A Conspiracy of One

Once more, Brig. Gen. Janis Karpinski opens her mouth and shows more of her Peter Principle qualifications:

Karpinski told British Broadcasting Corp. radio that she had information suggesting officials took action to keep her in the dark about the mistreatment.

“I have been told there’s a reliable witness who’s made a statement … indicating that not only was I not included in any of the meetings discussing interrogation operations, but specific measures were taken to ensure I would not have access to those facilities, that information or any of the details of interrogations at Abu Ghraib or anywhere else,” Karpinski said. She didn’t identify the witness.

“Correct,” Karpinski responded when asked if she thought there was a conspiracy at senior level to stop her knowing what was going on.

“From what I understand … it was people that had full knowledge of what was going on out at Abu Ghraib who knew that they had to keep Janis Karpinski from discovering any of those activities,” she added.

Asked whether she thought the conspiracy reached up to the Pentagon or the White House, she said: “The indication is that it may have.”

So she’s telling foreign news services that her underlings, and maybe those shadowy administration figures, conspired to make her a poor leader.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

Admission

I don’t mind telling you, I will be glad tomorrow night after 7 pm when the polls close. Every time I have answered the phone today, a recording from some former political hack has greeted me, undoubtedly encouraging me to vote one way or the other.

Unfortunately, I hang up once I recognize the call for what it is.

These recorded calls insult me more than a volunteer calling me live to talk to me about their candidate or issue. I know, they occur mostly during the day when people aren’t home with the specific purpose of having a recorded message engage a recording device (the answering machine). Come on, though….. I work at home, and every time your goofball devices call, I oughter bill you for an hour of my expensive consultant time.

Unfortunately, I never make it long enough into the recorded message to know whom to blame.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

Sure, Blame QA

Somewhere, some project manager is undoubtedly chewing out his or her QA staff for letting this one get through:

A computer glitch grounded American Airlines and US Airways flights from coast to coast Sunday morning, causing delays that were expected to last all day.

American had its planes back up after two hours, while US Airways flights were grounded for about three.

Federal Aviation Administration spokeswoman Diane Spitaliere said the FAA was alerted to the problem, and both carriers asked the FAA’s air traffic controllers to help communicate with planes to keep them on the ground until the problems were fixed.

US Airways spokeswoman Amy Kudwa said the airline’s flight-operation database malfunctioned, due to “an internal technology problem.” A similar problem affected American’s flight plan system, grounding about 150 flights, spokesman John Hotard said.

But hey, I bet EDS delivered the system on time, on budget, or neither, by trimming some quality assurance somewhere.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

I Want That Job

The BBC reports:

Five memory cards for digital cameras were subjected to a range of tests.

The formats were CompactFlash, Secure Digital, xD, Memory Stick and Smartmedia.

They were dipped into cola, put through a washing machine, dunked in coffee, trampled by a skateboard, run over by a child’s toy car and given to a six-year-old boy to destroy.

That beats software QA any day.

(Link seen on Instapundit.)

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

Just Like an Old Friend, Kick Him When He’s Down

Mark Steyn writes in the Chicago Sun-Times:

“I’ve seen it in the people I’ve met and their desire to take our country back for the American people. I saw it in a college student in Pennsylvania who sold her bicycle and sent us a check for $100 with a note that said, ‘I sold my bicycle for democracy.’ “

Really? John F. Kerry’s bicycle cost $8,000. Why doesn’t he sell his for democracy? If you throw in the designer French T-shirt and buttock-hugging lemon-hued lycra shorts, you’d probably be up around an even ten grand. When Howard Dean and John Kerry and John Edwards talk about “change,” what they mean is you send these bazillionaire grandees the hundred-dollar bill and they’ll keep the change.

What did that co-ed cutie get for her hundred bucks? Presumably she sent it to Governor Dean because he was anti-war. He lost to Senator Kerry, who at that time was for-and-against the war, in the same way that he’s for-and-against abortion and for-and-against gay marriage. But he seems to have come down, Iraq-wise, on the “for” side of the ledger. He’ll be spending a little more time ineffectually chit-chatting with Kofi and Jacques and Gerhard, but other than that his Iraq policy is sounding more like Bush’s every day. That college kid ponied up her $100 and isn’t getting a lot of “change.” I wonder if she’s missing her bicycle this summer.

Ouch.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

How Did She Get So Lucky?

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch humps the leg of a local entrepreneur:

An entrepreneur from Edwardsville is weaving a network of basket makers from some of the world’s poorest countries to create a business that combines spirituality and fair trade.

The Blessing Basket Project grew out of a need that former television news producer Theresa Wilson had to lift women around the world out of poverty. Wilson, 36, originally wanted to work with poor women in the United States. But when she put her idea on an Internet bulletin board, she was deluged with e-mail from around the world from aid workers.

She’s a do-gooder, doing good things for the world around her. She’s having people in third world countries weave baskets which she sells:

At the Festival of Nations last month in Tower Grove Park, the Blessing Basket Project sold 92 baskets from Bangladesh and Uganda at $25 to $35 each. Wilson and her husband, Bryan, a construction worker who helps the company as a volunteer, said they are surprised at the response they get from buyers.

Got that? They sold the baskets for $25 to $35 each? How much did they pay the poor people in the third world to create them?

The 150 weavers that the Blessing Basket Project is working with around Kampala, Uganda, were paid $12 for a set of three baskets – three times more than typically offered. The weavers – mostly female subsistence farmers – are able to buy milk and meat for their children as well as books and uniforms for school.

So, they’re paying $4 each for these baskets and selling them at $25 to $35 each. I am sorry, that looks like a 500% to 700% capitalist imperialist dog mark-up to me.

Of course, I’m not against capitalist imperialist dogism, but I do think that the Post-Dispatch likes to assail corporations who would do this, particularly those that use third world labor to do things formerly done by unionized US workers.

I guess the difference is that software and automobiles aren’t sold at Whole Foods Market.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

Sorry, Pejman

Over at Pejman’s blog, he comments on a post by Virginia Postrel that describes the qualities of a successful presidential candidate.

Pejman Yousefzadeh overlooks the fact that most Presidents have had easily-pronounced last names. Odd, when you think about how we come from a number of European and non-European backgrounds, that we’ve never had a -ski president or anything really beyond three syllables except for that one popular former general.

Here’s how the names stack up:

1 Syllable
2 Syllables
3 Syllables
4 Syllables
Polk
Pierce
Grant
Hayes
Taft
Ford
Bush
Bush

Adams
Monroe
Adams
Jackson
Tyler
Taylor
Fillmore
Lincoln
Johnson
Garfield
Arthur
Cleveland
Wilson
Harding
Coolidge
Hoover
Truman
Johnson
Nixon
Carter
Reagan
Clinton

Washington
Jefferson
Madison
Van Buren
Harrison
Buchanon
Harrison
McKinley
Roosevelt
Roosevelt
Kennedy

Eisenhower

If you look to the last names of the last challengers, they fall to the two syllables or less category (even including the Libertarians and United We Stand guys). Okay, Badnarik is an exception, but he’s so a footnote that he won’t even be a trivia question.

My point? I guess that I could write a paper on this, or that we don’t elect Presidents whose names cannot be pronounced easily in most parts of the country.

So add a fourth qualification, and Pejman doesn’t qualify. Heck, I don’t qualify (it’s NAH-gul, not NO-gull. I am from up north, for crying out loud–is some nasalation of the oh sound too much to ask?)

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

Lessons from The Last Samurai

Heather and I just watched The Last Samurai, which many have taken at its face value as an anti-Western message. Well, if you want to look at it that way, take whatever lesson you want from it. I, on the other hand, prefer to take these messages away from it:

  • An all-volunteer army is better than a conscript army. Ergo, it’s against the mock draft proposal being floated around by those who want us to fear the militarization of the Republican police state.
  • Apparently, Sun Tzu was not translated into Nihongo until sometime after 1877. I mean, when you’ve got 500 men with swords and bows against two regiments with cannons and machine guns, Sun Tzu would have pointed out that narrow mountain passes that completely block in winter might present better terrain to your strengths than open fields.

I could write a paper on either of them. The benefit of an English degree, donchaknow.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

The Heart and Soul of America Not Found in Fox Transcription Department

From the Fox News Transcript of Bush’s remarks at SMS in Springfield, Missouri:

I can’t help but notice my friend Johnny Morris is here. Gosh, I wish we were fishing. I was in the bass tracker (ph), I want you to know, over the weekend in Crawford. It didn’t sink.

The transcriptionist doesn’t intuitively know a bass tracker boat and can only guess at the spelling. Probably more Hollywood than Springfield.

Because someone from Springfield (or someone married to a smoking-hottie from Springfield) knows Tracker Boats is based in Springfield.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

I’m Offended, I Want a Fine

Hey, FCC, I am offended this got broadcast:

‘Go balloons, go balloons! Go balloons! I don’t see anything happening. Go balloons! Go balloons! Go balloons! Standby confetti. Keep coming, balloons. More balloons. Bring it- balloons, balloons, balloons! We want balloons, tons of them. Bring them down. Let them all come. No confetti. No confetti yet.

‘No confetti. All right, go balloons, go balloons. We need more balloons. All balloons! All balloons! Keep going! Come on, guys, lets move it. Jesus! We need more balloons. I want all balloons to go, goddammit. Go confetti. Go confetti. More confetti. I want more balloons. What’s happening to the balloons? We need more balloons.

‘We need all of them coming down. Go balloons- balloons? What’s happening balloons? There’s not enough coming down! All balloons, what the hell! There’s nothing falling! What the fuck are you guys doing up there? We want more balloons coming down, more balloons. More balloons. More balloons’…

I demand that DNC convention director Don Mischer be fined several hundred thousand dollars for offending my tender sensibilities.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

Book Review: Michael Moore is a Big Fat Stupid White Man by David T. Hardy and Jason Clarke (2004)

I bought two copies of this book: one for a friend who needs intervention because he believes that Michael Moore has some good points, and one for me. Now that I have read the one for me, I’m almost sorry I bought one for him.

Because it’s not going to change his mind any more than reading blogs will. I’d hoped for a reasoned listing of the inaccuracies in the equivalent of a handy table, but although this book offers a couple of chapters with that sort of thing, for the most part, it’s a blog in binding. Andrew Sullivan and Tim Blair have essays in the book, and the other chapters contain a high snark content that one finds in political tract books and on blogs. For example, the authors spend a chapter psychoanalyzing Michael Moore and examining how he meets the traditional definition of narcissist. As much ad homenim as enumeration of fallacies and inaccuracies, this book disappointed me; I’d hoped for more of the latter and less of the former. At least they successfully avoided the word “asshat.”

Perhaps I was hoping for too much from a book entitled Michael Moore is a Big Fat Stupid White Man.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

Brian Takes the Retrosexual Code Quiz

Back at Jen Martinez’s Collection of Thoughts, Jen describes The Retrosexual Code, a retaliation against metrosexualism and girliemanism. She’s got quite the list, and I know my gentle readers want to know how I stack up. Well, here you go:

The Code Says:

Brian Says/Does:

A Retrosexual does not let neighbors screw up rooms in his house on national TV. A Retrosexual, no matter what the women insists, PAYS FOR THE DATE.

  1. Brian reserves the right to screw up the rooms, plumbing, and so on, in his house for himself and his able and smoking hot assistant/spouse.
  2. Real men, who are not married, can let a woman pay half for a date if they want. They’re rational beings, too, mostly.
  3. Real men can sleep on any surface with only clothing as a pillow, which comes in handy when he is married and claims a woman can be only “mostly” rational at times.


A Retrosexual opens doors for a lady. Even for the ones that fit that term only because they are female.

A real man opens a door for a lady when appropriate, but the five second rule applies. If I see a female several dozen yards away from the door, I won’t hold the door for her. I’ll go in and hope the next guy has the class to hold it. Also, this does not apply to all females; the grocery store would get mad were I to let a real bitch in to snuffle among the meat and run out with a steak in her jaws to feed her pups, or just her thin beagle self.
A Retrosexual DEALS with IT, be it a flat tire, break-in into your home, or a natural disaster, you DEAL WITH IT.

I concur. Although my sainted mother gave me a super AAA membership, I would feel silly calling them for anything but a tow (real man or not, I can’t lift my vehicle nor drag it for miles). Now, if only I could figure out where there’s some sort of spare on my pickup truck….
A Retrosexual not only eats red meat, he often kills it himself.

My beautiful wife won’t let me eat cats, so I rely on the grocery store for red meat. Although I come from a long line of hunters and have gone hunting, I’ve not ever had license to kill, so I’ve never even shot a duck for dinner….but my father ensured we would not starve with plenty of ducks, geese, and “fuzzy chickens.”
A Retrosexual doesn’t worry about living to be 90. It’s not how long you live, but how well. If you’re 90 years old and still smoking cigars and drinking, I salute you.

I don’t smoke, but I appreciate the hedonism and materialism involved in this section of the code. I hope I have not been too girlie by opening IRAs recently, though.
A Retrosexual does not use more hair or skin products than a woman. Women have several supermarket aisles of stuff. Retrosexuals need an endcap (possibly 2 endcaps if you include shaving goods.)

I prefer White Rain brand shampoo, but because it’s a dollar a bottle. Of course, since I keep my hair (well, okay, my beautiful wife does the cutting because I don’t want to spend a half hour waiting to pay someone $10 for 5 minutes of hair cutting) under an inch (mostly), I could use the soap in the shower. Uh oh, that sounds like metrosexuality. I almost want to hump a fire hydrant.
A Retrosexual does not dress in clothes from Hot Topic when he’s 30 years old.

What is Hot Topic? I feel girlie sometimes for going to Kohl’s for Levis instead of Wal-Mart for $10 jeans.
A Retrosexual should know how to properly kill stuff (or people) if need be. This falls under the “Dealing with IT” portion of The Code.

By any means necessary, using whatever is at hand, with a determination that the stuff (or people) or I survive, but not both.
A Retrosexual watches no TV show with “Queer” in the title.

I recognize the multiple meanings of queer and dismisses this silly tenet of the code. Of course, I really only watch hockey and football on television, so I am only in danger of violating this if some city names its team the Queers and that team plays the Packers or the Blues.
A Retrosexual should not give up excessive amounts of manliness for women. Some is inevitable, but major re-invention of yourself will only lead to you becoming a froo-froo little puss, and in the long run, she ain’t worth it.

Especially women who would dictate a man’s behavior by saying real men or retrosexuals would do or not do something. I agree one hundred percent.
A Retrosexual is allowed to seek professional help for major mental stress such as drug/alcohol addiction, death of your entire family in a freak treechipper accident, favorite sports team being moved to a different city, or favorite bird dog expiring, etc. You are NOT allowed to see a shrink because Daddy didn’t pay enough attention to you. Daddy was busy DEALING WITH IT. When you screwed up, he DEALT with you.

Professional help? You mean pay someone to know yourself? Give me a break. I already paid Marquette University $50,000, mostly out of pocket, to teach me how to do that myself.
A Retrosexual will have at least one outfit in his wardrobe designed to conceal himself from prey.

None of my clothing make me stand out, ever. Prey? As long as no one messes with me, I have no prey, but my gear doesn’t make me look particularly tasty to predators, either.
A Retrosexual knows how to tie a Windsor knot when wearing a tie – and ONLY a Windsor knot.

I only know one knot, and I don’t know if it’s a Windsor. I don’t even know if it’s a knot or just a way to make it look like a knot. Of course, when I wear ties, a predator could grab me by the tie and have me, since I do tie something into full ties; perhaps a real smart man wears a clip-on.
A Retrosexual should have at least one good wound he can brag about getting.

Well, I’ve never been shot or knifed, but I did once break my nose, several bones in my face (including my eye socket), and crack my cheekbone–and the blow didn’t knock me down.
A Retrosexual knows how to use a basic set of tools. If you can’t hammer a nail, or drill a straight hole, practice in secret until you can – or be rightfully ridiculed for the wuss you be.

A hand drill or a power drill? Power tools are not basic tools.
A Retrosexual knows that owning a gun is not a sign that your are riddled with fear, guns are TOOLS and are often essential to DEAL WITH IT. Plus it’s just plain fun to shoot.

This tenet of the code bores me. Guns are guns, shooting guns as fun is an aesthetic judgment call. I don’t judge a man based on his possession of a mystical artifact, even one guaranteed to Americans by their constitution.
Crying. There are very few reason that a Retrosexaul may cry, and none of them have to do with TV commercials or soap operas. Sports teams are sometimes a reason to cry, but the preferred method of release is swearing or throwing the remote control. Some reasons a Retrosexual can cry include (but are not limited to) death of a loved one, death of a pet (fish do NOT count as pets), loss of a major body part. Retrosexuals do not cry for movies. They can get a teary lump in their throat under a few notable exceptions, such as when “the guy” heads out to die and save the day or the flag goes up on Suribachi.

It’s none of your business when or where I might be moved to tears. You won’t see them, and it’s my business.

A Retrosexual man’s favorite movie isn’t Maid in Manhattan (unless that refers to some foxy French maid sitting in a huge tub of brandy or whiskey), or Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Acceptable ones may include any of the Dirty Harry or Nameless Drifter movies (Clint in his better days), Rambo I or II, The Dirty Dozen, The Godfather trilogy, Scarface, The Road Warrior, The Die Hard series, Caddyshack, Rocky I, II, or III, Full Metal Jacket, any James Bond Movie [sic], Raging Bull, Bullitt, any Bruce Lee movie, Apocalypse Now, Goodfellas, Reservior Dogs, Fight Club, etc.

Spare me the presumptiousness of knowing what a man should enjoy. Any man’s favorite movie speaks to the individual’s experience, and I trust his judgment. Also, please note, some refer to the Clint Eastwood series as The Man With No Name trilogy; the first Rambo movie was First Blood, the second was Rambo: First Blood Part II, and the third was Rambo III; The Road Warrior was the second movie in the Mad Max series (between Mad Max and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome); and Apocalypse Now was a piece of peacenik cavaltrava. Thank you, that is all.
When a Retrosexual is on a crowded bus and or a commuter train, and a pregnant woman, hell, any woman gets on, that retrosexual stands up and offers his seat to that woman, then looks around at the other so-called men still in their seats with a disgusted “you punks” look on his face.

Okay, I’ve not been particularly adamant about this one. I’ve felt bad about it, but I’ve often let them stand, and sometimes when I have offered, the woman has refused.
A Retrosexual knows how to say the Pledge properly, and with the correct emphasis and pronunciation. He also knows the words to the Star Spangled Banner.

There are three verses to the “Star-Spangled Banner”. Sorry, I lose. But I know a lot of “America the Beautiful”.
A Retrosexual will have hobbies and habits his wife and mother do not understand, but that are essential to his manliness, in that they offset the acceptable manliness decline he suffers when married/engaged in a serious healthy relationship – i. e., hunting, boxing, shot putting, shooting, cigars, car maintenance.

Sorry, but I have an understanding (and smoking-hot) wife, and my mother doesn’t object to much that I do.
A Retrosexual knows how to sharpen his own knives and kitchen utensils.

Understand the theory? Check. Do? Not so much.
A Retrosexual man can drive in snow (hell, a blizzard) without sliding all over or driving under 20 mph, without anxiety, and without high-centering his ride on a plow berm.

I am from Wisconsin, for crying out loud. I only fear other drivers who are not, and retrosexuals who feel the need for driving over 20 mph to prove their manliness when 20 mph or less is the safest speed.
A Retrosexual man can chop down a tree and make it land where he wants. Wherever it lands is where he damn well wanted it to land.

Yeah, so? With the right number of ropes, pulleys, and friends, I can put a tree on Venus. What’s your point?
A Retrosexual will give up his seat on a bus to not only any women but any elderly person or person in military dress (except officers above 2nd Lt) NOTE: The person in military dress may turn down the offer but the Retrosexual man will ALWAYS make the offer to them and thank them for serving their country.

I thank them, but I don’t ride buses or trains.
A Retrosexual man doesn’t need a contract — a handshake is good enough. He will always stand by his word even if circumstances change or the other person deceived him.

Screw that. I know what contracts are for, and they’re about covering you legally against the unscrupulous who might take advantage of your respect and your honor. I always argue until I get the contract I want, and then I adhere to it as written.
A Retrosexual man doesn’t immediately look to sue someone when he does something stupid and hurts himself. We understand that sometimes in the process of doing things we get hurt and we just DEAL WITH IT!!!!

I’ve not yet sued anyone, nor would I unless greatly wronged. But I don’t rule it out.

The whole quiz reminds me of my grandmother’s wedding. Some years after my grandfather died, she married the her second husband and honored me by selecting me to participate as an usher. Wedding colors were black and pink, but I preferred to wear a white shirt instead. I was a college student paying my way through college by working a job that required white shirts; ergo, I had white shirts in abundance, but nary a pink shirt nor money to buy a nice pink shirt I wouldn’t wear again, and let’s be honest, I don’t like pink. My step mother, God rest her soul and hurry about it, said, “Real men aren’t afraid to wear pink.”

“Real men don’t fall prey to manipulation about what ‘real men’ do,” I replied, and I wore a white shirt. Probably with a thin black tie that I had which was a couple years out of fashion even in 1991.

That’s my response to anyone who would try to create an artificial code for what a real man would do. Real men know it without being guided by those who would manipulate them artificially.

(Link seen on Michelle Malkin.)

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

Good Night, Boy-John

Okay, J. Eddie, we know what you mean you say:

And we, John and I, we will have one clear unmistakable message for al Qaeda and these terrorists: You cannot run. You cannot hide. We will destroy you.

John2 is tougher than Ronald Reagan, who said to terrorists, “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

This is why children should be seen and not heard. Now you go wash behind your ears, and make sure to dry them. You look a little damp there.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories

This Land Is Our Land, This Land Is Our Land

It has come to this: in Waukesha County, Wisconsin, Aurora Health Care wants to build a hospital, but some residents oppose it because a hospital won’t generate as much taxes as a business park in the same spot:

Others, however, argued that the prime parcel of town land should be utilized as intended in the master plan for a business park that would bring in more tax revenue than the non-profit hospital despite a pledge by Aurora officials to make payments in lieu of taxes to be negotiated with the town.

“I want every possible dollar that land could give for our town; I don’t think that it should be negotiated,” said Mark Lathers, adding that he cannot negotiate his tax bill.

Worse, it will:

Others who testified agreed with arguments made by officials of Oconomowoc Memorial Hospital that the planned 88-bed Aurora hospital would only duplicate services already offered by Oconomowoc Memorial and that would drive up costs for all area consumers of health care.

Unlike the business park, which will provide a whole new set of cubicle farms engaged in business activities and service offerings that will be unique to the area.

Meanwhile, some critics (and the parrots who report uncritically their assertions) explain how supply and demand works: More hospitals means higher costs!

Neil Coakley said health insurance costs are already skyrocketing and many in the health care industry blame Aurora for driving up prices – an assertion that Aurora officials have strongly denied.

Of course, Oconomowoc Memorial Hospital has the best interests of the community at heart:

Oconomowoc Memorial officials and representatives of a community coalition called Not Another Hospital said the Aurora hospital is not needed, that there already is a surplus of hospital beds in the area and that consumers would pick up the cost for additional surplus hospital capacity.

Competition is bad for the community.

In an age where cataclysmic attacks can yield thousands of casualties, I have nothing to offer to anti-competitive health care providers and those who love them, including residents who would rather have tax dollars for amenities like water parks or whatever the hell tchotchkes municipalities in Wisconsin waste taxdollars on than hospitals. Nothing but a hearty unwritten mandate and appropriate hand gestures.

Buy My Books!
Buy John Donnelly's Gold Buy The Courtship of Barbara Holt Buy Coffee House Memories