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Today is Friday August 24,
the 236th day of 2007. There
are 129 to
go. The Sun is at 1
Virgo The moon is waxing.
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If you want to search for anything sent in the last couple of years, read some jokes, or see what the weather is like here, try the web site:
<a href=" http://home.att.net/~martysjokes/index.html "> Joke Site</a>
You can even check out any Amber Alerts.
If you want to subscribe or unsubscribe etc. easily, or see the Fair Use disclaimer, just see the "housekeeping" section at the bottom of this message before the sig.
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Dear Wife:
I'm writing you this letter to tell you that I'm
leaving you forever. I've been a good man to you for seven years and I
have nothing to show for it. These last two weeks have been hell. Your
boss called to tell me that you quit your job today and that was the
last straw. Last week, you came home and didn't even notice that I had
a new haircut, had cooked your favorite meal and even wore a brand new
pair of silk boxers.
You ate in two minutes, and went straight to
sleep after watching all of your soaps. You don't tell me you love me
anymore; you don't want sex or anything that connects us as husband and
wife. Either you're cheating on me or you don't love me anymore;
whatever the case, I'm gone. Your EX-Husband P.S Don't try to find me.
Your SISTER, Carla and I are moving away to West Virginia together!
Have a great life!
Dear Ex-Husband -
Nothing has made my day more than receiving your
letter. It's true that you and I have been married for seven years,
although a good man is a far cry from what you've been. I watch my
soaps so much because they drown out your constant whining and griping.
Too bad that doesn't work. I DID notice when you got a hair cut last
week, but the first thing that came to mind was "You look just like a
girl!" Since my mother raised me not to say anything if you can't say
something nice, I didn't comment, And when you cooked my favorite meal,
you must have gotten me confused with MY SISTER, because I stopped
eating pork seven years ago.
About those new silk boxers: I turned away from
you because the $49.99 price tag was still on them, and I prayed that
it was a coincidence that my sister had just borrowed fifty dollars
from me that morning. After all of this, I still loved you and felt
that we could work it out. So when I hit the lotto for ten million
dollars, I quit my job and bought us two tickets to Jamaica.
But when I got home you were gone. Everything
happens for a reason, I guess. I hope you have the fulfilling life you
always wanted. My lawyer said that the letter you wrote ensures you
won't get a dime from me. So take care. Signed, Your Ex-Wife, Rich As
Hell and Free!
P.S. I don't know if I ever told you this, but
my sister Carla was born Carl. I hope that's not a problem.
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Love Campaign
The young suitor was determined to win the heart
of the girl he wanted to marry, in spite of her rejection of his
proposals a number of times.
He began what can only be called "Campaigning"
and sent her a small token of his affection every day for a month to
her house.
Soon, the young lady fell in love with the UPS
man.
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A Fred-On-Everything
Their Own Self
FRED Columns
A Dog to its Vomit
Chatoic Reflections on the Nation's Capital
I have just returned from two weeks in
Washington and find myself almost giggling with despair, or perhaps
chortling at the madness. I need a bottle of Padre Kino, maybe laced
with Haldol.
I figure
the whole country must be smoking dope, because they’ve all got the
fears. Or so it appears at first. In stations of Metro, the city’s
subway, a recording told us over and over that Metro had new secure
trash cans and—I think this is verbatim—“You can now put your trash
where it belongs without fear.” Yes, brethren and cistern, you can
throw away that newspaper in a state of calm.
We’re
afraid of trash cans? What would Davy Crockett think?
As best I
can tell, Homeland Security thought, or pretended to think, that a wily
terrorist might put a bomb in the trash cans. So they built blast-proof
cans after taking out the vulnerable old cans. Some company made a
fortune supplying them, Homeland Security being a richly flowing
monetary teat. Personally I feel much safer.
The city
is like an acid trip gone bad. On electronic signs on overpasses one
sees that the Threat Level is Orange--kind of scared, but not yet with
the screaming shaking gollywoggles. What does that mean? What do you do
in Condition Orange that you don’t do in Condition Green? (Actually
Green seems not to exist. The point appears to be to keep people in a
constant state of moderate anxiety,)
At
National Airport, my plane had minor maintenance problems and the
repair crews had the engines opened. The announcer or whatever you call
him repeatedly told us “not to panic.” Oh. I’m going to panic because
they’re putting a new valve in the de-icing generator? Meanwhile,
everywhere the government can insert its fingers, the recorded
warnings: Watch everybody else and call this number if…report
suspicious behavior…look for abandoned packages…lift your feet when
using the escalators…Threat Level Orange.
I looked
for indications that anyone was paying the slightest attention to this
twaddle and couldn’t find any. I half expected people to approach a
trash can on tiptoe, from behind, so that it Wouldn’t Suspect. No. They
just stuffed things into it. The passengers didn’t watch each other,
instead burying themselves in the sports section or bouncing to
whatever was on the iPod.
A lot of
people think that all this fearaganda springs from some closely
calculated plot to make people support the wars, or give the feds
unlimited power so they can protect us. Well, it looks that way.
Perhaps a few in government take it seriously. You know, eternal
vigilance is the price of freedom, rather than a good way to lose it.
I don’t
know. But it is a bureaucratized terror, coated with a sort of Madison
Avenue inanity. Terror by Disney. I get the impression that it is a
response more to boredom than to peril. Life is pretty tedious going to
the cubicle farm every day. Living in an imaginary war zone relieves
the ennui. The Homeland Security people, not exactly a scintillating
crew, get to feel important, have a sense of mission and maybe even be
noticed. In a meaningless life, the chance to go mano a mano with bin
Laden, even if only by tilting at trash cans, is better than nothing.
The
disjuncture between the wars of Mr. Bush and the country as a whole was
striking. While the wars are a topic of conversation, there is little
passion. In the absence of a draft, no one is affected by them who
doesn’t want to be. Washington’s sophisticated send few of their sons
to Iraq voluntarily or otherwise. Being savvy and therefore cynical,
they know the wars are politically driven spasms in which they have no
stake. They don’t know soldiers and would have little in common with
them. Thus they view the conflicts as they might an earthquake in Peru.
On this
trip I spent several hours at Walter Reed Army Hospital, where guys
with one leg hobbled around on crutches. Having passed a year as a
patient at Bethesda Naval Hospital as a consequence of another witless
war, I knew what I would find should I visit the wards at Walter Reed:
the blind, the faceless, the hopelessly gutshot, and the quadriplegics
who would spend the rest of what can’t quite be called a life being
turned at intervals to avoid bedsores.
I do not
know today’s soldiers, having left the military beat midway through the
Nineties. How many of them know they were suckered as we were, and how
many still buy the patriotic hoopla favored in small towns, I don’t
know. Theirs is a very different world from that of the intimate blues
bars of Upper Connecticut Avenue. I wonder what the spindly milquetoast
hawks of National Review would think if they saw the human wreckage of
the military hospitals, which they won’t.
When I am
dictator, I will strap the mothers of the graduating class of Harvard
to the front bumpers of Humvees in Baghdad, and see how long support
for the war lasts.
Washington
is a curious city, separated from most of the rest of the United States
by a gaping cultural chasm. It is probably the nation’s best educated
town, and it is certainly a place where people know the score. The
population consists of politicians, reporters, beltway bandits attached
to Uncle Sucker’s well-worn mammaries, wonks from policy shops, or
outfits supplying all of them with one thing or another. In a country
that doesn’t, they travel.
It doesn’t
make them better people than others. It means that they know it’s all a
game, a matter of whose rice bowl gets filled by what contract and who
gets re-elected how. Things are dirty and rigged and one either hides
things from the public or misrepresents them to gull the rubes. This of
course is no secret. It doesn’t have to be. It works anyway.
One night
I sat in the Zoo Bar, across Connecticut Avenue from the entrance to
the zoo, with friends just back from Yemen. The Zoo Bar isn’t upscale,
running to burgers and Bud. Washington is more about power than
glitter. Important staffers from the Hill will show up in jeans for
blues and brew.
At the
next table two guys were talking of some contract with DoD, talking in
detail of RFPs and set-asides and who on what committee on the Hill had
to be sold. That’s DC. Meanwhile the subway reassured riders about the
safety of trash cans and, only a few stops away, soldiers from other
worlds learned to use their wheel chairs. An acid trip gone bad.
The Church
of Fred. A faith you can believe in. We are applying for a license
permitting use for religious purposes of psilocybin, slurs,
stereotypes, and .45 ACP.
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OK, move along, that's all there is, move along please ....
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OK, move along, that's all there is, move along please ....
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"THE WORLD IS A DANGEROUS PLACE TO LIVE, NOT BECAUSE OF THE PEOPLE WHO ARE EVIL, BUT BECAUSE OF THE PEOPLE WHO DON'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT"
- Albert Einstein
Home is where the grab bars are.