Let me tell you, those people in the ACLU sure get some weird ideas. Ramona Ripston, executive director of the ACLU of Southern California said, "We've always felt that a flashlight was not an instrument to beat people with.”
Well, lady, what do you think the police carry flashlights for? Especially in
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070330/ap_on_re_us/police_flashlights
When I came back from the
However, in all fairness, I would like you to know that those arrogant fatheads have actually caught themselves a suspect. Fadhel Al-Maliki, a 35 year old Iraqi national living in
The article continues, “Concern that the objects might be components for an explosive device led authorities to call in the Los Angeles Police Department and FBI bomb technicians as well as a hazardous material team.” If he can make a bomb out of a rock, chewing gum, and thin wire filament while riding on an airplane, I say, more power to him, sign him up for the CIA, the country needs this guy!
Unfortunately, such was not the case. Al-Maliki explained that the objects in his rectum were used to alleviate stress, especially the rock, which came from another planet.
I suspect Al-Maliki came from another planet, but I would love to see a transcript of his questioning. It probably went like this.
FBI: “Why did you feel you have to alleviate stress?”
AM: “Wouldn’t you be stressed out if you were an Iraqi national trying to go through security to board a flight?”
Or maybe:
LAPD: “Why did you feel you have to alleviate stress?”
AM: “Wouldn’t you be stressed out if you had a rock, chewing gum, and thin wire up your rectum?”
Photo by Chao, permission assumed
I have reached a solution for a thorny problem: gun control. My solution ~~ you may call it the Talovich Solution ~~ requires two laws be instituted simultaneously across the board. This will make everybody happy: rich gun manufacturers (they’re the only ones who really count in this debate) as well as you and me and police and legislators. Even Moses and Charlton Heston.
The first law calls for a total repeal of all gun control laws whatsoever. To purchase any gun you like, all you have to do is plunk down money on the counter, or sell yourself to the credit card people. No age limits, no background checks, no phone numbers, no ID, no nothing. Across the counter you may buy any gun you can afford, from a little pistol that will fit in my lady’s purse to an assault gun that could chip holes in the moon. Take it home to fondle and drool over.
The second law, which is to be enacted at the same time and with the same thoroughness, calls for a total ban on all ammunition. Guns don’t kill people, people don’t kill people, bullets kill people. So all the people can have all the guns they want, but possession of a single bullet requires the invariable execution of the death penalty. By your own gun and with your own bullet, if you so desire, but make an iron-clad law that possession of ammunition by anyone but an on-duty police officer or warfighter results in death by firing squad.
I’m sure not even death penalty opponents would mind that too much, and most guys buy guns just so they can wrap their hands around that big, long, hot, masculine firearm. Shooting is not really what gets them off. They just want to run their hands up and down that big, long, hot, masculine, throbbing uhh firearm. So everybody’s happy. Heck, they’ll probably thank me for saving them a bundle on ammunition.
說來說去，政府也不會理我。可是自己想。雞、鵝、鴨、魚、牛、羊、豬、鰻，跟你有甚麼仇？何必殘害牠們？不過呢，吃了就有仇。殺牠，牠怕、痛、怨；吃牠，對自己健康有害無益。最好還是不殺，不吃。
現在票選國鳥 www.birdingintaiwan.com ; 沒有國，哪有鳥？姑不論，，我當然捧鄰居的場，投藍鵲的票。看樣子藍鵲領先，但無管如何，希望黃山雀不上。為甚麼？因為黃山雀的英文是yellow tit；臺灣這幾年鬧的笑話已經太多，不必給天下人這個笑柄。
Continental drift provoked vehement controversy when it was first proposed, but now we have definite proof that it is correct. As evidence, I wish to present this map I photographed on 南陽 street in Taipei (某留學代辦). Notice the
Prepare to meet your fate, Paddy. Before long, London will be muscling aside Dublin, and the English dream of overwhelming Ireland will finally come true, through inexorable geological processes.
Tayal qutux: Baq su ga, Oro 中風了.
Me: Pongan gu.
Tayal sazing: Ima Oro?
Me: Oro
Tayal sazing: Nanu sa 中風?
Tayal qutux: Nipun gwaw ini tnaq la.
Translation:
Tayal A: Do you know that Oro had a stroke?
Me: I have heard that.
Tayal B: Which Oro?
Me: Tienmei’s father.
Tayal B: How did that happen?
Tayal A: He didn’t drink enough liquor.
You’ve got to hand it to the Irish, they sure can sing. Although I have only a smattering of Irish blood, Irish folk songs have beguiled me since I was a boy. At the drop of a hat I could sing dozens and dozens of Irish folk songs by heart, so keep a good grip on your headwear in my vicinity.
But something about Irish songs has perplexed me. They have plenty of songs celebrating their heroes, but have you noticed something about their heroes?
Up the narrow streets he strides, smiling, proud, and young
Upon the hang-rope on his neck, his golden ringlets flung,
There was never a tear in his blue eyes, both sad and bright are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the
The Minstrel Boy
The minstrel fell but the yeoman’s chains
Could not pull that proud soul under
Kelly the Boy from Kilanne
Poor Wexford stripped naked hung high on a cross
With her heart pierced by traitors and knaves
Boulavogue
At Vinegar Hill, o’er pleasant Slaney,
Our heroes vainly stood back to back,
The British soldiers took Father Murphy
And burned his body upon the rack
The Dying Rebel
My only son was shot in
Fighting for his country bold
Tiperrary
His comrades gathered around him
To bid him a last farewell
He was as true and as brave a lad
As ever in battle fell
The Croppy Boy
As I stood on the gallows high,
My aged father did me deny
Foggy Dew
While Britannia’s sons with their long range guns
Sailed in through the foggy dew
the bravest fell, and the mourning bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide in the springing of the year
Kevin Barry
In Mount Joy Jail one Monday morning,
High upon the gallow’s string
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the cause of liberty.
But a lad of 18 summers,
Yet no true man can deny,
As he walked to death that morning,
He proudly held his head up high.
James Connolly
He went to his death like a true son of
The firing party he bravely did face.
Then the order sang out: Present arms, fire!
James Connolly fell into a newly dug grave.
God Save
High upon the gallows tree swung the noble hearted three~~
I could go on, but you should notice the trend by now: all their heroes get exterminated, many by execution rather than on the battlefield.
The answer occurred to me: the Irish have never won a war. I am no authority on Irish history, but I think that throughout their history, they have lost every war they fought, or rather, if they did win any wars, those wars were fought against other Irish.
Please correct me if I am wrong, but off the top of my head, I cannot think of a single war the Irish won.
Now I’ve said that, the IRA will probably bomb my blog.
The luck of the Irish! But happy Saint Patrick’s Day anyway. God save Ireland, just so they can keep singing.
About ten days ago, I bought a bunch of plantains from MM’s truck and hung them up to ripen. An hour earlier, Lacya had done the same. She lives a few minute’s walk away, at the roadside; her elevation is about 50 meters below mine. Her plantains have been ripe for days, already turning brown, and half have been eaten already. Mine are just now turning yellow, but are mostly green. I expect to start eating them in a few more days.
Talk about microclimate! If I shouted loud enough, she could hear me, but conditions APBRP* are clearly different. I conjecture the road is the deciding factor, with the heat from the asphalt and passing cars. Now multiply that by the number of paved roads and motor vehicles in your vicinity. Is it any wonder we are faced with global warming?
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*APBRP is a scientific term for measuring meteorological variation; it stands for As Proved By Ripening Plantains, and was invented by GB Talovich in March 2007. Application is, for some reason, still not widespread; suspect a conspiracy of silence. Or silliness.
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