Rivals:  Their verbosity leads to unclear, inarticulate things.

Poverty:  We Republicans have been accused of abandoning the poor.  It’s the other way around.  They never vote for us.  People are not homeless if they are sleeping in the streets of their own home town.  That’s just common sense.

If I didn't mention your issue, no worries. Just think of Slavery and Hitler. Remember that this presidential election is about who is going to be the next President of the United States.  May our nation continue to be the bacon of hope in the world.  Together, we’ll make America grate again.

I would like to thank the United Negro College Fund for sponsoring this announcement of my presidency.  What a terrible thing it is to have lost one’s mind.  Or to not to have a mind at all.  How true that is.  I’ll close with the one word the best describes my candidacy:  “to be prepared.”  God Bless America, the greatest planet on earth.

The Waterboard by M.W. Thomas

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Argument

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country.

.

This 1834 epic poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge is one of my hands down favorites.  The tale is bold, the telling is spooky, and the language is close to the heart.  It is best to read it aloud in your best rendition of a Scottish accent.  Don’t be shy.  Recite it as though you have a toothache and so that the neighbors can hear you.  Let ‘em know you’re a grey-beard loon!

Admittedly, the poem gets off to a slow start.  Our passive narrator meets the Ancient Mariner at a wedding, and is somewhat man-handled into hearing his story.  That’s the first twelve or so stanzas, really all of Part I, but if you can get past that, you’re in for some real action.  Also, the words rhyme, so this is an actual poem (unlike my poems, which not only don’t rhyme, but also have total contempt for structure and meter.)

Oh, and keep a dictionary handy.  Words such as “eftsoons,” “uprist,” “wist,” “gramercy,” “gossameres,” and “clomb,”will intrude.  Okay, and “countree” rhymes with “see.”  That may be outright cheating.

Be sure to keep up with the ALBATROSS.  The albatross is what we would today call a meme on the intertubes.  It is from Coleridge’s Rime that we get the saying, “albatross around one’s neck,” which connotes a heavy burden.

Ah! Well a-day! What evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung.

The Ancient Mariner, as it happens, shot the albatross with a crossbow, and it turns out there is a price to be paid for that infraction.  So you cannot skip Part I, as dull as it is.

Among accounts payable for killing the bird is a sailing ship being subjected to an evil wind.  Between the bad wind and the doldrums, the ship goes badly off course.  They encounter a ghost ship (“spectre-bark”), which is a mixed blessing.  The encounter with the dead is evidently miserable, but our mariner is freed of the albatross:

The albatross fell off, and sank

Like lead into the sea.

Thus ends Part IV.  At last they gain a more favorable breeze.  Or do they?  The ship careens toward the southern latitudes “without wave or wind.”  Is the ship’s company alive or dead?  Things have gotten pretty weird by Part VI.

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze –

On me alone it blew.

Our mariner finds himself in what appears to be safe harbor and is met by the harbor pilot’s boat.  The pilot’s boy is a bit of a loon, and he has to take over the rowing.  Upon landing, he is met by a hermit, to whom he recites his tale.  Who’s crazy now?

h/t Poetry Foundation, www.poetryfoundation.org

Autumn Sighs, A Poem by M.W. Thomas

Autumn sneaks in

Indifferent to my greeting

I look out the window

At the dog chasing the blowing leaves

How many leaves

Can the old gal gather in her mouth at once?

How many leaves in the forest?

More than the threads of my summer memories

I open the door

And brace myself against the October breeze

How hard will the wind blow?

How hard do I breathe?

Harder than the blacksmith's bellows

Restless now, winter peeks over my shoulder

I take a walk in the woods

And gaze up into the canopy

How many colors are there?

How many dreams unfulfilled?

The day ends too early

I'm frumpy and weary

In my pajamas and slippers

As Autumn sighs

To when else shall I flee?

The Waterboard by M.W. Thomas

Gun Rites

As the cheek-biting winds and frosty nights of Autumn encroach, here we are again processing another mass shooting. I am told again to arm myself against this eventuality. In the inevitable shoot-em-up, I will certainly prevail, because I am the good guy. America is a Clint Eastwood movie. Little does the NRA know or care what a klutz I am. All I know is that I am not entitled to the defense of public safety laws.

Oh, there is money to be made too. With thirteen firearms and countless rounds of ammunition, the gun industry made thousands off the Umpqua shooter. The undertakers made out pretty well too. Stuff happens. Ring us up.

Mind you, I am a Second Amendment supporter, whatever it is you or I think that means. I think hunters, sportsman, hobbyists, and collectors should be able to own pretty much any weapon they wish. There just needs to be meaningful qualifying regulation that protect the public from the feckless.

Are you a curious collector? Do you wish to own a flamethrower? That's great. I think you should be able to do that. But I don't think you should just be able to go online and simply order one and have it delivered to your house. There should be qualifying regulations that you will comply with that demonstrate to us - the rest of the public - that you are qualified to be the caretaker of this dangerous toy. We public don't expect to round the corner and burst into flames in front of the Starbucks. Do you know how to maintain and operate your flamethrower? Do you have a secure place to store it? Will you submit to annual inspections? Do you have adequate private property or access to a safety range to demonstrate the capability of your flamethrower? Do you have a criminal record? Importantly, are you a moron?

Same goes for long guns and hand guns. Why do we sell AR-15s to just anybody? Why sell one to me? I have no idea what I'd be doing with such a weapon. I know nothing about them. Yet I could simply order one online and join the insanity today.

A couple of years ago, a man brought his young son to a gun store in Philadelphia. He bought a hand gun there. Leaving with his deadly purchase, he got no further than the car when he accidentally shot his kid dead. Not part of the reporting: was the gun store owner sorry he sold a gun to an idiot?

Well, we are at an impasse, and I am sure there are Refuters who will say I'm all wet and I don't know what I'm talking about. Stuff happens I hear. But as Aristotle said, The sum of coincidences is certainty.

A Plea for Shared Injustice

In this stock photo, the scales of justice are
incorrectly depicted in equilibrium

In these times of economic flagellation, many of us will suffer inequities and inconveniences. But we will not share in this lumpy distribution of misery equally.  The Haves will escape the slightest annoyance, while the Have-Nots will bear the brunt of every burden.

Why, you ask? Remember that "politics" is the process that determines who gets what and how much.  And who controls politics? The Haves of course. The Haves will not tolerate any irritant within their political body.

Instead, the pain must be pushed down to the powerless. Who are they? Poor folk and people of color of course. People with no money to buy politicians or political ads on TV.

The strategy is simple. The poor must be demonized. If they're poor it's their own fault. They're lazy. Black people want "free stuff." They're alcoholics and drug addicts. Never mind that studies show that the rate of illicit drug use is lower among the poor than the general population (because the poor can't afford drugs.) To drive home the point, politicians (i.e., the Haves) pass laws requiring drug testing as a qualifier for public benefits to humiliate the needy and justify their own claim to a painless existence.

In fact, most poor people work harder than I do. They just don't get a fair wage for it. Walmart employees need food stamps and section 8 housing to survive on a full time job. Losers, right? The important thing, according to our politicians, is that the CEO is left with no itch to scratch.

The Haves complain that they "pay all the taxes." Quoting absolute dollar figures, they state - correctly - that they pay the largest share of revenue into the treasury. Of course they do. They have all the money.

Let's analyze it. For simplicity, let's set up this thought experiment, which captures the essence of how it works:

• I make $1000 a day, you make $10 a day
• We pay our taxes daily
• We each pay 10%

So I pay $100 in taxes, you pay $1. I gripe that it's unfair. I pay "all the taxes." Let's look at it. After taxes, I have $900 to meet my expenses and otherwise spend or save as I like. You have $9. Can you live on $9? By the way, you work for me, and that's all I'm willing to pay you. If I raised your wages, I whine that I will "go out of business."

Indeed, you should be paying no taxes, and hopefully some of my $100 is currently routed to alleviate your suffering. But why should it be that way in the first place? Why, because that is the system I maintain through the politicians I own. Because I am not willing to countenance the slightest challenge to my privileges.

The economic ship of state cannot be righted until the Haves (otherwise known as the "one percent") are willing to shoulder their share of the burden; their share of the injustices in life. Currently, those burdens fall exclusively on the Have-Nots.

We must bring pressure to bear on the American Oligarchy to accept change. A good start would be to apply pressure on Congress to pass a Federal Minimum Wage bill. But we need to work on their morals too. Pope Francis provided an elegant, and even non-sectarian, framework for that during his recent visit. The Have-Nots have some feeble momentum. Let's keep pushing.

The Waterboard by M.W. Thomas

We Are All African Americans!

Meet your fellow African Americans

The prevailing notion among anthropologists is that all human beings originated from Africa. This idea is known as the Out of Africa Theory. By implication, that means we Americans - all of us - are African Americans. You, with red hair and freckles: you are an African American. That reality has to drive the right-wing bigots bat-shit crazy, Ben Carson included. Of course, I'm using a literal, technical interpretation of being "African American." I will concede that the identity is more widely understood as being of a certain ethnic derivation, being of a darker dermis, and having certain recognizable cultural characteristics.

However, I do think the superficiality and the generally illegitimacy of race as a concept is brought into sharp relief when you put it in that perspective. Most Black folks embrace "African American" as their identity. However, some do not. A year or so ago, I listened to a Black woman make an impassioned argument that she was not "African" American. I have nothing to do with Africa, she said; my family does not come from Africa, I do not have any relatives in Africa, I do not know anybody in Africa, and there is nothing African about me. What makes me African American? I'm just an American and I happen to be Black.

Well, that puts her in a rather common place with us pale-butts who do not identify as African either, although that is our ultimate point of origin as anatomically modern human beings. Of course, I have light skin and an aquiline nose, so I don't get thrown in jail for having my shoes untied. Not even for showing plumber's crack.

No wonder Huckabee and his ilk must deny evolution. The only thing between him and his Kenyan forefather is about 200,000 years.

An Open Letter To Speaker Boehner

An emotional John Boehner
resigns as Speaker- and from Congress

I feel for you Tan Man. I wouldn't want to keep eating the same shit sandwich over and over again either. You remember the Government Shutdown of 2013? A lot of people who lost their apartments and got their electricity cut-off do. But never mind them. Your party has nothing but scorn for the scum on the bottom rung anyway. It's your misery that counts now. And thanks to you, the Government Shutdown of 2015 may be averted, since a Continuing Resolution may now be passed with Democratic votes in the House. It's a fleeting victory, since we will in all likelihood face this same piss shower again at the end of the calendar year.

I was very moved by your resignation announcement. Although you've never done the right thing for the right reasons, hey, you talk the talk. I think a little Popery got under skin and rightly so. Frankie should have turned you over his knee and spanked you, but he's too much of a class act for that. To be fair, since you became Speaker after the 2010 wave, I always believed you were a serious man who really wanted to get the business of the country done. I believed that then, I've believed that all along, and I believe that today.

Do me a favor and use your "lame duck" status to get some things done in October will ya? When McCarthy takes over, the House will be the same ole circus tent and you know it. Hey, the past five years are really not your fault and that's the real problem. Your job is not doable. And we will see that after you leave. So put your shoulder to the grind stone for the next thirty days and help us out. Then, fly down to your Florida digs and work on that tan. You no longer need be the saddest orange in the orchard.

Sincerely,
Mike

The Wit and Wisdom of Yogi Berra

Yogi Berra

Yogi Berra died on September 22 at his home in Montclair, NJ at the age of 90. Aside from rock star baseball, he was otherwise well known for his "Yogisms", which have been oft quoted and re-quoted since his passing. These amusing aphorisms have often been accepted as being merely silly tautologies in many cases. I beg to differ. I think they are the sayings of a very insightful mind and spirit.

Let's start with this most famous one:

It ain't over till it's over.

Obvious, right? No. It's a statement about the psychology of life's challenges. It's the ninth inning. You're at bat. You're down 7 zip. You have two outs against you. The game's over, right? No, says Yogi. It ain't over until it's over. That's an important idea. Whatever the strikes against you, you can't make the rent, your girlfriend is about to walk out on you, your brother has hit rock bottom and is self-destructing: remember, it ain't over until it's over.

Hear this one:

It's deja vu all over again.

Deja vu happens more than once, and it's eerie. Why does this stuff keep happening?

Sometimes you just have to remember your way:

When you come to a fork in the road... take it.

If you came to that divide for the first time, you wouldn't know what to do quite frankly. But if you've been down that road before, doesn't it come natural?

Let's face it: things take longer than their assigned time.

I usually take a two-hour nap from 1 to 4.

By the time you make the trip to and fro, shower up and change clothes... well?

I particularly like this one:

We made too many wrong mistakes.

There are two kinds of problems in life: problems that have a right to be a problem, and problems that do not have a right to be a problem. In the former case, we have problems and make mistakes because we are doing something hard to do, perhaps something we've never done before. In the latter the case, we have problems because we are being butt-heads and make "wrong mistakes."

By the way, we can be amphi- anything, if we demonstrate flexibility.

He hits from both sides of the plate. He's amphibious.

Sometimes we look at things without really seeing.

You can observe a lot by watching.

Often, you can't learn than much by watching, unless you come prepared. What are you watching for? What does Yogi mean by "observe?" This one may need further refinement by a future Yogi.

Here's a truism on the annual seasonal changes:

It gets late early out here.

Isn't that the way it feels in the northern latitudes come October? Here is a distinct contrast between the sky and the clock.

You can't put a finer point on American liberties than to put it a little upside down.

If the people don't want to come to the ballpark, nobody's going to stop them.

I have a pet peeve. If you speak of a transaction between two people it occurs "between" them. If among more than two it is "among" them. Violations of this simple grammar are frequent and severely grates on my nerves. That's why I appreciate the way Yogi calls it out in this next one:

Pair up in threes.

He had good investment advice too.

Why buy good luggage. You only use it when you travel.

If you've been around a while, like I have, you learn to take it down a notch, especially when you're under fire. Other people know stuff too, and they can help you if you can tame your ego and give them a chance. Yogi knew that.

It ain't the heat, it's the humility.

Farewell Yogi. The future ain't what it used to be.

The Real Planned Parenthood Scandal

Oh no! Mr. Bill!

Since the scandalous Planned Parenthood video came out, showing PP selling aborted body parts for fetal research, I've been hankering to get to the bottom of it. Some claim these are heavily spliced and diced "hit" tapes; others say these show the real PP agenda to pressure women to have abortions for fun and profit. Well now, Refuters, I have the real scoop for you.

I marched myself down to my local PP clinic and demanded to see the "baby murderers." The receptionist scrolled her fingers down her handy directory and directed me to the basement level, Room B3-A. I found B3-A, which was also dubbed "Baby Food." I knocked on the door. There, I meet a bespectacled gentlemen who introduced himself as Jip Bilkumoore. "Enter," he said, a little stiffly.

To my surprise, a found myself within a small but well-equipped industrial kitchen. Over Dr. Bilkumoore's ("Call me Jip") shoulder, I saw a hibachi puffing away on a stainless steel table. A fan whirred above it to clear the smoke.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Let me shew you," said Jip, who had a slight Asian accent.

He led me over to the grill. "These are baby thighs, prepared with a nice paprika and sugar dry rub, which we will finish off with a Jack Daniels Original No. 7 BBQ sauce." I was speechless as he continued. "It's best to keep the coals low, you know, a dull grey, with just a little red showing. The meat is only an ounce and a half, so they only take about fifteen minutes to finish. I have some ready here. Want to try some? Wery, wery good."

"Hell no! I mean, no thank you."

"Let me shew you another of our delights," said Jip. He led me over to the referigator and took out a twelve ounce jar with strange little pink things packed into what looked like some kind of brine.

"Pickled Fetus Fingers!" he announced. That's disgusting, I thought.

"Unctuous! Best to harvest them at twenty-one weeks. Then they have a nice delicate crunch, like a Cheese Puff. Have one!"

I held my hand up in stern refusal. Eager to change the subject, I pointed to the activity across the room. "What are they doing?" I asked.

"Oh, they're making Baby Back Ribs," said Jip. "They come with our own special sauce. I can't give you the recipe, but we call it 'Cannibal Cauldron'. We're working with a bottler to sell it at Whole Foods. The hold up is agreeing on the ingredients list we're willing to put on the label."

Jip suddenly became extra earnest. "Oh!" he said, "let me show you something else." He led me over to a stack of oversize books.

He set one on a table for me to admire. "This a preprint of our recipe book, to be published this Fall."

It was a coffee table book titled Beyond Partial Birth: Cuisine From The Womb. Outrageous! Jip opened it up to show me one of his favorite recipes. It was called Baby Brain Pansit.

"Instead of pork or chicken, you feature baby brains, along with your veggies, such as snow peas, celery, carrots, and what not, with your rice sticks and nicely seasoned with Patis and Toyomansi. We've also suggested the elegant touch of serving the dish inside the top of the cranium with a sprinkle of chives."

My stomach turned over. I pulled out my iPhone. "Mind if I snap a few photos for the record?"

"You bet we do," answered The Chorus. I was suddenly surrounded by the kitchen staff, which pushed me toward the door like the incoming high tide. Jip stood behind them with his arms folded. "You ought to know better," he said petulantly.

Men in chef coats pushed me out the door and I landed on my butt in the hallway. When the door slammed, I rubbed my eyes and gazed at the local address: B3-A Baby Food. That is beyond ironic.

As I walked back to my car, you will know I was definitely on the side of defunding Planned Parenthood. If we can't defund the whole outfit, we should at least defund their devil's kitchen. For you skeptics, I swear to hell I saw this and I hadn't been drinking. Who are you going to believe: you or my lying eyes?

The Waterboard by M.W. Thomas