"Murphy: Right, right. We’ll back you any way we can. But what we were thinking about the crowd was, uh, was planting some troublemakers.
Walker: You know, well, the only problem with that — because we thought about that. The problem with — my only gut reaction to that would be, right now the lawmakers I’ve talked to have just completely had it with them. The public is not really fond of this. The teacher’s union did some polling and focus groups I think and found out that the public turned on them the minute they closed school down on them for a couple of days."
So spake Gov. Droopy Dog Walker as he tele-fellatio-ed some blogger who he mistook for David Koch. The Gov took the call right away, no doubt well aware which side of his ass Koch was buttering. And the Koch brothers have spread enough butter around in the last election to grease multiple state and federal portals for future easy access. But it is not about the horror of having to pay a decent living wage to the people who teach our children or plow our roads. It is ultimately not about budgets but it is about money. Money buys access and if the pesky left leaning public unions are weakened enough to become minor players in any future election cycle, it will be a lot easier for the Republicans and their corporate masters to maintain control. Without the counterbalance of union money to worry about, Gov. Walker only has to concern himself with blowing his two or three major corporate donors. That's only fair, he's a busy man. He's got a lot on his plate.
"No, Dad, what?" Of course I did know what my problem was, he told me often enough. "Your problem is you never finish anything. You quit everything you start; bowling, trumpet, Little League, wrestling, Boy Scouts...you never stick with anything." For some reason quitting the bowling league really stuck in his craw, although I can barely remember being in a league, let alone my reasons for quitting it. Maybe he bought me a bowling ball or something. Now, in my defense, most of this stuff I really didn't want to do anyway. My parents, particularly my mother, were really into the idea of the well rounded child - you know- music, athletics, academics -m a strong mind in a healthy body. All I really wanted to do in my spare time was sit around reading science fiction and eating Honeycomb cereal. There were problems with all of my chosen-for-me "activities"; Boy Scouts - no Honeycomb cereal or flush toilets at camp; Little League - I was a pretty good ball player but I got scared of taking one to the cranium so that was out; Wrestling - I could easily beat anyone in the school who was in my weight class (all two of them) but incipient OCD and wrestling snotty, sweaty boys was a bad combination. For some reason I decided to join the marching band, I guess I felt lonely for the company of other nerds. Unfortunately, not playing for 2 years didn't do much to improve my embouchure, I still sucked. So I ended up 4th trumpet, last chair. Embarrassing. Then a treble clef baritone spot opened up and since I was the only one who signed up, I ended up 1st treble clef baritone, 1st chair, bitches. Best of all the bass clef baritone could really play so I'd just march along beside him faking it. We were awesome. My specialty was Windy. She had stormy eyes. Baa pa pa paaa. But I got tired of that, too.
So I went on to quit the Church, college, a marriage, a dozen jobs, drugs and alcohol. Dad was right. I just can't stick with anything. I guess I'm just not a joiner.
From Scientology, that is. Or, more precisely, from a certain aggressive and extremely engaged Scientology recruiter. My brother and I were wandering around downtown Boston sometime in the early seventies when an Earnest Young Man came up and asked us if we would like to learn about Scientology. Being the polite fellow that I am, I said sure and we started following this guy towards some sort of storefront recruiting center. Then the thought occurred to me that this was kind of weird and I was kind of hungry and I could give two shits about Scientology anyway so I did the first thing that popped into my mind, which was to turn around and start running full tilt back the way we had come, leaving my poor brother standing there with the bewildered EYM. Now my brother takes off after me and damned if the Scientology guy didn't take off after him. In those days I was fast and I doubt that there was a Moonie, Hare Krishna or Tom Cruise on Earth (or Teegeeack) that could outrun me. I was even faster than my brother who was a college athlete and who, although stronger and uglier than me, didn't have those afterburners. Unfortunately I ran myself into a blind alley, followed closely by my brother and that track star Scientologist. My brother catches up to me, punches me in the stomach and while I'm hunched over gasping for breath explains to the EYM that I'm having bowel issues. The guy gives us a puzzled look and splits. No one wants a recruit with dirty drawers, not Scientology or even the Army. I don't believe my brother was too happy with me. In retrospect, a simple "No thanks" would have saved a lot of running. But I feel as though I did save my brother from the clutches of this particular cult (I haven't even gotten a thank you yet), I just can't do anything about the one he was born into. Of course, I still have those Thetan clusters harshing my mellow, but what are you gonna do? I just don't have the dough to get clear.
That refrain greeting me at work first thing this morning, happily sung by a disgruntled Eagle's fan to the tune of Here We Go. All Eagle's fans are disgruntled. They are not happy drunks. How would you like to be terminally prick teased with playoff after playoff appearance, never able to pull off the Big One? The Steelers tore my heart out again. Although to be truthful, I was surprised they got that far. Still, once we get there, we are not accustomed to losing a Super Bowl. Ah well, The Fudge Packers deserved it. They took the long road there and played well. And Doug Legursky deserves some sort of award for keeping that fat 700 pound Raji fucker off the quarterback. Well done, Doug. Still, I'm sad, very, very sad.
But Scripto, you say, "May we ask why, with Michele Bachmann running for President, Congress ready to make everyone work into their eighties, Sarah still on the loose, and all the problems in Egypt and such, why are you so upset about a stupid football game? Why are you sad? Why are you bitter? What is wrong with you? You are far too sophisticated to be so emotionally involved in a mere football game."
Well, may I ask why you all just don't shut the fuck up and let me grieve?
A woman stopped me in Ollies the other day and shouted out "You're pretty!". She was kind of elderly, maybe a little slow (OK, she was retarded), one eye didn't track quite right and she had restraints that kept her in her chair. The woman pushing her in the wheelchair looked at me and laughed. But it still counts - right?
