Christmas has passed. The rubble has been cleaned up, and the leftovers have been eaten. There is much I will miss about Christmas – the decorations, the family gathering, great food, watching small children anticipate Santa’s arrival, and the general good spirit exhibited by most folks.

There are, however, a few things I will not miss:

1. Commercial jingles sung to the tune of Christmas songs. I sometimes think that the “creative” people at ad agencies often aren’t very. Jingles sung to this song, more than any others, make me want to slam my head against a hard surface.

2. Local Car Dealership Commercials where the Owner of the Dealership wears a Santa hat and SHOUTS about the great Christmas deals he has to offer, even if you have no money and lousy credit. The end of the commercials often feature all the employees of the dealership standing in a mob (wearing Santa hats) and saying “Happy Holidays” in sort-of unison. Yeah, that’ll make me want to drop everything, run out and buy a new car.

3. Any parody of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, except for this one. (The Wiseass Jooette reminded me of this great oldie.)

4. The Catalog Tsunami. I normally receive way more catalogs than I want, but between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I probably receive twenty pounds of them. Dear Harry and David – Nice stuff, but no thanks – a thousand times, no thanks.

5. Photographs of dogs with fake antlers stuck on their heads. Not funny; not particularly cute, and I’ll bet the dogs hate it too.

Hey, in 362 days, we get to do it all over again.

PRS Operatives have managed to obtain copies of the correspondence between Nancy Pelosi and that Jolly old Elf.

Nancy’s Letter to Santa

Dear Santa:

Hi! Nancy here! You know who I am, because I am a very important person. In fact, for a time I was two heartbeats away from the presidency, but then those rat bastard Rethuglicans took the House of Representatives, and that skunk John Boehner stole my gabel. That made it a tough year for me, but I still do very important things, like make speeches and stuff where I say important and interesting things. While doing all these important things I still manage to look super hot.

So, seeing as how I’ve been a really good girl, I know you will bring me everything on my list. Here it is:

A mirror that will tell me every day that I am the fairest in the land

Some tie dye thongs

A coke dealer who makes house calls on time and who offers quantity discounts

A complete collection of Moby Grape CDs. They were soooo groovy.

At least a half a kilo of Maui Wowie.

Something that would keep Chuck Schumer from constantly grabbing my ass.

A plague on every stinking Rethuglican in the congress and the evil, racist bastards who vote for them.

I can’t wait for Christmas morning to get all my gifts!

You pal,
Nancy

Santa’s Response

Dear Nancy:

I wanted to let you know that I received your letter up here in the North Pole. In your letter you asked for many things for Christmas. As you know, I keep track of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. I hate to tell you this, but you didn’t score any “nice” points this year, and you came close to breaking the record for “naughty” points (the record is currently held by the bad boy in the White House).

I’ll be blunt. Are you shitting me? Do you think that Santa doesn’t know about all that weed, blow, Cristal and that “Hide the Salami” stuff? Let me tell you something, Missy. Santa don’t play that shit and he doesn’t do plagues.

Tie dye thongs? Sweet Jesus, woman. My elves howled with laughter at that one – then puked.

A magic mirror? Ha! You don’t need a magic mirror. Just ask Chris Matthews. He’ll tell you that you’re the fairest in the land whenever you like, and he’ll kiss your ass to boot.

Moby Grape? Gimme a freakin’ break!

Something to keep Chuck Schumer from grabbing your ass? I suggest that you show it to him. That oughta do it.

Bad girls normally get coal in their stocking, but it is difficult to find coal these days, thanks again to that annoying kid in the White House. Besides, you are so thoroughly loathsome, coal would be too good for you. Because Santa doesn’t like to leave someone with an empty stocking, on Christmas morning, in your stocking you will find a pound of steaming reindeer shit.

Very truly yours,
Santa

Guess whose second car is a 2006 Toyota Avalon Limited.

Guess who, within the last two weeks, spent four hours at the dealership having three, yes, three recalls done.

Guess whose second car now has three separate idiot lights burning brightly on the dashboard.

Guess who’s not buying another Toyota.

I’m pretty sure you’ve figured out the answers.

Behold the federally mandated destruction of a functioning automobile. Yes, the dealers are required to put sodium silicate into the gasoline oil (sorry for the initial mistake) of the “clunkers” for the purpose of causing the engine to seize. Watching this Volvo’s death rattles was plain depressing. I can only imagine how it affected someone for whom that Volvo would have been a Godsend.

The Clunkerf*ck Program, in my view, proves several things:

1. It’s real easy to give away lots of “free” money real fast.

2. The government should not be in the new car business.

3. The government should not be in the used car business.

4. The government absolutely should not be in the healthcare business.

The CEO of Edmunds, who knows a bit about the car business, doesn’t think any more money should be put into the program. I agree.

Velociman summed it up quite well.

That is all.

Within the last week or so, I bought a new car. Yes, the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car is now history. More on the new wheels later, as this is a post about tax. It is, after all, April 15th.

OK so, you buy a new car in New Jersey. Not exactly pocket change, that. The car comes with four real tires and one of those bullshit donuts as a spare. Those five tires are clearly part of the new car. Agreed? Of course. The dealer adds up the total price of the car (including the five tires) and collects, for the state, seven percent of that number as sales tax. Seven percent is a pretty big hit, for sure. Do the math in your cruller.

Ah, but you’re not done paying tax on the car. In New Jersey, after you pay seven percent of the retail value of the car (including the five tires that come with it), you get to pay an additional “Tire Tax” (pdf) of $1.50 per tire, including the spare. Sure, you’ve just spent thousands on a car, including a couple thousand in sales tax, so what’s another $7.50? The rat bastards in Trenton are counting on you thinking like that.

But wait! You’re not done paying tax yet on those tires.

Suppose one of the tires is punctured and you have it fixed. Fixing a tire is a “service,” and you pay seven percent tax on the cost of fixing the tire. Suppose the gas station guy tries to fix the tire, but decides that he can’t fix it and sells you a new tire. You get to pay seven percent tax on the cost of the repair attempt, plus seven percent sales tax on the cost of a new tire, PLUS the tire tax.

Further suppose that, after a year or so, you decide to sell the car (including the four tires and the spare) to Joe Blow. Joe Blow will have to pay seven percent sales tax on the price of your car (including the five tires) AND the tire tax as well, which means that New Jersey has now taxed the same five tires at least FOUR TIMES.

And yet, the sheeple keep paying the taxes and voting the same cruds into office.

Douchebags.

This morning I proceeded to the Dealer’s Service Department in order to obtain regular preventative maintenance on the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car. I’m no stranger to the place, having previously written about my visits here, here and here.

What I will share with you are literally scratchpad notes I made while sitting in the waiting room. The thoughts may be disjointed, but that’s just way it is.

Dammit! The television is on. I brought a book, and there are magazines on a coffee table, but nobody reads. Everyone sits and stares at the goddamned television. Is it possible for people to survive thirty minutes in a chair without staring into a goddamned television set? Too loud and too distracting to read. I took Mrs. Parkway’s car for service, and that dealer offers a “Quiet Room.” The availability of a “Quiet Room” may well be dispositive with respect to my next choice in vehicles.

Ack! MSNBC is on. Is this more or less annoying than, say, Regis or Judge Somethingorother? Tough call. They’re all right up there with a root canal.

Big, big, big MSNBC story: Former McCain staffers dish dirt on Sarah Palin! Perfect story for MSNBC. They get to continue to shit on Sarah Palin, but lay the blame on McCain people. BONUS! They get to say what shits the McCain people are. Damned near spit out my complimentary lousy coffee.

Ah, the subject now is Mr. Obama’s pick of Rahm Emmanuel, a former Clintonista and a known super-partisan hit man as Whitehouse Chief of Staff (Reach across the aisle, my arse). The host wonders aloud (strictly for rhetorical effect), “Critics are asking whether this is consistent with President-Elect Obama’s promise of a different kind of administration, a more inclusive administration [blah blah]?”

The question is answered by a parade of peeps, all justifying why Rahm Emmanuel is a solid choice. The Grand Marshall of the Parade was Hillary Clinton, who gushed about what a fine fellow Rahm Emmanuel is. I wonder if, by saying that, she is doing a favor for Obama or her old pal Rahm. As my Constitutional Law professor used to say, “To ahsk the question is to ahnswer it.”

The host (damned if I know who he is) announces that Barack Obama will give his first press conference later today. He continues, “MSNBC’s Chris Matthews will bring it to you.” Chris Matthews ought to be required to wear a slobber cup on his face when he talks about Obama. He’s beyond disgusting.

Notable Commercial Break: I don’t know whether you get to see the New York Times ads for the “Weekender” edition of the paper. Apparently, you can subscribe to the paper and only receive it on the weekends. I wouldn’t know, because I would sooner light money on fire than pay to read the New York Times. Anyway, the twenty-something, snot-nosey elitist pukey, yuppie woman smiles and says, “There’s the week, the weekend and then there’s The Weekender.” This is followed by a series or Upper West Side twenty-something racially diverse turds talking about how swell it is to get “THE PAPER” on the weekends, the subliminal message being that if you don’t read the New York Times, you must be some kind of mental defective. Every time I see it, I have a hard time not throwing something at the TV. (I guess you had to be there.)

Holy shit! Breaking news! Beyoncé will attend the inauguration! I had awakened Tuesday night worrying about whether Beyoncé would be on the case for the inauguration.

“Sir your car is ready.”

Free at last.

Today I decided to rummage through a portion of my briefcase in order to toss some of the crap that has accumulated there over the past several months. I got rid of a bunch of gas receipts and some well-aged work stuff I had brought home to read.

I also came across a few scraps of paper on which were my longhand scribbling about one thing or another. Most of them were phone numbers and hastily jotted-down points relating to business matters. I did, however, find a rather beaten looking old business-size envelope, which was folded in half and on which I had scratched a few non-work related thoughts.

Turns out that the scribbles were my running notes obviously taken while I was in the Service Area waiting for the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car to be pampered. No doubt they were originally jotted down in anticipation of using them to write a stellar blog post. After all, I’ve written about being captive in the Service Area a couple of times before, so at the time I must have thought that the goings on were blogworthy.

Well, the scribbles never did make it into a post, but seeing as how I don’t feel like doing any heavy lifting right about now, I thought I’d share the notes from the back of that envelope, uncut, uncensored and frankly ungood. I figure it will give you a peek inside my cruller at what was a less-than-outstanding time.

The Scene: When these notes were taken, I was sitting in the dealer’s Customer Waiting Area, which has all the ambience of a bomb shelter. I had brought a book to read, but the distractions were such that reading was all but impossible. Here ‘tis:

Shit! Fake Judge What’shername is on TV.

Nice looking. Wonder where she finished in L.S. class?

Case – Who shot BB gun and broke window?

P*** – Pissed off woman – blames local kid

Witness — Some guy has homemade CSI trajectory charts – Who is this guy? Charts?

Kid = ∆? “Didn’t do it.”

“Judge” – Guy’s charts clever but wtf?

“Judge” – To ∆ — I know you did it, but … reasonable doubt …blah blah

Verdict for ∆

Case – Laptop ownership dispute – P is ∆’s former ER [employer]

∆ – “P gave me computer when I quit. Owed me $”

BS!

P — e-mail from ∆ to ∆’s former co-worker – Screw them I kept comp.

Ouch.

P wins. No shit.

Seriously fat babe waddles into room – works in connecting office – grabs two jelly donuts – back to office – BAD IDEA.

Case: P suing roofer(?) – damage to aluminum door jamb on garage.

“Judge” has hammer! Whacks piece of aluminum – dent — shows ∆ how easy it was.

Verdict: P rules of evidence?? WTF??

Hot in here – stuffy as hell. People assholes. Cell phones!

New TV Program

F**k! Another “judge” – Divorce Court. Shit.

Wife is P He knew I wanted him out ………….

At this point, I must have been summoned to the Service Desk to pay my bill and begin the day.

My cruller: Not a pretty picture.

*** In legal shorthand, the symbol for “plaintiff” is the Greek letter Pi. Damned if I could a Pi symbol in Word. Hence the “P.” The symbol for “defendant” is the Greek letter Delta, which, as you can see, I managed to find. While we’re at it, the symbol for “contract” is the letter “K.” None of the cases mentioned involved a contract, but I thought you might like to know that little tidbit. No charge.

I have written here, here and here about the horrors of taking the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car to the dealer for service. I should note that the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car is decidedly American, and the dealership runs by what I can only assume to be American standards.

I recently took Mrs. Parkway’s car to the selling dealership for service. The car is a bit more than one-year old and still doesn’t have 5,000 miles on it, but it was definitely time for an oil change and whatever else is regularly done, service-wise, at 5,000 miles. I should note here that Mrs. Parkway’s car is of the Japanese persuasion.

I was somewhat nervous with the prospect of becoming a supplicant to yet another Service Area of a dealership. As it turns out, there was quite a difference between this Service Area and that I have become accustomed to.

When I called for an appointment, I was not told, “Bring it in any time on X day.” Instead, after being asked what time of day I would like to come in for service and having indicated a preference for mornings, I was told, “Our next opening is for June X, at 7:45 a.m. Will that be OK?”

I thought, Holy crap! This is like making a Doctor’s appointment.

I was told that I had been assigned to “Joe on the Blue Team.” This too was strange to me, having been accustomed to standing with the other supplicants at the Service Area counter, waiting for someone to pay attention to me.

I made it to the dealership exactly at the appointed time. When getting service on the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car, I would have to spend several minutes trying to find a parking space in the lot, which has more craters in it than did the Battlefield of Verdun. By contrast, when I pulled up to the Japanese persuasion dealership, I saw that there was “valet parking.” (Holy Crap!)

The valet guy said, “Do you have an appointment sir?” When I answered that I did have an appointment, he placed a paper mat on the car’s floor and handed me a slip of paper that contained my plate number and mileage. He wished me a nice day and took the car away. I was getting lightheaded by this time.

I walked into the “Reception Area,” a nicely appointed room with several people, organized by their team colors, sitting at the ready to do the necessary intake. I proceeded to the “Blue” guy who verified my appointment and took down my information, including my desire to wait while the car was being serviced.

He pointed me to the stairs, which led to the upstairs waiting room. I had visions of the cramped waiting room at the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car dealership, and I prepared myself for the worst.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the room was large and well lit. It contained a coffee machine (one that grinds the beans before it makes the coffee), which offered a wide array of coffee choices – free, of course. There were also an ample supply of Dunkin’ Donuts on hand. The room contained numerous copies of the latest newspapers and a slew of recent magazines.

There was, of course, the obligatory television, but it was an impressive large, wall-mounted flat screen number. What really slayed me was the “Children’s Corner.” The Children’s Corner is a separate small room (separated from the Waiting Room by a door) full of things for children to play with to keep them from becoming fidgety from just sitting around.

The best thing was the “Quiet Room.” Yes, a “Quiet Room.” You could have knocked me over with a feather. I hope that when the person who had the “Quiet Room” idea finally throws the sixes, he or she will rocket directly to Heaven at warp speed. The Quiet Room contained a couple easy chairs and about a half-dozen carrels, much like one sees in libraries, each equipped with internet connections. Genius, I tell you. Pure genius.

I think it fair to say that the Dealership did everything reasonably possible to make waiting for one’s car as painless as possible.

Of course, there was some bad news.

For example, like the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car Dealership , the Japanese Persuasion Dealership has its share of cell-phone blabbing morons. One woman took off her shoes, tucked her bare feet under her ass on the couch in the Waiting Room and loudly talked and giggled non-stop on her goddamned cell phone, and she did it in a foreign language (It sounded like a dialect spoken somewhere near Calcutta).

In addition, as I mentioned, there is also a television, which almost certainly guarantees an earful of annoying nonsense. On the day in question, the Morning Show featured some nineteen-year old woman dressed something like the people that the Starship Enterprise might encounter might wear “singing” her shit, which included what she indicated was the “Number One song in America today.” It had something to do with an Umbrella. On the Auditory Assault Scale, this piece of shit scored a solid TEN.

Between the Calcutta Phone Talker and the horrendous television spacewoman’s “singing,” I retreated to the Quiet Room.

There was about a half dozen people in the Quiet Room, including one woman working on her laptop in the carrel opposite mine. We were isolated from the Calcutta Phone Talker and the screeching spacewoman – it was sweet.

But then, just when I thought I had arrived in Dealership Heaven, the woman on the computer must have called her company Help Desk on her cell phone. I couldn’t believe it. In an otherwise dead-silent room, I was treated to something like the following:

Would that be under “Tools?”

It says, “Temporary Files,” and it is asking me if I want to delete them? Should I click “yes?”

It says, Internet Explorer, but it asks for my password.

Yes, I entered my password, but it wouldn’t work.

Yes, I entered [the woman shared her password with everyone in the Quiet Room!], and it still didn’t work. Should I try a new password? How about [Now, we all knew her new password!]?

OK, I see it now. Should I click “OK”?

This went on for ten minutes or so. I was hoping she would not treat us to a download of a new goddamned operating system.

After about another 15 minutes a voice came over the intercom informing me to return to the Service Desk as Mrs. Parkway’s car was done.

All this proved to me that, despite best efforts to make waiting for car to be serviced as comfortable as possible, one can always rely on douche bags showing up to shit things up.

Perhaps the Japanese Persuasion Dealership needs a Harakiri Room.

I thought, “I’m so screwed.”

I had just turned over my keys to one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives at the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk and headed for my spot in the waiting room, which has been the source of blogfodder on a couple previous occasions. I opened the door to see that all the seats were taken, meaning I would be relegated to the “lower” waiting room, which really isn’t a room at all. Rather, it is a concrete-floored area in the vicinity of the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk, where spill-over supplicants to the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives are sent.

In the “lower” waiting room, there are no donuts (OK – I have never eaten dealer donuts in the past) and no coffee (OK – I brought my own, thank you). I have always suspected that the dealer-donuts and coffee contain a psychoactive drug that makes supplicants even more compliant. There was, however, an omni-annoying television blaring ESPN (not OK, but I figure that some crap like “Regis” must be blaring from the omni-annoying television in the “upper” waiting room.)

What really frosted my stindeens was that I forgot to bring a book to read (all the dealer-supplied reading material being in the “upper” waiting room). So, I pulled a mini-legal pad from my briefcase and decided to jot down potential bits of blogfodder. Strange thing is that the woman sitting next to me was doing exactly the same thing on exactly the same kind of mini-legal pad. I wondered if she might be a blogger. Perhaps she was taking notes about the sorry ass who just sat down next to her and who is doing exactly the same thing that she was doing and wondering if I was a blogger.

Of course, I did not ask her, because one supplicant to Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives does not speak with other supplicants. Maybe it’s a fear that speaking with another supplicant will transfer the automotive maladies of that supplicant to your car – automotive cooties, if you will.

Anyway, for better or for worse, the “lower” waiting room is within sight and earshot of the mini dramas that unfold as the supplicants are provided with the diagnoses of their vehicles’ condition. Supplicants are not afforded the luxury of privacy in these matters. One’s car’s diagnosis, prognosis and the cost of remediation is for all to hear.

As such, we in the “lower” waiting room witnessed one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives explain to a very old couple that the problem for which they had sought service had been repaired, but that a “safety check” revealed that the tires on their car were “dry-rotted”.

I thought, “Dry-rotted? How old could the farookin’ car be? Did they go ‘halvsies’ on it when they began dating, which probably was some time around 1925?

The Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative explained, “You should think about replacing them, because it is a safety issue. I’m not saying that you have to do it now, but you should think about it.

After the Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative returned to the Altar of the Automotive Masters of the Universe Service Desk, the two old people must have thought about it as well as the flaming, painful death that can result from riding around on dry-rotted tires, because the lady walked over to the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk, and after a few minutes returned to give the old man the story.

“That’s an awful lot for tires,” said the old guy.

The lady responded, “They’re Michelins”.

The old guy thought a minute and said, “Michelins? Those are Goodyears on there now. They were on there when we got the car.”

“But these are Michelins”

Shortly after that, they (the owners of new “Michelins”) were told they were free to leave.

As they walked past me, I could not help but think that they too looked just a little dry-rotted.

***

Next, I saw a different Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative tell a supplicant, who had a Blue Tooth thing plugged into his ear all the while he was in the waiting room (and therefore deserving of scorn), “The problem is that one of your hoses is dry-rotted”.

I figure that the dealer must have been running a special on dry-rot.

***

A few minutes later, one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives gave one of the supplicants, who had been summoned from the “upper” waiting room, some bad news:

Service Rep: “Sir, that problem you have where the windshield wipers won’t ‘park’ after you turn them off?”

Supplicant: “Yes?”

Service Rep: “Well that position on your wiper motor is shot. There are four positions in that motor, and the other three positions may go at any time. Parts and labor for that comes to $385.00”.

Supplicant: “Did you say $385.00?”

Service Rep: “Yeah, and your front brakes are just about shot too. Parts and labor for that will run you $250.00 [I’m not sure of this number, but I think it was something like $250.00]. Your trans fluid is also burned. It’s supposed to be cherry red, but yours is burned black. That’s gotta be drained and replaced with new fluid, or you could wind up with a trans problem. The cost on that is $160.00.

Supplicant: (reeling from the financial flaying he was experiencing) “Jeez, money is a little tight right now. I think you should fix the brakes and change the trans fluid.”

Service Rep: “OK, but you don’t want us to replace the wiper motor?”

Supplicant: “Well, they’re still working; they just don’t park when I shut them off. I’ll have to get that fixed another time.”

Service Rep: “I don’t know. Like I said, one position on the motor is shot and the others could go at any time. If the motor completely goes and you’re driving in the rain, you have a real problem. We are supposed to get heavy rain this weekend. [The remnants of hurricane Ernesto are supposed to arrive this weekend], and, you know, it’s really a safety issue. I’m not saying you have to replace it today, but you should think about it.” [I figure he must have studied under the Service Guy who sold the old people the “Michelins”.]

Supplicant: (looking like a beaten man) “OK. Replace the wiper motor too”

I was quietly wondering if the guy’s wiper blades were dry-rotted.

The guy retreated to the “upper” waiting room, presumably to call home with the bad news, or to slash his wrists.

Next thing I knew, I was released! My oil had been changed, and I was free to go. The Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car is still under warranty, so everything was found to be just fine. I guess the dry-rot and the burned out fluids and motors begin the day after the warranty expires.

Not only do we have never-ending traffic jams, high taxes, and a chronic bad attitude, but we also have some pretty loathsome characters who call this state home. Here are but a couple.

The Happy, Bragging Killer
His name is Noah Cuebas, and he is a convicted drug dealer who was released from prison in October 2004 on probation to live in a residential drug treatment program. While out on probation (and being sought for not reporting to his probation officer), he was picked up as a suspect in a carjacking. (He had originally been picked up the day after the crime, but fled from authorities.) The victims of the carjacking were a man and woman. The carjacker robbed the man, kicked him out of the car and drove the 22-year-old woman to a church parking lot in Newark, where he shot her in the head, leaving her in a coma.

When questioned by the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office, he freely admitted to the carjacking, demanded that his confession be videotaped, and boasted about other crimes he had committed while on probation. He wanted to be sure to get proper credit for all the crimes he committed during that time. He seemed particularly thrilled that the FBI had been brought into the case.

Here’s a sample of what this fine fellow was up to (in addition to the carjacking) while walking freely among us:

He fatally shot a 20-year old man in the back of the head and then proceeded to use the victim’s cell phone to call relatives of the dead man and threaten them. In one of the calls to the victim’s brother, he bragged about how the victim had begged for his life, and then he proceeded to give the brother directions (real-time) to the victim’s body. The brother of the victim stated:

As I got to the end of the alleyway, I turned and saw my brother’s boots. And this guy was saying in the phone, “You see him? You see him?” [the brother of the victim] said. He left messages saying he killed my brother because he owed him money and that he was going to kill me and my other brothers, too.

In March 2005, he sneaked into a man’s house and shot him in the face. Somehow, the man survived.

The following month, he forced a 14-year old runaway into a basement where he sexually assaulted her and then shot her in the head.

I cannot see any reason why a rabid animal such as this should not be put down. Unfortunately, it is not likely to happen, even though New Jersey still has a death penalty statute.

Read the whole thing.

Yet Another Crooked Pol.
Sure, another crooked politician in Jersey is hardly news, but when John “Fazz” Zambrano, 44, a Long Branch Councilman, pleaded guilty to extortion before a federal judge, he was one of “nearly two dozen public officials in Monmouth County who have been accused or convicted of corruption in the past two years”. One of the others who previously pled guilty to taking bribes was Zambrano’s brother. They each took money from an FBI undercover operative posing as a demolition contractor.

It is worth noting that certain Monmouth County towns are embroiled in eminent domain proceedings involving the condemning the property of residents in order to convey the land to private developers. No opportunities for corruption there, right?

Sometimes I could just puke.