The entire business (and I use the term “business” advisedly) of “global warming” makes my hair hurt. I suppose you can classify me as one of the “Deniers”.

Perhaps the planet is warming ever so slightly (as of this writing) but it has been warming and cooling in cycles for, oh, about a gazillion years. I also think it is far from clear that human activity has much, if anything, to do with this cycle of heating and cooling, notwithstanding what Al “No Controlling Legal Authority” Gore, the inventor of the internet, has to say on the matter. In addition, I am not persuaded by the pronouncements of the U.N. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (a political, not a scientific body — of the U.N., no less) urging that human activity is “very likely” the source of “global warming”.

So, imagine how pleased I was to see that Governor Corzine will issue an Executive Order that contains long-term “global warming” goals matched only by those in California. Dude! Global warming – like sooooo not cool.

The state legislature will have to pass a statute in order to implement the goals that are contained in the Executive Order. No problemo, that. Democrats Linda Stender and Barbara Buono are ready to hold hearings on New Jersey’s “Global Warming Response Act”. According to the Star Ledger, The New Jersey Department of Environmental Protection “will develop plans for meeting the goals in conjunction with the Department of Transportation, Board of Public Utilities [and] Department of Community Affairs …”

The prospect of four state agencies given the task of writing new regulations is downright frightening. Regulators just love to write regulations – lots of them. More regulations mean more bureaucracy, which in New Jersey means … yes, more taxes. Count on it.

If this continues, one day the only business left in New Jersey will be state government, and the only people left in the state will be state government employees. They can amuse themselves by regulating hell out of one another.

One has to wonder whether this decision to unleash the fury of four state regulatory agencies on the citizens of the Garden State was the net result of careful analysis of a complex issue, or whether it was a politically correct, feel-good maneuver designed to appeal to the folks who put Mr. Corzine into office. According to the Star Ledger, an unnamed Corzine staffer stated, “In the absence of leadership from the Bush administration, state action to address this global challenge is that much more important.”

Well, there you go.

I’m sure you’ve been aware of the Washington dustup over Nancy Pelosi’s use of a government plane to take her, her staff and relatives back and forth between Washington D.C. and California. The issue caused much spinning and teeth gnashing on both sides of the aisle, which even the White House characterized as “silly”.

Since 9/11 the Speaker of the House, for security reasons, has been provided with use of a government plane to fly back and forth to his district. The reason for this is because the House Speaker is third in line for the Presidency (heaven forbid). As such, the issue has become whether the type of aircraft used by former Speaker Dennis Hastert (whose Congressional District was in Illinois) could make the trip between the coasts without stopping to refuel.

One of the questions that was grist for the media was whether it was Speaker Pelosi or the Congressional Sgt.-at-Arms who actually requested the plane.

PRS Operatives have managed to secure a copy of the original letter drafted by Speaker Pelosi to the Pentagon requesting the use of a government plane. Here it is:

February 1, 2007

The Pentagram
Washington, DC 20301
Attn.: Secretary of Defense

Dear Secretary Rumsfeld, you Fascist Dog Gates:

Listen up, Bob.

As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I am the goddamned SPEAKER in the House. Yeah, that’s me up there with the gabel and the good looks. As the goddamned SPEAKER, I am entitled to a plane to take me (and whomever else I damned well please) back and forth between Washington and San Francisco, and I don’t want to hear any crap about it from you mutts at the Pentagram. Remember just who it is who hands out the money for your people and their stupid, expensive toys that go boom.

Here are my requirements:

Size

The plane better damned well not be one inch shorter or one inch narrower than the one that President Stooooopid rides around in. I may not be the President, but I damned well might be (Look it up, Bob), and I’m way more sophisticated than he is. I also need more room for my shoes and stuff.

Exterior

I want something, like, groovy – you, know, psychedelic, but in pastels – heavy on the dusty rose, with big swirly letters on the side of the plane that spell “Madam SPEAKER”. Oh, and I don’t want any goddamned flags painted on the exterior. They would clash with the design and, besides, the people in my district don’t much like the American flag anyway. I want the plane to display peace signs instead of flags.

Interior

I want everything that President McHitlerburtonchimpymissionaccomplishedrunkcollegefratboydrugaddledmoron has on his plane, plus the following:

Hot tub for four
Sauna
Steam Room
Mirrors on all four walls and ceiling in my bedroom
Two walk-in closets
Incense burners
Aroma Therapy-capable ventilation system
A safe in which I can store some special seasonings (I do so like to cook)

Miscellaneous

I insist on having a cabin attendant who is a real chef, like from France? Helloooooo? I don’t want some damned broken down army cook with a goddamned crew cut serving me army slop.

Speaking of the flight crew, I want them to dress in designer suits, not in those stupid soldier uniforms. The people in my district become upset when they see soldier uniforms. In addition, I don’t wish to be saluted by the flight crew – that’s, like, such a fascist thing. A deep bow when in my presence will do.

Very truly yours,
Madam SPEAKER

P.S. Don’t even think about jerking me around on this, Bob. Remember what I said about the goddamned money.

The Truism
As many of you know, I have spoken and sung into microphones for the better part of my life. One of the things that comes from having done so is my recognition of the following truism:

If you want to see a perfectly normal person make a complete ass of himself, just hand him (or her) a microphone.

Typically, they examine it by turning it in all sorts of directions (usually while wearing a silly grin), as if they are not quite sure which end to speak into. They then give it a tap or two tap, tap; they sometimes blow into it, and they almost always end up saying, “Is this thing on?” Problem is that while asking that question they inevitably cover the microphone with one of their hands (presumably so the audience cannot hear), which results in the inevitable blast of feedback sufficiently loud and shrill to sterilize everyone in the room and cause dogs a half mile away to howl.

Once you assure them that it is “on” and ask them not to cover the microphone with their hands, they will often again confirm that the microphone is indeed on, only this time so the audience can hear, “OK, this thing is on now.”

Satisfied that the microphone is indeed live, they begin to speak. The audience complains that the speaker cannot be heard. The speaker turns around and gives you the “You-said-this-thing-was-on” look. You explain that one must actually speak into the microphone in order to be heard and that holding it just slightly north of the navel will not get it done.

They resume speaking, but insist on holding the microphone a foot from their mouth, so you adjust the gain in an attempt to pick up the voice. That’s usually when they finally get around to bringing the microphone the proper distance from their mouth, which causes another blast of feedback and yet another dirty look from the speaker.

Naturally, the audience assumes that the speaker is doing just fine and reason for the ear-splitting squeals and speaker’s inaudibility is the incompetence of the boob turning the knobs.

I harbor fantasies handing such a person a flashlight instead of a microphone. Wanna bet they’d tap it, tap, tap and say, “Is this thing on?”

The Flip Side
The opposite of the type of person described above is the one who stands before a group of several hundred people and pushes an available microphone aside proudly saying, “I hate microphones. Never use ‘em. Can everybody hear me?”

Hearing no objections (It is rare that anyone will shout “No!”), he begins speaking, only after a minute or two to be completely drowned out by those in the audience who begin talking, because they cannot hear him.

At that point, he his handed the microphone, and the inevitable fun begins.

I often wonder if there are a finite number of Douchebag-Uses-a-Cell-Phone stories.

I’ve decided that the number is indeed finite, but it is possibly matched by the total number of grains of sand on all the beaches and in all the deserts in the world.

That said, here is yet another one.

I was sitting in a waiting room at a nearby surgical center. An intake/receptionist window was at the front of the room. All the chairs in the room were arranged much like church pews facing the front of the room. To the right of the receptionist window was a large sign that read, “Cell phone use is not permitted in this room.” Those words appeared below the symbol showing a cell phone in a red circle through which a diagonal red line is drawn (very similar to the sign shown above).

Got the picture?

May I be hit in the head with a bag of boogers if I’m lying, but a guy sitting in the front row, directly opposite the sign (It couldn’t have been more than six feet from his nose) pulled out his cell phone and made a call and proceeded to blab for several minutes. Note: He did not take a call and leave the room to talk. No, he placed a goddamned call.

There were some mutterings from others waiting in the crowded room, but they went unheeded by the cell phone vulgarian. I (and I suspect others) were all hoping that one of the peeps behind the window would enter the waiting room to tell the inconsiderate putz to “take it outside”, but it did not happen.

I should have moved to the front of the room to sit directly in front of the “No Smoking” sign and fired up a smoke. Just to make a point or two, ya know.

Today I underwent what has become a fairly common diagnostic procedure, which required 24-hours worth of advanced “preparation”. The preparation consisted of four laxative tablets and two ten-ounce bottles of citrate of magnesia spaced several hours apart. It also required close proximity to the loo.

Let me just say that Klee Irwin ain’t got nuttin’ on me.

I have been advised to “take it easy” today, which is nooooooo problem.

Later.

Remember back in 2001 when the General Services Administration signed a ten-year lease (at $354,000 per year) for Bill Clinton’s office on 125th Street in Harlem?

I sure do.

Now that we’re closing in on the sixth year of the lease term, I wonder how many times Bill has been to the place.

Just thinking out loud is all.

Da Goddess has posted two of Rob’s songs, neither of which I had previously heard.

Justice Laid Me Low (a song about a Lady of the Evening – at least he thought she was)

The Dutchman (I believe that’s Rob’s brother singing lead on this most excellent tune.)

Man, did I love pickin’ and grinnin’ with those guys.

More often than I care to admit, I find myself awakened in the wee hours of the morning by the sound of an infomercial that is all about, … well …, shit. Perhaps you’ve seen it. It pitches a product called “Dual Action Cleanse” and features a fellow named Klee Irwin, the self-proclaimed developer of the product, talking to two people (at least one of whom purports to be a physician, as I recall) all about, … well …, shit.

If this Klee fellow is to be believed, we are all strutting about with a pickup truck-sized load of shit parked in our intestines at any given time. This, in turn, is causative of everything from diabetes to global warming. What to do?

Klee says that what we all need is a damned good cleaning, which will result in the production of longer and fatter stronzi.

Can I get an “Amen”?

Perhaps the weirdest part of the infomercial is Klee Irwin’s appearance. He has slicked-back, mondo greasy hair, lots of make up and one of those pencil-thin mustaches (see above), which reminds me of Steve Buscemi’s scuzzoid character in the movie Fargo. Perhaps the theory is that, if you are going to be a snake-oil salesman**, you might as well look like a snake oil salesman.

Here is a site that contains some quotes and video clips of Klee Irwin talking animatedly about the size (length and girth) of his four- year old daughter’s turds. No kidding.

By comparison, the infomercial in which Ron Popeil pitches that “Set it, and Forget it” gizmo is a work of art.

No shit.

** Here is a medical review of “Dual Action Cleanse”. Klee Irwin’s company has marketed several other products, such as Green Tea Fat Metabolizer, Steel Libido for Women, Phase 2 Carb-Blocker, and the Feel Good Chocolate Diet. Notably, at least one of his other products has earned him a love note from the FDA.

Today, like 90+ million people, I will watch the Super Bowl. Truth is, I probably don’t even rise to the level of a casual football fan. I can probably name, at best, one or two players on either the Colts or the Bears. Maybe I can name twice that many on the team that plays in New Jersey and calls itself the “New York” Giants. Still, it is difficult not to be swept up into what has become a National Happening.

This year, as in past years, I will attend the Super Bowl Party at “Da Post”. My buddy Paulie and his brother Willie (the drag racer, who lets me pretend that I’m a member of the Pit Crew – the Junior Assistant Apprentice Parachute Packer and minder of the torque wrench), run the event. For a single, very reasonable, price there will be an open bar and lots of “manly” food available (on any other day, it might be called a hot and cold buffet, but not today).

Of course, the price of admission is only the starting point, because when I walk in the door, Willie, who is the “Pool Meister” will probably relieve me of at least fifty bucks, all the while calling me a “cheap f**k” loudly enough to get the attention of those who might have planned only to invest one or two bucks on a “square”, thereby causing them to rethink their wagering position. It’s become somewhat of a ritual, and I love it.

While Willie is running the pools (two for each quarter, two for the final score, and a couple more for God knows what else), Paulie mans the bar, and is often way more entertaining than the game – even the commercials.

Paulie’s non-stop, hilarious commentary on, well, everything, is worth the twice the price of admission. One of the best parts of the show is Paulie’s attempts to grapple with a drink request more complicated than a opening a bottle of his beloved Budweiser and his dishing the requestor a good-natured ration of shit.

You want a Manhattan? What the f**k color panties are you wearin’? Yo, Jimbo! This guy wants a Manhattan! How do you make that shit?

Hell, from time to time, I may even look in on the game.

America – Is this a great country, or what?

Have you ever gotten a paragraph or two into a post, only to take a look at the screen and think, “Feh!”? When this happens a couple of times during one sitting, I believe it is time to

And so I shall.

Later.