Quibbles and Bits

September 24, 2004

Genuine Leadership...

BLACKFIVE reports a case of genuine leadership.

Posted by jfielek at 01:37 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

Heinz-Kerry Tax Returns?

Political candidates and their spouses usually release their income tax returns to public scrutiny, so they can show where they might have interests that could affect their positions.

This is a good thing.

The Bush's have done so. John Kerry has released his tax return.

Teresa Heinz-Kerry has not.

Considering her wealth, her broad range of investments, and her political contributions from times past, we have a right to see her returns to determine what, if any, effect her income might have on John Kerry should he achieve the office of President. She's stonewalled on releasing the documents, and doesn't really offer any explanation as to why she's not being as open as the other folks involved.

This makes me very curious as to what the documents might show -- other than the expected left-leaning donations, that is.

What if Teresa H-K actually payed more in taxes under George W. Bush's tax cuts than she did prior to the tax cuts?

If this were the case, it would cut John Kerry's anti-tax cut argument off at the knees. His claim that rich got richer would be crushed by his own example, and would provide a potent antidote to his argument for reinstating the higher rates.

We'll never know, at least not until the Heiress releases the documents.

C'mon, Teresa... we need to know.

Posted by jfielek at 12:02 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

September 20, 2004

Answering comments...

Spawned by this.

First, from Easy:

Could you refer me to the article where anyone said that they thought that it
was OK for the "union" guys to tear up a little girl's sign?

This is one of the things about conservatives that drives me nuts. It's all
black and white. No subtle nuances. I have yet to see anyone who thinks that
it's acceptable behavior for someone to tear up a little girl's sign.

I didn't see explicit endorsement, but saying "he brought it on himself" is an implicit endorsement of the action of the union thugs. It's like when I say "The terrorists brought it on themselves" (which I have said) when the USMC kills them. I'm implicitly endorsing the actions of the USMC in killing the terrorists.

Nice to see that was a not your intent. Thanks for clarifying that. Nuance has its place, but there are times when black and white is appropriate. To paraphrase a teacher of mine, you have to remember that black and white are still part of the range of greys.

Oh, and I wouldn't call myself 'conservative'. See below.

Yet your initial post seemed to equate anyone who's against Bush (please note that there is a world of difference between being FOR Kerry, and being AGAINST Bush) with this action.

Perhaps I wasn't clear enough to start with. I re-read what I wrote, and using the term ideology probably wasn't precise enough. What I meant was that any person who would do that was pretty shitty, and a lot of people who do that sort if shit justify it as an act in the name of whatever cause they espouse. I probably should have used the term personal ideology to describe the phenomenon.

BTW, just for clarification, I'm not a Republican. I'm looking at this election as the Evil of Two Lessers -- neither candidate is that great. That's unfortunately typical. I'm more or less a libertarian, and neither candidate is very appropriate for me. I just find John Kerry the worse of the two, and downright laughable with some of his dumb mistakes in his campaign management. I dislike the Democrats more than I dislike the Republicans right now. Neither are very good.

Believe me, I know that a lot of folks who are anti-Bush are not necessarily pro-Kerry.

My question stands. What kind of moron brings his 3 year old daughter to a political rally as an agitator? And make no mistake, anyone who goes to a political rally for one candidate and holds up signs for the opposition is trying to get attention, and should expect it.
He can't even make the claim that he didn't think anything would happen since
it's happened 2 times before. To use your own Rape Analogy, it's like a woman
getting raped at a biker bar, going back and getting raped again, and then
going back yet a third time to be raped once more. Is this still rape?

Actually, yes, it still would be rape. That aside, just because Phil Parlock is a moron doesn't relieve the union members and others at the rally from the rules of civil society.

How about we look at important issues, and forget this non-incident that FOX is trying to blow out of proportion.

And CBS trotting out claims about 30 year old events. The MSM sucks mightily, no matter the leanings.

Now, where would you like to start? Seriously. Name an issue, and I'll talk all night. I've thought through most of my positions and know where I stand. I'll defend, discuss, and listen to what you have to say.

More later... gotta feed the young'un before bedtime.

Posted by jfielek at 10:13 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

Great Dismal, Part V

Great Dismal, Part V.

Parts I & II, and III & IV.

Note: There will be at least a Part VI...

Show me! »

The heat broke with a gentle but persistent rain, making the Old Road muddy and slow.

Jeremiah Brown didn’t care. He walked and whistled, heedless of the rain dripping from his wide brimmed hat and canvas jacket, heedless of the mud sticking to his ragged work boots. He was walking the Old Road for close to his last time.

“Jeremiah Brown!” Jeremiah paused at the familiar cackle. He turned slowly.

“Ma’am,” he said with a nod and a smile.

“Walk wit’ me, Jeremiah,” the crone croaked, stamping slowly through packed gravel and mud. Jeremiah waited patiently until she was by his side. She shuffled past, and he fell in step beside her. They shuffled along in silence for some time.

“How you doin’ since Duchane beat you up?” Jeremiah asked. His words seemed to suffocate in the dank air.

“I have healed,” the crone replied, “tho’ I feel the weather with every step.”

“I wish I’d come on y’all sooner. I’d’ve saved you some pain.”

The crone smiled. “Pain don’t mean nothin’ to me, Jeremiah Brown. The whole world’s got pain, and it don’t mean nothin’. Not unless you let it.”

“I guess so,” Jeremiah said. “But it still ain’t no fun.”

“It can’t be avoided. The pain you feel isn’t what matters. What matters is what you do about it.”

“I guess,” Jeremiah replied.

“You helped me with mine, Jeremiah Brown. You’ve become a good man, no matter what your daddy was.”

Jeremiah stopped and looked the old woman over.

“Did you know my Daddy?” he asked.

“I did. He came into the Great Dismal a long time ago. He was scared, bein’ chased. They was gonna kill him.”

“What happened to him?”

“The Great Dismal ain’t so forgiving. It’s mud, and water, and moss, which don’t feel pain like you do. It don’t feel it the same way. He come splashin’ through, bringin’ those white men chasin’ him. The Great Dismal swallowed them up, and damn near ‘et him, too.

“He was no good, but he handled the pain the Great Dismal hands out good enough to get out alive. Jeremiah Brown, you ain’t like your Daddy. You’re a good man. You can handle the pain life gives you.”

Jeremiah and the crone walked in silence a little further.

“I’ll leave you here, Jeremiah Brown,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ll see you again.”

“I hope we meet again some time, Ma’am,” Jeremiah said. The old woman laughed and turned towards the dark waters of the Great Dismal.

“Be careful, Jeremiah Brown,” he heard her cackle as she vanished into the misty swamp. “You might get what you want.”

“She’s going to move that damn nigger onto her place?” Earl nearly shouted in the cool tavern.

“Quiet!” Bill shushed. He glanced side to side, checking the length of the nearly empty Old Mill. Harry Bellum never looked up from his week old newspaper.

“I need to talk to the boys,” Earl whispered.

“When?”

“Tonight. At your house. Tell Maggie to have beer and sandwiches.”

“But I…”

“No buts. Control your woman, Bill.” Earl slipped from the booth, scattering beer bottles in the process. “Keep her under control, Bill. We’ll be there at eight.” He staggered out, the roadhouse door slamming behind him.

Bill took a long draw on his beer, draining the bottle. He placed the bottle on the table and slowly righted the scattered empties. Maggie was not going to be happy.

Maggie LaFontaine slowly lifted the phone off the hook. She leaned back and watched the shadows from the front room. The low murmur of men’s voices filtered down the hall. She forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly. She lifted the receiver to her ear and leaned close to the wall.

“Lizzie,” she whispered.

“Maggie?” the operator asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I need Sheriff LaMarsh on the line, Right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just get me the Sheriff,” Maggie whispered.

“I’m trying his house now.”

Maggie listened to the faint hiss and click as Elizabeth Martin tried the Sheriff’s house and office.

“He’s out in his car. They’re trying the radio.”

“Thanks, Lizzie,” Maggie whispered.

“Maggie!” Bill LaFontaine snatched the phone from her hand and slammed it onto the hook. Bill glared at Maggie.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Maggie protested.

The phone began to ring. Maggie reflexively reached for it. Earl Duchane slapped her hand away from behind.

“I told you you needed to discipline your woman, Bill,” Earl said quietly. “Who were you calling, Maggie?” he asked, pressing close to her. His breath smelled of whiskey and cigarettes, and she shrank from the smell. His belly touched her arm and she pulled is back sharply. “It was that damn nigger loving Sheriff, right?”

Maggie stayed silent.

“Your little woman is a nigger lovin’ spy, Bill,” Earl whispered. “Probably wants to fuck ‘em all, too. Goddamn little nigger lovin’ whore.”

Earl turned his attention to Bill LaFontaine.

“Discipline her, Bill,” he ordered, quiet fury in his voice.

“But, Earl…”

“No buts, Bill. This is the first step to restoring order to the County. Order in your own home.”

“But…”

“Pussy.” Earl spat the word at Bill. “Ain’t you got no balls?” he sneered.

“I…” Bill began.

“Use the belt, Bill.”

“But...”

“Now, Bill. While her crime is fresh in her mind.”

Bill slowly slipped his wide leather belt from his pants. He folded it in half and raised it above his head. He didn’t feel the hot tears on his cheeks. A small sob escaped his lips.

“Goddamn pussy!” Earl snatched the belt from Bill LaFontaine’s hands. “I guess I have to do everything.”

Earl folded the belt and slapped it across Maggie’s face with a fierce backhanded swipe. She screamed and dropped to the floor. A tiny spray of blood speckled the impeccably white wall where she had stood. Earl smiled and leaned over her.

“That’s for calling that nigger loving Sheriff.”

He lifted the belt above his head. “This is for spyin’.”

He slammed the belt across her prostrate form, lifted it, and smacked it across her back. His eyes lit up as he began to pelt her with the leather strap, pausing only to reverse his grip, bringing the buckle into play. He struck her again, and again. Maggie sobbed and tried to crawl away.

Earl grabbed her ankle and pulled her back.

“No…” Bill whispered between sobs. “No….”

Bill slapped him with the buckle end of the belt.

“Pussy.”

Earl raised the belt above his head, ready to rain more blows on the prostrate woman’s back.

“Earl!”

Earl spun around. Perry Timmerman’s big body filled the hallway.

“Drop the belt, Earl. There’s no need for any more.”

“She’s a goddamn spy,” Earl declared.

Perry sidled up to the fat, sweating man.

“No more, Earl. You’ve already gone too far.”

“She’s gotta learn her place,” earl snarled.

Perry cuffed him hard. Earl bounced off the wall, lost his footing, and fell backwards, rapping his head on the hardwood floor. The belt flapped from his grasp. Bill LaFontaine dropped on his knees and crawled to Maggie’s limp body. “I’m sorry, Maggie,” he whispered over and over.

Perry kicked Earl once in the ribs, hard enough to bruise, but not hard enough to break ribs.

“Get out, Earl. You’re out of the Klavern.”

“You can’t do that,” Earl protested.

“I just did. You’re out. I’ll hold a vote and make it official if you want. Bill? Jimmy? Any objections?”

Bill LaFontaine looked away, tears streaming down his cheeks. The other men of the Klavern remained silent, eyes on the wooden floor.

“Get out, Earl. You’re done here.”

Earl rolled to his knees and reached for the belt. Perry stepped on his hand.

“Go ahead and try. I’ll put you six feet under if you try.”

Earl slowly pulled his hand from under Perry’s immense boot. Perry towered over him, ready to kick him, step on him, or do whatever was needed.

Sheriff LaMarsh hammered the LaFontaine’s door, making it shake and rattle in the frame.

“Bill!” he called. “It’s me, Sheriff LaMarsh. You there?”

He paused and listened.

“Open up!” he shouted. He slammed his fist against the door, making the whole house shake. He considered bashing the door in and entering anyway.

Sheriff LaMarsh stepped off the porch and looked over the house. The car was in the drive. Lights glowed in one of the upper windows. He could see no movement. The door remained closed. LaMarsh backed slowly towards the cruiser, pausing and listening before opening the door. The springs creaked under his weight.

“God damn it,” he muttered, twisting the key in the ignition.

Elliot Paige liked to sit quietly in the dark of the late evening with a long cheroot and a glass of Kentucky bourbon. He liked the invisibility. He could hear the neighbors fighting sometimes, sometimes hear them making love, sometimes talking softly in the warm night. Listening to their quiet lives helped him remember Rebecca. Rebecca was the only reason he came back here. Her memory was the only reason he stayed.

He drew deeply from the cigar, savoring the earthy fumes. He sighed and exhaled, blowing smoke into the faint evening breeze. Tendrils swirled around his head before drifting away. He closed his eyes and tried to remember her face again. The gentle rumble of a motor and the rough crunch of tires on gravel did not interrupt his reverie. Neither did the sound of a slamming car door, nor approaching footsteps, nor the slap of the screen door against its frame.

“Elliot?” Sheriff LaMarsh spoke softly.

Elliot breathed in, and out, drew deeply of his cigar, and opened his eyes.

“Will,” he nodded.

“Mind if I have a seat?”

Elliot waved his hand in invitation. Sheriff LaMarsh selected a seat from the half dozen scattered on the porch. The white wicker chair sagged and groaned under the Sheriff’s weight. Sheriff LaMarsh shifted and settled in.

“Got a light?” LaMarsh asked, drawing a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket. Elliot fished out his Zippo and tossed it to the Sheriff. The porch glowed briefly as LaMarsh lit his cigarette.

“Thinking about Rebecca?” Will asked.

Elliot waited a long time before replying.

“I’m always thinking about Rebecca, Will.”

“I miss her, too, Elliot. I loved her.”

“I know, Will. You loved her like a brother should.” Sheriff LaMarsh couldn’t see the pain that etched Elliot’s face.

“She was a good woman, Elliot. She waited two years for you to com back from the War.”

“I know. If she hadn’t, I never would have come back.”

The two men sat in silence for some time. The faint murmur of conversation from other porches battled gently with the evening breeze. Snippets of conversation interlaced with the rustle of leaves, neither sound making a coherent noise.

“She told me the night before I left,” Elliot said quietly. “She said she loved me, that she’d wait for me. I never even knew she’d noticed me.” He lowered his head into his hands.

Will stared out into the night.

“They never closed the case, Elliot,” Will whispered.

“I know. That bastard Duchane tried to pass her death off as an accident. It was no accident.” His voice cracked and he silently thanked God for the darkness that hid his tears.

“I know, Elliot.”

“It was that son of a bitch, Will.”

“Maybe. Ain’t got no proof.”

“I know. I know. And there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.”

The men sat in still silence, moving only to draw from their smokes. Will shifted, making the wicker chair creak in the night. The sound was almost too loud for Elliot to bear.

“Elliot,” Will said quietly.

Elliot nodded, barely visible in the dark.

“Did you get a pistol?”

Elliot shifted in his seat. “I did. A 1911, like I had in the Corps.”

“Good. As of now, you’re deputized. Do I have to swear you in?”

“Not this time, Will. I never renounced the last time you deputized me.”

“Good, because I never released you.”

Elliot chuckled. “Duchane?”

“I don’t know. Something is different this time, in a really bad way. Maggie LaFontaine tried to get hold of me earlier.”

Elliot grunted.

“Liz said she was cut off, and the phone was hung up hard, like it was slammed down. She called back but there was no answer.”

“Did you go by?”

“I did. The lights were on upstairs, but no one answered the door. Their car was in the driveway, too.”

Elliot absorbed the news in silence, puffing quietly on his cigar.

“Think she’s okay?” he asked after a long deliberation.

“Honestly? No. I think the Kluckers caught her and did something to her.”

“Duchane, again,” Elliot observed.

“I know.”

Maggie LaFontaine sobbed gently in the dark. Bill LaFontaine watched over her, drooped in a high backed chair he’d dragged in for the purpose. She was aware of nothing except the pain. Her back and breasts ached, and from the wetness in her crotch she knew she bled from inside. The places where the buckle had struck her hurt the worst. Some of the places bled.

“Oh God… Oh God…” he muttered, alternately biting his fist and wiping away tears. He’d jumped at the Sheriff’s knock on the door, and sobbed through the subsequent pounding.

His sobs echoed Maggie LaFontaine’s, sometimes drowning them out.

« Hide this crap

Posted by jfielek at 05:26 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack (1)

Why I don't like Harleys...

Take a Look at These Two Deal's Gap Pics

Harleys turn like dump trucks. Not good...

Note the sparks in the first picture. That dude is heeled over as far as his Hog will go and he's still not making the turn.

Give me a BMW, Ducati, or a Japanese sportbike any time over those poor handling barges...

Posted by jfielek at 02:12 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

More on making little girls cry...

In repsponse to this, a commenter, Easy, wrote:

Actually, it doesn't address my comment. This has happened to this man 3 times now. 3 times in 3 elections is not a coincidence. It may not have been 'staged' but it was definitely sought out.

Okay, so the guy is a little bit of an agitator. I'll concede that, but it doesn't change my point that the actions of the union thugs in aggressively tearing up the little girl's sign and making her cry was a dispicable act.

Your approach is similar to the old rapist defense -- She wore a short skirt! She was asking for it!

The circumstances still don't excuse the actions of the thugs.

Update: Evan, The above is an analogy. I'm not equating the two acts; just drawing a comparison to the similarity to the defenders of rapists using the "he/she was asking for it" defense to using the same defense for someone antagonizing a child.

Update II: Upon re-reading Evan's comments, I think i miread what he wrote. I am not equating the crime of rape with antagonizing a little girl. As Evan says, rape is a reprehensible criminal act. I am drawing similarities between the defense of the rapist and the defense of the thugs who antagonized the little girl. I'm not equating rape with what happened. Sorry if I was unclear.

The whole thing also is dependent upon Phil Parlock's behavior. If they were just standing there with the signs as the Parlock's said, the unionist behavior is way out of bounds.

Posted by jfielek at 10:43 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack (0)

September 17, 2004

Kerry/Edwards supporters make little girl cry...

You're real shitheels if your ideology allows you to make a three year old girl cry.

Update: Michell Malkin has more here, answering the response in the comments.

Posted by jfielek at 11:39 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack (1)

September 16, 2004

Dan Ra^ther, Please Report to the Parking Lot...

We have a few questions for you regarding these tickets...

Posted by jfielek at 04:09 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

New CBS News Slogans!

CBS News has been in the News a lot lately. Following the ancient maxim that there's no such thing as bad publicity, it's time for CBS News to capitalize on this wealth of publicity!

Let's start with a new slogan or two!

CBS! Tune in, and C B.S.!
All the Shit that's fit to Print!
We're not lying, we're telling a Greater Truth!
What you'd Ra^ther be Watching!
CBS News -- "B.S." is our middle name!
We know Bush is lying, becasue it takes one to know one!

There's a start...

Posted by jfielek at 02:39 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

Yay, guns!

BlameBush!: Bush Gives Boomsticks to Terrorists

Liberal Larry will soon have a coveted spot in the PermaLinks...

Once Lily lets me have ten minutes to myself...

So, in about ten years, maybe...

Maybe...

Posted by jfielek at 02:30 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

September 15, 2004

Matt Lauer's balls fall off...

After two days of relatively hardball interviews of Kitty Kelley, Matt Lauer went all soft and ooky and almost apologeticv, presenting several fawning emails and leaving out the hard questions for day three.

Bummer... I was almost starting to respect him...

Posted by jfielek at 11:05 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

104 Weeks of Carnival Goodness

Silflay Hraka: The Carnival Turns Two

How do you like it now?

Me? I like!

Posted by jfielek at 10:52 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

September 14, 2004

CBS memos and Kerry

Shots Across The Bow takes a shot at a theory that is a wee bit off. Rich posits that the CBS memos were created by someone at the DNC to discredit Kerry, force him to step down, all to inject Hillary Clinton as the 2004 Democratic Candidate.

Interesting, but I don't think it's likely.

I suspect that some one, some where, generated the memos in an effort to knock down the Warrior aspect of Bush, in the mistaken belief that this time the Democrats have the Real War Hero!, and that discrediting Bush's TANG service will result in the Real War Hero! winning, like Real War Heroes! are supposed to!

Grave mistakes like the CBS memos are not the product of a vast conspiracy, Right or Left Wing. These mistakes come from a gross misperception of the thoughts and leanings of the people of the United States.

In 1996, the Republicans miscalculated gravely, presenting Bob Dole as their candidate, another Real War Hero! Dole crashed and burned, getting soundly defeated in the election, despite Republican harping about his war record, and his ABC (Anyone But Clinton) status.

The American people, however, don't buy into the pseudo-fascist archetype of the Real War Hero! Americans will see whether a candidate acted reasonably and honorably under the circumstances, and once America decides that the candidate has acted within the bounds of reason and honor, they will disregard the muckraking and look to the future, not the past.

The Kerry Camp doesn't understand that. We elected Eisenhower not as a reward for liberating Europe, but rather because we could see he had the honor and strength to navigate the early years of the Cold War. George HW Bush was elected not as a Naval Aviator, but as a continuation of the rich Reagan legacy.

George W Bush wasn't elected because he flew F-102s for the Texas Air National Guard, and if Kerry is elected, it will have little to nothing to do with the four months he spent in Vietnam.

It is not Kerry's service or Bush's service that define the candidates to the American Voter -- it's the actions since then, honorable and dishonorable, that place them where ever they land on November 2^nd.

Posted by jfielek at 02:36 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack (3)

More on Kitty Kelley

Matt Lauer again took Kitty Kelley to task this morning, pointing out that most of her sources were unsubstantiated hearsay. I was impressed -- prior to Ra^therGate, Lauer would have lauded Kelley and let many of her charges slide by unchallenged.

Instead, he's acting like a real journalist.

I'm actually impressed.

Posted by jfielek at 10:29 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

September 13, 2004

Hey! Matt Lauer does have balls!

I'm not shy about expressing my disdain for the Today Show on NBC. I consider Katie Couric and Matt Lauer to be hacks -- pretty hacks, but hacks nonetheless.

Jessica, on the other hand, likes them both. So sometimes I'm subjected to them, despite my preference for most other news sources.

Imagine my surprise this morning when Jessica turned on the TV, and there was Matt Lauer interviewing Kitty Kelley.

I was... impressed.

Lauer didn't lay off and softball the interview like I expected. He laid into Kitty Kelley, asking tough questions. The segment I saw dealt with Kitty's allegation that George Bush used cocaine at Camp David in the 1980s, when GHW Bush was Vice President.

Lauer asked about the allegation, then turned around and pointed out that the source for the allegation, Sharon Bush, denied that she'd ever said such a thing. Lauer then continued to pry, asking Kitty kelley why she hadn't taped either the initial interview, or at least the follow-up conversation, as Kelley had done with so many other interviews, especially in light of the potentially explosive allegations.

Kelley had no viable response.

Lauer then interviewed Sharon Bush, who was poised, refined, and adamant in her defense of George W. Bush.

All in all, the interview left me satisfied -- a sensation I'd not felt from an interview on the peacock network in a long time.

I suspect that the sudden hard investigation, and hard questions, are a product of Ra^thergate. Since Rather was caught out in an obvious fabrication, left with his ass exposed like a patient in a hospital gown, the networks appear to be entering a very tough and critical coverage mode to cover their own butts.

Posted by jfielek at 12:53 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

September 11, 2004

Rather in the DNC Back Pocket?

Edwards is acting that way.

Posted by jfielek at 06:38 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

September 10, 2004

Time to invest in Chickens...

It's time to invest in chickens, because
CBS has so much eggon their face, there's gonna be a shortage.

Posted by jfielek at 01:15 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

Whither the Mortal Remains?

The hardest part was identifying the remains.

It's an thankless, unfinished task. God bless those who are trying to do it.

Posted by jfielek at 11:18 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

USMC Logos

For the sheer joy of seeing the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor --

Posted by jfielek at 10:48 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

September 09, 2004

Little Johnny...

Little Johnny was in his 4th grade class when the teacher asked the children what their fathers did for a living. All the typical answers came up - fireman, policeman, salesman, doctor, lawyer, etc. Johnny was being uncharacteristically quiet, so the teacher asked him about his father.

"My father's an exotic dancer in a gay cabaret and takes off all his clothes in front of other men and they put money in his underwear. Sometimes, if the offer is really good, he will go home with some guy and make love with him for money. "

The teacher, obviously shaken by his statement, hurriedly set the other children to work on some exercises and took little Johnny aside to ask him, "Is that really true about your father?"

"No," said Johnny , "He works for the Democratic National Committee to elect John Kerry, but I was too embarrassed to say that in front of the other kids".

Posted by jfielek at 11:09 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

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