Speaking of racism on the federally regulated air waves, let’s remember that this guy has been granted access to them too.

Yes, buckaroos, Texas is calling. In a few weeks I’ll be heading off to the Lone Star State to meet up with a bunch of Blown-Eyed Blodgers in Kerrville. As was the case last year in Austin, I suspect that, in addition to attending the numerous writing seminars and symposia, we may also find time to have a few cocktails and do a few tunes. Denny promises to bring his axe and the the world-famous kazoo.

As it turns out, I will be arriving in San Antonio on the same plane as this Blown-Eyed Brooklyn Blodger. Oy!

So, it will be a Jersey knucklehead and a Brooklyn Joooish Babe struttin’ our shit through the San Antonio Airport and talkin’ like Tony and Carmela. Figure we might just stick out a teeny bit?

The good news is that I’ll be carrying a guitar case, so if any locals ask who we are, I plan on telling them that I’m in town to do a gig with Delbert and that, “This here lady is Loretta Lynnstein, one of Delbert’s favorite backup singers. Now where can we get us a Shiner Bock and some farookin’ decent barbecue?” That oughta do it.

Of course, it is possible that someone might say, “Hell, I know you! You’re that Jewish dentist named Mel. I didn’t recognize you without your hat!”

Yo! Youse gonna be in Kerrville, or what?

As I sit here without any terribly original thoughts, or an overpowering urge to dream some up, a few questions continue to bang around in my cruller. I would like to think that they are rhetorical, but I wonder. I suppose that’s why they’ve been banging around.

Does anyone really and truly think that Rosie O’Donnell is smart?

Does any American think that an Iran with nuclear weapons is a good thing? I figure getting that sorted out is a good starting place.

Does Hillary Clinton have a sincere bone in her body?

Seventy-one million blogs?

What kind of computer does Bill Gates have?

United States Quoiting Association? Who knew?

What would Abraham Lincoln think?

I began listening to Imus when he first came to New York (I believe it was ’71 or ’72). I listened every day, and I patiently awaited his return to New York from his banishment to Cleveland for having shown up on the air shitfaced and drugged out. I listened for damned near three decades.

However, a few years ago, I began to tire of what I perceived to be an increasingly long line of liberal weenies guests, each seemingly suffering from terminal Bush Derangement Syndrome. I tolerated Andrea Mitchell, Chris Matthews, Tim Russert, David Gregory, Maureen Dowd and even John Kerry. However, once Imus began to regularly refer to Vice President Cheney as a “war criminal” he lost me to a rival station.

Having said that, I have followed his most recent gaffe with some interest. Sure, what he said was absolutely uncalled for, cruel and insensitive, but in all my past years of listening to Imus I never thought him to be a racist. I still don’t.

As Erica notes, in our lives each of us has said something profoundly stupid and hurtful, which we immediately or ultimately regretted. Imus has made several on-air apologies, which was the right thing to do.

In my view, where he screwed up was taking the bait tossed out there by “Reverend” Al Sharpton and “Reverend” Jesse Jackson, two race hustlers whose economic well-being is based upon making sure that racism remains alive and well in America.

So, in the end, Imus made two mistakes. His first mistake was having made a particularly cruel remark about young women athletes. His second mistake was going on Al Sharpton’s radio show, kissing Al’s ass and getting burned for his trouble.

I hope he has learned something from both mistakes.

Now, if he ever gets around to apologizing for repeatedly calling a sitting Vice President a “war criminal,” I may just tune in again.

“Shots rang out.”

“Shots rang out?”

I got to thinking about that as I was walking this morning. Don’t ask me why. I assume it’s a cosmic thing.

Anyone familiar with the sound of gunfire knows that shots don’t “ring”. Farookin’ bells ring. And yet, in the written word, shots continue to “ring out”.

To wit, Google produces 157,000 hits for “shots rang out”.

I got to thinking a bit more about this weighty matter, and I wondered what other words might work instead of “rang”. How about these?

“Shots boomed out.” (“Boom” has a big gun sound.) Only 31 Google hits. WTF?

“Shots blasted out.” (“Blast” has some weight, methinks.) Damn, only 25 Google hits.

“Shots sang out.” (I figure if they can ring, they can sing.) Yikes! Only one Google hit.

“Shots tolled out.” (Hell, bells toll, so why not shots?) Wrong! Zero Google hits.

“Shots farted out.” OK, I know I’m reaching here, but I’m desperate. Nope. Zero Google hits, but Google suggested that I try “Shots fired out”.

OK, I’m game.

“Shots fired out.” Hey, Google may be on to something here. 305 Google hits.

And this silly shit demonstrates precisely why I should step away from this contraption and read a farookin’ book – one that hopefully has nothing to with shots ringing, booming, blasting, singing, tolling, farting, or firing out.

Later.

In a comment to yesterday’s post, Chickie shared

Not to make light of your washroom woes, but I am laughing my ass off right now (yes, pun intended). That shit drives me crazy (I can’t help it, sorry) – in the ‘ladies'” room (and I use that term loosely), these morons who squat drive me bonkers when they piss all over the seat and leave it there. Sit your ass down and pee dammit!

Squat pissing?

Not being one who frequents ladies’ rooms,** I was unaware of this curious phenomenon. Now that I have been put wise to this practice, I can only wonder if the squat pissers (Perhaps we should call them “Squissers”) realize that the pee-on-the-seat problem could be avoided by simply raising the farookin’ seat!

I know, I know, “Like, ewwwwww, Jimbo, I’d have to touch the seat!”

Truth is, I think that touching the seat (which, by the way, can be done with one’s foot, or with a piece of, yes, toilet paper in one’s hand) is only part of the problem . I think that women are genetically pre-disposed to NEVER lift the farookin’ seat, and heaven forbid that they have to actually lower the seat before sit pissing (but that’s the subject for another post).

Squissers would do well by taking a lesson from men, who have had the liftable seat thing wired for years.

**NOTE: Any mention of the one-time, unfortunate incident in Helen, Georgia will not be tolerated.

Let me say this. I have never put toilet paper over a toilet seat before I sit on it. To me, if a men’s room is scuzzy enough to worry about that (e.g. your typical shit-smeared, piss smelling, puke on the floor joint), I’ll make other arrangements to take care of No. 2.

No, I’m talking about a men’s room, which is not open to the public and which is accessible to only a few people who work in my vicinity. I’m talking about a men’s room that is regularly cleaned to a state of military spotlessness.

So, today I find that someone who used the men’s room before me felt compelled to cover the toilet seat with toilet paper — obviously not a guy who spent any time in the military. Now, I’m a “live-and-let-live” kinda guy. Hey, if you feel you want to cover a spotless seat with toilet paper before you place your royal ass on it, fine with me.

However; if covering the seat with toilet paper so as to ensure that your precious heiney cheeks never touch anything but toilet paper makes you happy, that’s fine, BUT when you are finished, kindly flush the goddamned ass paper down the toilet. Don’t leave it for the next poor slob ME to flush your goddamned Howard Huges ass-protection paper down the toilet.

Look, Dipshit, I’ve already got Algorism and Nancy Pelosi’s butt nuggetry tormenting me, so I don’t need to be worrying about how to get your goddamned ass-barrier toidy paper into the bowl and flush it away.

It would take the Army about twelve seconds to straighten out your sorry, papered protected ass.

That is all.

Quite a day, this.

First, the taxpayers of New Jersey, who are among the most heavily taxed in the nation, are told that we will be receiving “property tax relief”. Of course, much of the “relief” will be funded by the additional 16% more sales tax dollars each of us will fork over to Trenton as a result of the “one penny” sales tax increase enacted this year.

In addition, those of us who can do basic arithmetic know that, given the massive deficit the state faces and the increases in spending in the Corzine budget, the money to make up for the “tax relief” will have to come from somewhere.

Care to guess where the money will come from?

Then we read in the New York Times that,

… New Jersey has been diverting billions of dollars from its pension fund for state and local workers into other government purposes over the last 15 years, using a variety of unorthodox transactions authorized by the Legislature and by governors from both political parties.

For example, at one point, in a bond funding statement, New Jersey reported having made a $551 million contribution to the teachers pension fund for the 2005 fiscal year, but later, in an audited financial statement for the fund reported a $56 million contribution. It turns out that the actual amount contributed to the fund was ZERO.

It was estimated that the pension deficit could be $56 billion – Yes, that’s “billion,” with a “B”.

Earth to New Jersey Legislators and Governors, Past and Present: Properly funding future pension liabilities is a matter of federal law and regulation, and this money will have to be gotten from somewhere.

Care to guess where the money will come from?

My fellow New Jersey taxpayers, haven’t we now reached the point where Democrats and Republicans can finally agree that we have taken just about enough of this crap? If not, what the hell will it take?

VOTE THEM ALL OUT!

Speaker Pelosi During Her Excellent Adventure in Syria

Be afraid — Be very afraid.