I should warn you now that there is no one singular aim, focus, or theme in this entry.  Instead, today’s dispatch will parallel the activities I have planned for the garage this weekend.  Brush pick up is happening in my neighborhood this week and I’m cleaning out the clutter. 

It’s not like I’m going to produce something on the order of a gaggle of buckskin clad beauties dancing around a rhinestone cowboy or anything. 

As my dogs have walked up and down the streets this last week with me in tow, it’s been pretty obvious that I’m not the only one with a veritable plethora of flotsam and jetsam to leave curb side.  Along with the standard issue of tree branches and fence posts, my neighbors who reside within a one mile radius have taken steps to unload everything from laundry hampers to broken toys to mattresses to computer parts to vacuum cleaners. 

Hope ponders her next move.

Commodes appear to be on order as well, as you can find one immediately to the east and another one to the south of the TharpSter.Org compound.  The mere presence of such practical joke-worthy gold has nearly put The Pit into a tizzy with thoughts of pulling the ultimate prank on the neighbors with some low level bombing.  Fortunately, the virtual moat which surrounds the compound keeps her from running across the street and assuming the position of crouching tiger, hidden dragon on the discarded toilet.  It’s nice to know that even though she’s learning a thing or two in obedience training, she hasn’t lost her mischievous sense of humor.

Where that dog is concerned, I can’t help to sit here stupefied about what her life may or may not have been like before coming to the organization.  Every day she gives us a reason why it was a good decision to take her in.  Sadly, we received some bad news about her the other day.  It would seem that when we originally had her tested for heartworm back in January, the organisms in her blood were not sufficient enough to generate a positive test result. 

Now they are.

As soon as I can generate some major ad revenue for this site, I’m raising the rates in order to help pay for the treatment.

Overall, the outlook appears to be pretty good for Hope.  The biggest challenge will be to keep her calm, rested and lethargic in the weeks following the first treatment.  She’s yet to start taking after me, so such behavior won’t be inherent.

One other oddity about the trash pile I’ve attempted to assemble and retain at the edge of the compound is the sudden revelation that I appear to have better junk than my neighbors.  I know this because the drive-by looters and scavengers with their flatbed trailers and junk laden truck beds liberated everything I left out there yesterday, save for a basket weave hamper which has been on my hit list for years.  Watching all of my stuff go away so quickly gave me the same feeling I had when I had to make a call on keeping Brett Favre on the fantasy football roster this year.  Sure he’s been useful in the past, but his future is uncertain.  Sometimes you just gotta knowingly flip a two headed quarter and call tails.

The TharpSter PounDown continues.  I continue to use the app on a daily basis reporting whatever caloric input or output I undergo.  The total loss so far since I originally reported the event to you is four to five pounds, depending on whether I have my keys in my pocket whenever I get on the scale.

Speaking of food, wifey made a great dinner last night.  We had her homemade spaghetti, salad, and garlic bread.  Sure it seems like pretty plain Jane stuff, but you haven’t tasted her spaghetti. 

Don’t get me started on the garlic bread either.  The way that woman mixes the butter in with the garlic before spreading it on the French bread could very well be considered a work of art.  So much so, that the flavors lingered in the butter I spread on my toast this morning.  That was right before I put grape jelly on there though.  I haven’t quite mapped out how I came by eating garlic grape jelly on my toast this morning, however I can only guess that the organizational CFO’s efforts last night to provide us garlic bread may have generated unintended consequences.

Blog comment spam still appears to be on the rise.  I took steps last week to shut down the ability to place a comment on The Pit Bull Diaries page.  That particular page was being pounded with every piece of junk mail one could fathom.  Frankly, I was getting pretty sick and tired of moderating all of the irritating canned statements which offer no relevance to the post in which they’ve been added.

Perfect example:

“Low amounts of useless traffic” don’t bother me.  It’s the high amounts of useless traffic which litters my website with the electronic equivalent of door to door solicitors and circulated advertisements in my mail box that bother me.

The mischievous part of me is typically inclined to let the spam pass and subsequently use my creative outlet to criticize and mock the cranial shortcomings of others.  However since I’ve dedicated a big portion of this blog to big government types, I can’t see where it would be fruitful to duplicate my efforts.  Instead, I’ll just delete the spam with the caveat that I’ll discuss the extremely stupid ones in a blog every once in awhile.

So let’s do a quick checklist here to see if I was able to clear some of the clutter.

Trash pile.  Check.  

Pit Bull update.  Check.

Garlic grape jelly.  Check.

Blog comment spam (aka doosh baggery).  Check.

Buckskin clad beauties dancing around a rhinestone cowboy.  (I know.  I said I wasn’t going to go that far.)

Check.

It’s 7 am on a Saturday morning at the end of August.  The neighbors aren’t up.  I know this because I have an opportunity to read their newspaper.  I’m out in the backyard watching the dogs apply just enough canine urine (female) to the lawn in order to keep it qualified for hospice care.  The 68 degree temperature is uncharacteristic for south central Texas during this time of year.

I wrote the first two paragraphs of this article on my iPhone this morning in the notes application.  At the point I finished the second paragraph; the dogs approached me in their attention whore-like behavior.  In one way or another, I must have shaken the iPhone enough to activate the undo feature.  The only part which survived the shaking was the first sentence.  Needless to say, I was a little ticked off to find that all of the efforts I executed to fat finger yet another piece of verbal brilliance without hitting the ‘M’ key instead of the space key had been rendered moot.  Not wanting to lose such art again to a mere shake, I’ve decided to continue my Saturday morning soliloquy on the computer.

To me, it’s the strangest thing in which I come by the inspiration to compose these dispatches to the worldwide web.  Ninety percent of the material I manage to publish comes by way of some sort of waking epiphany which presents itself when my slumber ends and my consciousness takes hold.  On some of those mornings as I sit on the edge of the bed in a desperate attempt to conjure a really good excuse for avoiding the day’s agenda, the monologue between my ears kicks into high gear and I’m suddenly in possession of the next collection of a thousand words which will make its way onto my computer.    Sadly, my computer and ability to publish aren’t as fast as all of the colorful metaphors which sprout up during my brain’s process of assembling my next masterpiece. 

I had one of those mornings this morning.  Probably one of the most memorable terms which came to mind this morning was “nipple laden corpulence”.  Sure it’s a phrase which may get your attention for a moment or two, however unless there are pictures, I don’t believe it’s anything to keep a readers attention.

As much as I had wanted to fire up the pc at that exact moment in order to capture on hard drive that which was going through my head, I couldn’t.  Without saying a word, I had conveyed a non-verbal energy to TreadMill & the Pit that I would take them for a walk.  Canine impatience was edging out my creativity in an effort to reign supreme.

It had actually been quite some time since I had taken Faith on an early morning walk.  By getting away from that ritual, there have been consequences.  She’s lost the discipline of being a good doggy on a leash.  At the same time, I had lost any semblance of exercise that I bother to participate in.  Last night I had gotten the gumption to take her and her alone for a walk.  For whatever reason, I not only had the gumption to take her again just 12 short hours later, but I also felt compelled to include our pit bull Hope. 

That’s right people.  Walking these two gives me 35 pounds of resistance on one arm and 55 pounds on the other.  The saving grace is that Hope is pretty good with walking on a loose leash.  That’s except for when Faith is present, then she follows suit with the Faith’s bad habits.

For the most part, the morning walk was uneventful.  The odoriferous emanations of the morning conveyed the message to the three of us that there were skunks nearby, and they were probably in the midst of bumpin’ uglies. 

As I worked to clear such imagery from my mind, I continued to focus on being the calm, assertive pack leader to the dogs.  At the same time, I couldn’t help but ponder the possible danger we could be in on those occasions where we take our walk in the dark.  As a perpetual purveyor of the arts which involves wearing dark solids, I couldn’t help but to think that vehicles passing by may not see the three of us humping it up and down the street.  I should probably consider wearing lighter colors when I go out.  The alternative would be to put some reflective tape on my shirt.  Perhaps the words “In Tow” plastered across my back would do the trick.

I should probably take this moment to explain my gumption to get back into the habit of walking the dogs more regularly.  Obviously, the answer to that one is easy.  It’s good for the dogs and it exercises my control over them.  Hope is currently going through obedience training, so such activity will reinforce the lessons and commands which she’s taking in.

Granted, there is a selfish element involved which presented itself in the form of a sebaceous cyst.  Last week, I had an infected one on my sternum.  Without going into a lot of detail, let me assure you that it hurt to have it removed.  I’m pretty sure the term “nipple laden corpulence” came from my thoughts on discussing the cyst.  Prior to the surgeon making the thing look like a coin slot, the infected red bump had a nipple-like façade.

In the process of having the cyst taken care of, I found myself on the scales both at the regular doctor’s office as well as that of the surgeon.

Geez, I’ve let myself go.  

It wasn’t much of a surprise though.  The spring of 2010 had been pretty stressful, what with activities I had taken on in my personal life combined with an assignment at the auxiliary offices.  I don’t need to go see a shrink to understand that gluttony is probably one of my favorite defense and coping mechanisms. 

I’ve gotten off lucky with it though, as I don’t have any problems like high blood pressure, diabetes, or even the cholesterol issues which one would normally associate with such bad eating habits. 

Regardless, the number which showed up on the scale was way beyond what I have always considered unacceptable.  I need to do something about it. 

There’s a lady at the auxiliary office that has been in the process of losing weight.  She does a lot of walking and she’s adjusted her diet.  Based on what she’s done, I can at least start off by doing the same thing.  I’ve set my goals, my timeline, and my game plan.  I’m also tracking things through an app on my phone.  When all is said and done, the TharpSter PounDown Event of 2010 / 2011 will have me feeling a lot better about things within the next 12 months.

That’s all I’ll let you know.  I may follow up with the occasional update, depending on what creative word combinations my brain can generate on any given morning.  For now though, I’ve got to wrap it up here.   I’ve got to go find some reflective tape.

Naturally, the construction of this mosque flies under the social utopian banner of promoting good tidings to all colors and creeds. The creation of this center is touted to promote a better understanding of the Muslim faith.

Those who have publicly supported it have a resume of blaming America for the ills of the world. On top of that, they have spent their share of time endeavoring to apologize, kowtow, and appease the Muslim world in a vain effort to convince them that this country isn’t the kick ass visit to the Bass Pro Shop like place to live as our forefathers originally intended.

Constitutionally, those who oppose the construction of the center don’t really have the law on their side. Certainly the mosque could be a breeding ground for anti-American sentiment. Religious intolerance has become a way of life here in America in recent years if you are anything but Muslim. Case in point is the Greek Orthodox church which was destroyed when the towers fell. Efforts have been underway for years to get that rebuilt, however the chances of that pipe dream coming true are right behind the odds of my lottery investment paying off tonight.

Meanwhile, the most radical adherents of an otherwise beautiful religion have been given carte blanche to rub our noses in that horrible Tuesday morning while enjoying the freedoms and rights granted to us by the first amendment of the United States Constitution.

At the same time, mosque boy jet sets to the other side of the world promoting his dream on our dime. Congress (namely Nancy Pelosi) has reportedly pondered the half baked idea (most of her ponderances are) of investigating those who have spoken out against the construction.

Realizing that a legal fight over the construction could be a losing battle, there are others who have suggested a myriad of neighbors for the center. Among those are a collection of American bad boys such as the white supremacists, Hells Angels, assorted gangs, and the list goes on. One of the more creative suggestions has been an Islam friendly gay bar. I would suggest that Hugh Hefner put a mansion down there and continue to live life in the same manner he does in California. Contrary to popular belief, cultural understanding is not a one way, dead end street.

In firing up the synapses to write this piece, one of my original ideas was to write a letter to the State Department. In that letter, I would make the case for traveling abroad (or a broad; it doesn’t matter) to share the real American way of life with those who may not be familiar with it. Naturally, I would ask the Pantsuit of State herself to foot the bill. I’ve got to think they would be willing to do so since they’re doing it for Ground Zero’s new neighbor.

My trip wouldn’t be half as expensive as that of mosque boy though. In my case, I would be looking to visit places in this hemisphere to promote and educate those unfamiliar with how America should really be. Washington DC would probably be the best place to start.

It’s not like we could take reciprocal action and go build some sort of church, temple, or other place of worship on foreign soil under the same premise for which the mosque is being built. The primary reason resides in the fact that even the biggest doosh bags who have hijacked, twisted, and otherwise manipulated our religions have never committed acts of violence on the same magnitude in the name of God. I’ll leave the caveat that such an action hasn’t been perpetrated in the common era.

None the less, I’m no fan of sending the likes of Jim jones, David Koresh, of even Fred Phelps and his “God hates fags” crowd off to unfriendly territories outside of the states in an effort to promote America either.

So where does that leave us?

Do we allow a Hamas friendly imam to build a place of worship within blocks of where the intolerant adherents of his religion changed America forever?

Sure, we could tell them to go build it somewhere else. There are many other mosques in town for that matter. Why there?

Better yet, do we set aside their rights and tell them to go pound sand?

I don’t know.

What I do know though, is that this shining city on a hill has come to a pretty sad state of affairs at the point where we even have to have this discussion.

I don’t really remember what was going on at the time that made me even think of such a pivotal moment in my youth.  None the less, the memory was suddenly there.

As potentially embarrassing as a recounting of the event could be, I feel it only necessary to report it so I can bring that whole minute long instance full circle and resolve the matter once and for all.

I didn’t always have a little brother.  In fact for the first 21 months of my life, I led a care free life where the only competition I had was a border collie spaniel mix who had a thing about scratching the cheeks of one year old boys who perpetually tested the premise of canine patience.  Name a dog after a Dickens malcontent and that’s what you get. 

At some point before I doubled my age from one to two, my little brother was born.  Since we were born within a few years of each other, we were always pretty close.  Mom used to dress us in the same shirts and haul us down to Sears every year whenever the photography studio contracted by the retail giant was in town on their annual visit.  That’s a pretty strange concept nowadays, what with a portrait studio in most of your retail stores coupled with an abundance of digital photography at our disposal.

One of the biggest regrets I ever had about that kid was the fact that it was always very difficult to maintain a Svengalian hold over him.  I don’t know if it was because we were so close in age, or the mere fact that he bore ill will against me about that whole cesarean birth thing. 

You’re wondering about the cesarean birth thing, right?

I don’t know what the common mindset is today, however back in the Johnson and Nixon years, if one kid arrived in this world via cesarean birth then all subsequent kids from the same mother would be born the same way.  Whereas I was born via c-section, so was he.  Add to that the fact that he was born on a Friday the 13^th. 

Even though I tried to boss him around a bit while at the same time passing on big brotherly wisdom, it usually fell on deaf ears.  One time when we were old toddlers but not quite grade schoolers we were playing around in the back yard and came upon a freshly deposited pile of something the dog had left on the ground.  I pointed to it and told my little brother “Don’t step in that.”  His response was probably the first in a series of snapshots throughout the next ten or fifteen years which showed that he really wasn’t of the mind to lend credence to my words of wisdom.

Let’s get back to my flashback.  It involves my brother, however not to the extent that he never listened to me.  I just wanted to tell the story about how he stepped in poop at least once on purpose.  

As I remember it, I don’t think we were more that ages 5 and 3 when it all happened.  At that age, young boys are discovering stuff.  My brother and I were no different, and as a result things were apt to spring up every once in awhile.  Whenever these things came up, I felt I had a pretty good understanding of the cause and effect of things, along with the remedy.  Being the know-it-all that I was, I felt it was only necessary to pass my words of wisdom on to my little brother.  When applied correctly, such a wealth of knowledge could only make life much easier.

Out of the blue one day, I offered a little tidbit of brilliance.  “Hey Bobby, guess what.  You know when you wake up and your tee-tee is standing straight up?”  At that point, I caught Mom’s head perk up from behind a newspaper and look over at me out of the corner of my eye.  I’m sure she was quite relieved that I was passing such valuable information on to my little brother so she wouldn’t have to.  “It’s standing up because it’s full.  You’ve been asleep for awhile, and that’s your tee-tee telling you to go to the bathroom.”  Mom appeared to be in agreement, because she didn’t say a word.  She went back to reading the paper, however I never could understand how she was able to read it, what with all of the shaking and giggling she was doing.

Now that I’ve gotten that piece of my formative years out and in the open, I feel a lot better.  I can only guess what potential mental torture I could have succumbed to if I had kept that one bottled up inside.

As if you cared (don’t worry about that part as I’m apathetic to the cause as well), I’ve spent the last several hours going back and forth between my two PC’s in a vain, yet desperate attempt to solve their problems.  Our main PC has issues with IE8; where every time I close it, a message comes up advising me that the browser has stopped working and is being restarted as a result.  Well dummy, I don’t want it restarted.  I want it closed.

Naturally, you’re thinking to yourself “Just use a different browser.”  That’s easier said than done.  For reasons unknown, I can’t access TharpSter.Org in another browser.  I know that other people can on other PC’s, so it’s ultimately in the settings on this PC where the bane of my computing experience resides.

The other PC is a 7 year old hand-me-down which computes and processes with all of the speed of an Etch-A-Sketch. 

It’s like I said.  This is nothing to concern yourself with.

In the process of uninstalling and reinstalling IE, my email managed to pick up some RSS feeds from MSNBC.  If you’re one of the 10 people who have ever watched that network on any given night, then you’ll understand after reading my politically inspired rants that I’m no fan of that vast expanse of doosh-baggery that litters cable systems nationwide.  Ranter’s note:  I specifically spelled the word ‘douche’ that way so as not to confuse the flatulence which MSNBC broadcasts on a daily basis as having the ability to hold water.

Anyway, in the process of right clicking on the spam like feed in order to dispatch with it as swiftly as possible, my hyperopic eye caught a glimpse of a news bit which published earlier today.  The headline read as:  Air Force Two in minor incident on Long Island – Jet wash from vice president’s plane knocks over small, private craft

Interesting.

Over all, the article garnered all of four paragraphs explaining pretty much what appeared in the headline.  The interesting thing about this article is the last paragraph, which reads as follows:

Air Force Major Michelle Lai says Biden’s 757 took off with those aboard apparently unaware of what had happened.

I think by now that you should know that I’m all about seeing metaphors in everything.  Naturally this story serves as no exception.

A member of the current administration, in the daily execution of their duties as dictated by their agenda, created damage in the private sector. 

This is nothing new.

The only difference between what they’ve done for the last 19 months versus what happened today is that they’ve known all along what they were doing to the private sector.  For them, today’s incident was what the late Bob Ross would refer to as a “happy little accident”.

Sometimes the moment arises where you have an itch just deep enough in your ear canal that your fingernail just can’t reach.  At the same time, a paper clip or the door key to your 1984 Chevy Citation just won’t do the trick.  That’s when the Q-Tip or even the more generic term “cotton swab” does the trick.

You didn’t come here to read a thousand words on the virtues of ear canal nirvana did you?  If you did, I’m afraid that I’m going to stop at about a hundred.  While the subject matter does deserve some attention, I just can’t see eating up precious space on the web with verbal brilliance about the attention whores the nerve endings in my ears have become in my approach to my mid-life metamorphosis.

One of the few conveniences the arrival of the 21^st century has provided to us is the ability for just about anyone with a camera built into their cell phone to take a picture of just about anything and publish it to the web nearly instantaneously.  For that matter, they don’t even need a computer to do it.  Anyone with a data plan or some sort of web access on their phone can do it now. 

I’m sure Thomas Edison would be proud.

The perfect example comes from last week when I posted a picture of succotash to my Facebook photo album from a booth at Ruby Tuesdays.  The decision to post a picture of vegetables that day was probably a smart one.  Had it been twenty years ago and I had been with a group of my buddies instead of my beloved wife and kids; I would have looked to get a picture of the sweet young thing that put that succotash on the table in front of me.  Being the devoted husband and father that I am, I opted to post a picture of the vittles instead. 

When I uploaded the picture, I put a simple caption on it which said “Sufferin’?” 

Whereas a couple of the enlightened souls who grace my friends listing would normally add their own commentary to such a picture, no one responded to it. 

On a side note, my teenaged son has taken to using the lovely young lady who served us our dinner that evening as the benchmark in which to compare other observations he makes when out in public.  “Wow.  She’s almost as hot as the one a Ruby Tuesdays.”

For those of you who have never encountered a boy in his teens whose hormones are starting to rev up, it’s really quite an amusing sight.  Sure I went through the same thing at his age, however at this point I get to watch it from a “been there, done that” point of view. 

Just the other day while surfing the net, I ran across the symptoms of heat stroke in dogs.  Those signs are wide eyes, bright red tongue, thick saliva, and heavy panting.  Anytime Megan Fox shows up on the TV around here, my son displays the same symptoms. 

With the launch of TharpSter.Org last year, I’ve found myself to be more apt to take pictures of the weird stuff I see so that I can put them out there for everyone to see.  I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m usually one of a small few to find anything in these pictures to be humorous, strange, or ironic.  On the other hand, it gives me something to write about outside of the shenanigans being perpetrated on the American people by my dogs, Congress, or even TOTUS & The Symbiont. 

In the last month, I’ve encountered two different instances which either didn’t make sense, or seemed just a bit odd.  Technically I can think of a third, however how much can I really expand on the cargo shorts I bought yesterday that had a belt sewn into the waist band AND a set of belt loops?

Last night, the CFO of the organization made a delicious chicken fajita dinner.  She grilled up some peppers and onions along with the chicken, and made some fresh homemade salsa and pico de gallo to boot.  We also had some nacho cheese out of a jar for additional chip dipping.  I’ve never really publicized it, but we have a rule within the organization which dictates that all chips should be dipped.  No exceptions.

As tasty as dinner was last night, I’m still trying to understand why the whipped cream was on the table with everything else.

Speaking of food, let’s talk turducken.  For those of you who aren’t familiar with this dish, it’s a combination of a turkey, a duck, and a chicken (all deceased).  The unique thing about this combination is that one is shoved in another, which is then shoved in another in an effort to produce a culinary delight.  I personally have never had a turducken, however I’ll say this.  Any dish which possesses the word “turd” in its spelling is going to give me pause to consider whether I should really be eating it.  Consider dishes like turdloaf, turdsoufflé, turdchiladas, and turdgumbo.  Authors note:  I had to add those words to the custom dictionary on my PC here so as to get rid of the little red squiggly lines which frequently warn me when I’ve misspelled something.

Anyway, turducken appears to be available in presentations other than the traditional ornithological Frankenstein you may see on a lunch or dinner platter on the fourth Thursday of November around the time of day either the Detroit Lions or the Dallas Cowboys are playing football on TV. 

That’s right people.  Turducken is now available in a can.  It’s not one of those gallon sized cans that you can buy at the local warehouse grocer either. 

Nope.

This stuff is available in a 14 ounce can like your normal can of vegetables.

I should take the opportunity now to let you know that even though you can purchase turducken in a can, its availability may be limited.  Try the pet food aisle at your grocery store first.  If that doesn’t work, you should be able to find it at Pet Smart. 

Give me a quick show of hands now.  How many of you are wishing I wrote about the wonder of Q-Tips?

Now I’m not going to sit here and suck the next few minutes out of your life by extolling all of the benefits and virtues I gained from participating in that program.  Instead, I’m going to talk about one particular activity which takes place within the Cub Scouts.  That activity is the Pine Wood Derby.

If you’ve never participated in this activity either as a kid or a parent, I highly recommend it.  The whole event revolves around racing cars made of wood (pine; that is) down a specially made track and onto glory. 

I was involved in the creation of five cars in total.  There was one for each of the three years I was a Cub Scout.  Since my little brother was involved too, I was able to participate in an open division in the two years after I left the Scouts where he was still in it.

TharpSter Brother's Pine Wood Derby Car

The creation of these cars starts with a block of wood, four plastic wheels, and four nails which serve as axles.  From there, you break out your drills, sandpaper, chisels, palm sanders, jig saws, sandpaper, circular saws, sandpaper, an adz or two, sandpaper, fishing weights, sandpaper, some graphite, and assorted paints in order to construct the fastest 5 ounce block of wood known to exist in the tri-county area. 

Did I mention sandpaper?

You may have noticed that I indicated earlier that I was involved in the creation of five different cars in my pine wood derby days.  That’s kind of a strange choice of words, don’t you think?  Wouldn’t you think that if I had actually built my five ounce speedster all on my own, that I would have said so?

You betcha.

Perhaps I should take a moment or two to describe my upbringing.  Short of the fact I was the short pudgy kid that got picked on a lot; I led a pretty normal life.  In those years attending elementary school, junior high, and high school, I signed up for and played five different sports, played two different instruments, and participated in a show group which played sell out venues to captive audiences at retirement centers, hospitals, shopping centers, and Shiners’ halls throughout the metropolitan area.  I was never in need for anything, yet at the same time I wasn’t overly privileged either.  I wasn’t abused, but I was disciplined with the side of Dad’s boot or a 3 foot section of orange Hot Wheels track known as “The Orange Paddle”.  I have no emotional scars from those sessions at all.  I grew up in what anyone would consider a normal life.

That’s not to say that I have no emotional scars though. 

In fact, the most vivid memory I have of a parental borne atrocity which could be perpetrated on an 8 year old kid is the mere audacity that Dad possessed to commandeer the construction of my first five pine wood derby cars, along with the three which my brother was involved in.

I’m not bitter though.

After all, I did get the wonderful opportunity to sit on the stool in the corner with shaved block of wood in one hand and a sheet of high grit sandpaper in the other.  I know they weren’t diagnosing Attention Deficit Disorder back in the 70’s, but if they were, Dad had a way to find its catalyst.  If Dad didn’t have me sanding that car, he would have had me looking for the left handed coping saw instead.

In addition to sanding that stupid block of wood by hand, while sitting on a stool next to the shelf where Dad kept the palm sander, I did get the chance to paint it too.  Granted, the main thing we did in the decoration of those cars was to put them in an open box and spray them down with a high gloss spray paint.  Detail pin striping was then put on once the paint was dry by “a steady hand”.  Does anyone here know of any 8 year old kids with “a steady hand”?  As the years progressed, the painted detailing evolved into sticker detailing instead.  If memory serves, a couple of those cars did pretty well in the races that followed.

Did I mention that I’m not bitter about my limited involvement in the construction of my pine wood derby cars?  I’m really not.  In fact, the entire event has been a running joke between Dad, my brother and I for at least the last twenty years.  It took my brother and me about 10 to 15 years to get over it before we could start laughing with Dad about it. 

There was a point about 10 years ago when my very own opportunity had presented itself to construct a pine wood derby car all by myself.  My son had shown an interest in the Cub Scouts, and a pack had formed at his school.  We were a few months into the school year, and the Pine Wood Derby was coming up.  The boy was only 6 or 7, and I didn’t really feel good about him taking any sort of drill, jig saw, adz, or melted fishing weight to a block of wood.  Wifey would have never forgiven me if I let the boy do some woodworking, only to pull back a bloody nub.  Fortunately, sanding isn’t a very dangerous process when you do it by hand.  You can do it just about anywhere.  All you need is a comfortable stool and a corner to put it in.

With the boy’s ultimate safety in mind, I set out to constructing the Pine Wood Derby car.  I even called Dad a couple times in that process.  I didn’t call him for guidance though.  I called to brag.  “Hey Dad, guess what?  I’m making a Pine Wood Derby car.  Now I can get rid of all of that emotional pain you caused me all those years ago when you hijacked mine.  How does that feel?”  Dad just snickered.

Unfortunately, the construction of that car never bore fruit.  At some point when I was working out the logistics of hiding a magnet in the nose of the car, the Cub Scout pack with which we were affiliated broke up.  I don’t know all of the details involved.  What I do know is that there would be no derby for me (and my son) to participate in that year.  Maybe there would be a chance next year.

Next year never came.  Even when a new pack formed a year or two later, my son wasn’t interested.  Do you remember a couple of years ago when the New England Patriots went undefeated the entire season, only to lose the Super Bowl?  Can you imagine how every die hard Miami Dolphins fan as well as every member of the 1972 Dolphins felt when the Patriots fell short in the Super Bowl?  I’m pretty sure that deep down; there was a little voice in Dad that was feeling the same way.  I had a chance to steal his thunder in my grasp and it slipped away.

Well my friends, lightning may not strike the same place twice but wonderful opportunities tend to repeat if you know what to look for.  My son is 16 now, and far from getting involved with a Pine Wood Derby.  My 14 year old daughter is not interested in advancing women’s rights via the Cub Scouts either.  I have a couple of nephews who will be scouting age in a few years; however their fathers have cooler tools than I do.  It would be a severe breach of man-law to even consider hijacking the construction of my nephews’ cars anyway.

Just when I was at the point where I had written off the opportunity of constructing my own Pine Wood Derby car until the arrival of a grandson, a chance has come up from the one place where I never would have expected it.  That’s right people.  We’re having a Pine Wood Derby at work.  I don’t know who suggested, approved, sanctioned, or funded it, but I’m all for it. 

I have a few weeks to design and build a car.  A name for the TharpSter SpeedSter is still in the works.  If I’m lucky, I can get good ole Dad to come into town for a few days to help me out with it.  After all, I’m going to need help sanding that bad boy.

Now I won’t bother to bore you with the intricate details of the goings on of my personal life.  It will be much easier to bore you with the contents of this blog without delving into a bunch of stuff for which I consider none of your bidness. 

There are, however, a few things I will discuss. 

Most notable of the changes over the last year is the addition of Hope to the organization.  On January 10^th of this year, I rescued her from a hard life of living outside the auxiliary office while being fed cafeteria turkey burgers by fellow cubicle dwellers.  She’s introduced a whole new dynamic to the organization, and I thank God everyday that His Grace put that dog in my home not once, but twice. 

In addition to taking care of her daily needs, we’ve taken on another responsibility involving Hope that most dog owners don’t have.  For some stupid reason, her page here on TharpSter.org has been the recipient of more comment spam than any other page on this website.  Everyday for the last month, I’ve spent the better part of a good minute deleting a plethora of incoherent comments about everything but the subject matter in question, along with all types of links to creative and colorful sites which showcase everything from watching stupid chick flicks for free online, to monkey porn.  I’ve let some of it (sans links) through because it’s somewhat constructive and on subject.  The rest of it gets deleted, which is much kinder treatment than what the Pit Bull featured in the article would do to the collective hangy-downies of the short bus brigade who chooses to litter my creative outlet with their innate ability to copy and paste. 

So Hope has arrived.  That’s a good thing where the dog is concerned, however elsewhere, it’s not so much.

Don’t get me wrong though.  I do have hope.  The circumstances for which I have hope are indicative of things gone wrong.

Last year when I launched TharpSter.Org, America was already beset with massive deficit spending and an enormous debt to pass on to our children and grandchildren.  We had a federal government with pie in the sky machinations of creating a social utopia, borne of the imaginations of some of the most radical among us.  At the time, we had a porous border in which a countless number of immigrants were entering this country illegally in search for a better life.  On top of that, we had a government which for the most part refused to enforce its own laws.  In the summer of 2009, America was post-racial.  The country had proven itself as such by electing its first black President.  Last year, we had Justices on the Supreme Court who were put there based on the content of their character, their level of experience, and their ability to interpret the law.  Last year, unemployment was hovering around 9 ½%.  Businesses, big and small were leery of hiring additional staff for fear of what the administrations policies would do to them.  During the hot summer months of 2009, the White House posted a blog asking its readers to report suggested mischaracterizations about pending legislation to a special email address which funneled right into the administration.  At the time, we had a gaggle of elected officials in Congress who held powerful positions, and had used their power and influence to garner special perks for themselves.  When TharpSter.Org went live, this country was on a recovery from what’s been called the brink.

Those were the good old days.

Naturally, I could spend the next 300 – 600 words on a rant.  I could go into extreme and colorful detail about the multiple assaults our freedom was undertaken in the last twelve months.  I could describe how absolutely wrong it is for the federal government to sue a state over illegal immigration.  I could report both personal accounts as well as those made in the news about how race relations in this country have gotten worse over the last year.  I could tell you about the last two appointees to the Supreme Court, and how they aren’t the right people for the job.  I could recount a statement made on one of the minion-like networks tonight about the suggestion out there that big and small businesses aren’t hiring because they want this President to fail.  I could also pass on the revelation that Congress still needs to clean up shop.

I’m not going to tell you about those things though.  You should already know about them. 

Instead, all I’m going to do is call for hope and change.  It worked a couple of years ago for our young President, so why wouldn’t it work for us as well?  After all, it’s not like he can run on the same mantra in 2012.  To do so, he would have to admit that the spirit of “Yes, we can” should have been “No, we shouldn’t”.

Regardless of whether the current administration will do it or not, I’m saying it here and now.  There is no reason for us to wallow in the muck and mire of high unemployment, high taxes, individual mandates, and an otherwise poor economic outlook all for the purpose of exacting social justice and collective salvation for the sins of our fathers.  We’re on the wrong path now, and it’s now time to call for a new spirit of hope and change.  

Election day is in 99 days.  Where are you going to be?

Now I won’t bother to bore you with the intricate details of the goings on of my personal life.  It will be much easier to bore you with the contents of this blog without delving into a bunch of stuff for which I consider none of your bidness. 

There are, however, a few things I will discuss. 

Most notable of the changes over the last year is the addition of Hope to the organization.  On January 10^th of this year, I rescued her from a hard life of living outside the auxiliary office while being fed cafeteria turkey burgers by fellow cubicle dwellers.  She’s introduced a whole new dynamic to the organization, and I thank God everyday that His Grace put that dog in my home not once, but twice. 

In addition to taking care of her daily needs, we’ve taken on another responsibility involving Hope that most dog owners don’t have.  For some stupid reason, her page here on TharpSter.org has been the recipient of more comment spam than any other page on this website.  Everyday for the last month, I’ve spent the better part of a good minute deleting a plethora of incoherent comments about everything but the subject matter in question, along with all types of links to creative and colorful sites which showcase everything from watching stupid chick flicks for free online, to monkey porn.  I’ve let some of it (sans links) through because it’s somewhat constructive and on subject.  The rest of it gets deleted, which is much kinder treatment than what the Pit Bull featured in the article would do to the collective hangy-downies of the short bus brigade who chooses to litter my creative outlet with their innate ability to copy and paste. 

So Hope has arrived.  That’s a good thing where the dog is concerned, however elsewhere, it’s not so much.

Don’t get me wrong though.  I do have hope.  The circumstances for which I have hope are indicative of things gone wrong.

Last year when I launched TharpSter.Org, America was already beset with massive deficit spending and an enormous debt to pass on to our children and grandchildren.  We had a federal government with pie in the sky machinations of creating a social utopia, borne of the imaginations of some of the most radical among us.  At the time, we had a porous border in which a countless number of immigrants were entering this country illegally in search for a better life.  On top of that, we had a government which for the most part refused to enforce its own laws.  In the summer of 2009, America was post-racial.  The country had proven itself as such by electing its first black President.  Last year, we had Justices on the Supreme Court who were put there based on the content of their character, their level of experience, and their ability to interpret the law.  Last year, unemployment was hovering around 9 ½%.  Businesses, big and small were leery of hiring additional staff for fear of what the administrations policies would do to them.  During the hot summer months of 2009, the White House posted a blog asking its readers to report suggested mischaracterizations about pending legislation to a special email address which funneled right into the administration.  At the time, we had a gaggle of elected officials in Congress who held powerful positions, and had used their power and influence to garner special perks for themselves.  When TharpSter.Org went live, this country was on a recovery from what’s been called the brink.

Those were the good old days.

Naturally, I could spend the next 300 – 600 words on a rant.  I could go into extreme and colorful detail about the multiple assaults our freedom was undertaken in the last twelve months.  I could describe how absolutely wrong it is for the federal government to sue a state over illegal immigration.  I could report both personal accounts as well as those made in the news about how race relations in this country have gotten worse over the last year.  I could tell you about the last two appointees to the Supreme Court, and how they aren’t the right people for the job.  I could recount a statement made on one of the minion-like networks tonight about the suggestion out there that big and small businesses aren’t hiring because they want this President to fail.  I could also pass on the revelation that Congress still needs to clean up shop.

I’m not going to tell you about those things though.  You should already know about them. 

Instead, all I’m going to do is call for hope and change.  It worked a couple of years ago for our young President, so why wouldn’t it work for us as well?  After all, it’s not like he can run on the same mantra in 2012.  To do so, he would have to admit that the spirit of “Yes, we can” should have been “No, we shouldn’t”.

Regardless of whether the current administration will do it or not, I’m saying it here and now.  There is no reason for us to wallow in the muck and mire of high unemployment, high taxes, individual mandates, and an otherwise poor economic outlook all for the purpose of exacting social justice and collective salvation for the sins of our fathers.  We’re on the wrong path now, and it’s now time to call for a new spirit of hope and change.  

Election day is in 99 days.  Where are you going to be?

The sad thing is that his sycophantic minions and a healthy dose of those who participated in the great suffrage of the uninformed event of 2008 don’t even realize what the President is doing to this country with his agenda.  They look to the collapse of the financial industry in 2007 as fruit born of the policies from the previous administration.  Little do they know a big portion of that collapse was engineered not by tax cuts on this country’s top wage earners and producers, but on the socially utopian idea that equal outcome reigns supreme over equal opportunity. 

One of these days, I’m going to gather a whole group of people who I know voted for Obama and ask them some very specific questions. 

“When you voted for our President, did you know that you were voting for a normal and sustained unemployment average of 9 %– 10%?” 

“When you pulled that lever, did you know the man you voted for was going to go all over the world bowing to the leaders of other countries and apologizing for our country’s ability to kick some ass?” 

“When you dangled the chad, did you know that he was going to make a bunch of back room deals to get his signature agenda item through, even though the national polling was against the universal healthcare plan as proposed?” 

“Did you know that he was going to trash the whole concept of separation of powers by trashing the Supreme Court in front of Congress and the world?” 

“Did you expect that he would trash a state for trying to enforce federal laws which are already on the books?” 

“What about the Bush tax cuts?  Did you know those expire at the beginning of next year?  Did you know that if Obama lets those cuts expire, the year of 2011 will represent a major train wreck on our economy?”

“Did you even understand of the nature of the hope and change you were voting for, or did you just listen to the Bush hating media to get an idea that we needed something different at any cost?”

Sadly enough, I expect that most of my focus group won’t understand the source of this country’s problems reside in the very essence of what they consider hope and change.  Even worse is the fact that the rose colored glasses are too dark for them to truly understand what their favorite son is doing to us.

It would seem we can’t move from one week to the next during the 44^th presidency without experiencing what can only be described as a “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot” moment every time the Teleprompter-in-Chief tries to pass off some far fetching semblance of reality.  He accepted the Nobel Prize based on his potential instead of his achievement.  He lost the Olympics for Chicago by selling himself instead of his hometown.  He’s given an ear to the thugs of the world and the heel of his shoe to our friends.  He’s sold t-shirts on his own website which tout the same statement that the Vice President uttered on an open microphone when healthcare legislation passed.  He brought in the leader of a country which produces one our biggest problems with illegal immigration and allowed him to scold us for our attempts to strengthen our border security.  His public responses to terror attempts on our own soil have been slow when it has come for him to make the requisite statement about the event.  He’s Mirandized illegal enemy combatants on the battlefield.  He’s told lie after lie after lie about the previous administration and even his own.

Yet today, ladies and gentleman, the three letter acronym derived from “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot” rang loud and clear when TOTUS displayed the audacity to it’s symbiont the following words with regard to the BP oil spill:  “In the same way that our view of our vulnerabilities and our foreign policy was shaped profoundly by 9/11, I think this disaster is going to shape how we think about the environment and energy for many years to come,”

For those of you who haven’t been paying attention, I’ll provide you some insight.  The oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico is going badly for the President.  He’s being looked upon to get the whole issue resolved, however nothing is working.  Obama has spent more time exercising his super powers of blame assessment instead of trying to get the problem solved by means other than keeping the boot on the throat of BP.  There have been many comparisons of the BP oil spill to problems that Hurricane Katrina caused for the Bush Administration. 

The 9/11 attack was a pivotal moment in the Bush era because he did the right thing at the right time.  Within 6-8 weeks of the attacks, Bush had already taken the steps to get Afghanistan out from under the rule of the Taliban, and was aggressively taking steps to kill off Al Qaeda. 

Comparatively, it took Barack Obama the same amount of time to announce to the world that he was looking for an ass to kick up to a month ago.  With that in mind, it’s pretty obvious that the President and his handlers are trying to turn the current crisis into a positive point in his administration instead of the Katrina-like disaster it’s become.

Come to think of it, there is one thing that could make the BP oil spill even a bigger problem for the administration than it is now.  I won’t go into a whole lot of detail outside of the following two facts.

Fact #1 – The Atlantic hurricane season runs from June 1^st to December 1^st.

Fact #2 – The Atlantic hurricane season has been known to produce hurricanes which traverse the Gulf of Mexico.  

Obama shouldn’t worry too much if a hurricane hits the gulf while attempts to stop or clean up the spill are underway though.  Naturally, it will be Bush’s fault.  The President will tell you so himself.