HFWTFMF!?!

MAYBE SHE NEEDS TO EAT MORE TUSCAN KALE?
The First Lady, the Empress Michelle Obama, was in a pickle. (An organic pickle, naturally.) She was out of organic Tuscan kale, so she fired up the motorcade, grabbed a crack team of security personnel, and fucked up Washington D.C. traffic so that she could run to the local farmers market to buy some certified organic veggies.

Now, I don't have a problem with the First Family eating healthy foods. I don't even have a problem with the enormous cost of eating foods that are certified organic. I do, however, take exception at the mobilisation of men and machines so that Mrs. Obama can have a photo opportunity.

So, after a long hiatus, The Lifeguard awards First Lady Michelle Obama the coveted "Dumbass of the Week" award.

And, for the record, she does not have great arms and a fantastic figure.

It wasn't what I thought...

The Lifeguard Was So Excited To See This!

I drove a little farther, hoping for something to break up the monotony of the Chevy HHR and my holiday.

Sadly, it wasn't a quickie. It was a speed bump.

HFWTFMF!

The Chevrolet HHR...

The Lifeguard rented one of these beauties when he was on holiday. It was ugly, uncomfortable, shoddily assembled, ugly, underpowered, (most assuredly) overpriced, cramped, ugly, lacking storage, and ugly. There is no doubt in my mind that the woes at The General are due, in large part, to the fuckwits who designed cars like this one.

Really, as much as The Lifeguard wants to blame the unions for the decline of the American automobile industry, I just can not. It is the fault of the designers who cobbled together this abortion (and others like it). In fact, this car was surely supposed to be a Chevy Tahoe...before it was aborted in the second trimester.

I was happy to have the vacation end so that I could turn in this piece of crap.

Kinda makes me wish I were French...

The Chickens Come Home to Roost

President Barack Hussein Obama (who is not a Muslim) gave British Prime Minister Gordon Brown some DVDs that wouldn't play, and took many opportunities to shit on our oldest--and best--ally. Now, we find out that the PM was working, behind the scenes, to see that Pan Am Flight 103 bomber, Abdulbaset al-Megrahi's release--on humanitarian grounds--was not hampered.

To make matters worse, President Obama (who is still not a Muslim) had no objections to al-Megrahi being freed on humanitarian grounds.

It is enough to make The Lifeguard scream, I tell you.

This murdering son-of-a-bitch participated in the deaths of 270 innocents, then went home to a hero's welcome after being freed because he had terminal cancer. Because someone thought it was the humane thing to do.

As noted previously, if it was a hero's welcome he was going to get, the US Air Force should have provided the fireworks. Or, perhaps today, a little present, delivered on the nose of a cruise missile.

Now I know where the Size 28 stewardesses went...

The Golden Days of Air Travel Are Gone!

In a rare departure from the norm, The Lifeguard boarded a USAirways flight from Logan, headed to parts unknown. From the twisted policy that demands a $20.00 per bag handling fee to the aged, dumpy and overweight flight attendants, it is no wonder that the airlines are in such bad shape these days.

First, the airlines have adopted a policy that encourages people to carry bags on the plane. Add the infrequent travelers to the over-privileged douche bags that already carry on their luggage and you have one crowded aisle with people struggling to lift their personal possessions into a tiny luggage bin. Imagine two hundred people stuffing three hundred bags into space for one hundred and fifty, and you've got modern air travel. And, should your checked bags (for which you have paid a hefty premium) fail to arrive at your destination, do you get your money back? I don't think so.

Second, the flight attendants were all old, dumpy, and fat. (I was particularly fond of the peroxide blond with the short skirt and tight sweater...both of which were just too damned small.) Now, I have nothing against people who are a little heavy; but, when I might just have to rely on an old, out-of-shape woman to save my ass, I get a little leery. (I note that I feel much the same way about policemen and women who have had one doughnut too many.) When the flight attendant can not get down the aisle because of her size (I am not joking about this), it's time for her to go.

Finally, when the flight attendants can not make coherent announcements, as relate to the safety or general operation of the aircraft, I think we have a problem. As we were on our final to Large North Carolina Airport, the connecting flight information was read...poorly, and inaccurately.

Then, this:

"This aircraft is continuing on (argh!) to Cancun, Mexico. All passengers continuing on (again, argh!) to Cancun must deplane from the airplane (huh?!?) with their personal belongings, then recheck-in (can you do this?) with the agent at the top of the Jetway. This is due to security concerns because this plane will be going into international waters."*

The plane was going into international waters? I am glad that I got off when I did.

Fortunately, The Lifeguard arrived safely at his destination. Just in time to hear that the Libyan terrorist responsible for blowing up Pan Am Flight 103 (who is also a Muslim) arrived home to a hero's welcome. If The Lifeguard were in charge, I would have arranged for some fireworks for his arrival. I would have had the US Air Force deliver them.

*I wrote this down right after I heard the announcement. This was confirmed by at least one other passenger.

The Michael Jackson of His Day!

The Questions Surrounding Mozart's Death Remain
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in late November of 1791, took ill. By the beginning of December, he was dead.

The death of Mozart has led to much speculation: Was it an overdose of laudanum administered by his doctor? Was it syphilis caught while banging groupies in his carriage outside of the Vienna Opera House? Or, was he capped by Franz Joseph Haydn because he tapped Mama Haydn?

Few remember the tortured recovery after Mozart's hair caught fire while performing in Leipzig. And, few remember his bouts with addiction to everything from opium to sex. From wine to sex. (Hey, what can I say. Wolfie loved his poon.)

But, historians have done it. They have learned the true cause of The Great One's death.

It was Antonio Rosetti, a contemporary of Wolfie's, who bust a cap in he ass. All because Wolfie had done dirty, dirty things to Rosetti's twin daughters.

Mystery solved.

I barely understood a word...

Damon Weaver Is Eleven Years Old...
and is a reporter (which is good, because most reporters these days have about the same degree of intellect). Because he is eleven, I hesitate to make any mean comments. But, because he has decided to grab his fifteen minutes of fame, I figure the little scamp is fair game.

Mush-mouthed Weaver, a fifth-grader from Pahokee, Florida, became the youngest person to interview a sitting President of the United States...and, he became the President's homeboy, too. (Whatever the fuck that means.)

Weaver asked questions about school lunch (it sounded like he wants every lunch to be something incomprehensible and French Fries), whether he could meet the First Daughters, and how to make schools better with less money. (Okay, so I made up the shit about the First Daughters.)

You watch it and decide.

Things to do before I die...

Former President Bill Clinton Secures Their Freedom!

Then, when they got on the airplane home, the former president said, "I got you off, now you get me off. Heh heh heh."

Conjugal visits, my ass...

"Thanks, Helen."
The tray had a china cup, filled with strong, black coffee, a croissant, and The Wall Street Journal. Mad Dog propped his feet up on the desk and snapped open the paper, sipping the steaming coffee as the warden's secretary closed the door behind her.

Moments later, the door opens, and the warden, arriving a few minutes late, drops his attache case.

"You're late," Mad Dog says.

"You're in my office," says the warden.

"Yeah, about that. I'll need the desk for at least three hours a day. I am handling some investments for the guards, and I need to be able to take care of business."

"Listen..."

"Warden, are you forgetting who runs this place? Oh, and I think Nushawn slipped in the shower. Damned mess, if you ask me."

"Yes sir, Mr. Madoff."

"Call me 'Mad Dog,' warden."

Mad Dog collects his things and leaves the office. Over his shoulder, he says, "I have a conjugal visit this afternoon. Can you see that a bottle of Pol Roger is on ice for me? My wife loves champagne."

Next, Mad Dog gets busy....

Shawshank II: Mad Dog Gets His Ink

Mad Dog = Bad Ass
Mad Dog sat impassively, smoking a Camel, as DeShawn finished the tattoo, a snarling, evil-looking bulldog. Even some of DeShawn's hangers-on were frightened by the sight of the cur, which seemed ready to leap off Madoff's sinewy forearm and rip out their throats.

"Who knew that you could make a tattoo gun out of an old Nintendo," Mad Dog said.

"Nushawn's lookin' fo' you, man," said LaTonda, one of the prison bitches that Madoff runs as a part of his growing prison enterprise. "He say he gonna cut you."

"Fuck him," said Mad Dog. "That, by the way, is rhetorical. I don't actually want you to fuck him."

LaTonda giggled, handed Mad Dog a carton of Newports, then scampered off to take care of the next of Mad Dog's growing list of customers. "At least you didn't rat nobody out, Mad Dog."

The inmates respect a man like Mad Dog. He had the balls to screw everybody, then take the fall, like a man. None of this pussy-ass shit where you sell out your co-conspirators to get a better deal. He was a stand-up guy, and for that, he has become the boss of the prison. He is the man, more powerful than the warden. He handles investments for the guards, he controls the cigarette market, and he has a string of prison bitches that he farms out like so many...well, prison bitches.

And, Nushawn don't like that one bit.

As Mad Dog makes his way to the shower, he is cornered by Nushawn, still smarting from the ass-whuppin' he got just days earlier.

"Yo ass is mine, Jewboy."

The bulldog seems to grimace, then snarl, silently, as Mad Dog's body switches itself on. His muscles ripple--he is, after all, trained in Omnite--and his hand tightens on his soap-on-a-rope.

There is a shiny, black flash as Nushawn seeks the advantage. Mad Dog, however, bends like a reed, allowing Nushawn to overshoot his objective. Grabbing the rope, and pulling, Mad Dog pulls eighteen inches of thin wire out of the soap--his cleverly crafted garrote--and moves behind Nushawn. There is a gasp, and a sickly moan.

In an instant, it is over, blood flowing freely from Nushawn's almost completely severed head. Mad Dog walks away, calmly, and to the shower, where he disposes of the wire in the drain. As the warm water beats down upon him, he lathers away the dead man's blood, leaving him clean and new.

"Don't fuck with me!" he says, to no one in particular...but, they hear him. Loud and clear.

Next, Madoff makes his first million (cigarettes)...

HFWTFMF!?!

Isn't It Ironic?

Today, in San Francisco, one light rail train rear-ended another. In San Francisco. Rear-ended.

I Don't Want To Be On That Flight...

Another Reason To Hate Unions...
The union that represents former Northwest Airlines flight attendants has filed a grievance because the Richard Tyler designed dress (supra) is only available in sizes up to a Size Eighteen. That's a one and an eight, sports fans. 18.

The union would like to have the dress offered in sizes up to (and including) a Size Twenty Eight (28). After all, other dresses are offered in sizes up to (and including) Size 28.

Now, flight attendants are responsible for our safety in the air; and, I am pretty sure that if a passenger who wears a Size 28 is required to buy two seats, then a flight attendant who wears a Size 28 is too effing fat to be a flight attendant.

Hell, airlines want to shed weight to save on fuel. Why not bring back weight requirements for flight attendants. They used to have severe penalties for being over weight (as I know from my days of dating flight attendants).

It would accomplish three goals: 1) Lighter planes, 2) healthier employees; and, 3) happier passengers.

And, for the record, that dress would look shitty in a Size 18.

Happy Birthday, America!

God Bless The U.S.A....

Shawshank II: Bernie "Mad Dog" Madoff

As the electric door at United States Penitentiary, Lewisburg slides shut with it's ominous metallic clang, Bernard Madoff finds himself alone, lacking the freedom, money and power that exemplified his life. An aging, white Jew--scion of society--sentenced to 150 long in the harsh world that is the Federal Correctional system.

But Madoff is an enterprising, resilient type, and soon, he settles into the prison routine.

He learns, quickly, that it is best to not make eye contact with other inmates, to listen to the screws, and to avoid the confrontations that cause lesser men to become a prison bitch or worse--dead.

Soon, Madoff settles into his routine. He takes a job in the prison's library; and, he helps other inmates learn to read, encouraging them to check out books, and improve themselves in ways that they never imagined. Sure, there is resistance, but Madoff is wise enough to walk away....

One afternoon, while shooting hoops, Madoff is approached by several large, mean and very black inmates.

"Yo, Jewboy, give us the ball," says one--an inmate called Nushawn Gonzales.

Madoff knows that people are watching, and he pauses, then continues dribbling. He puts up a sweet fade away jumper that hits the bottom with little more than the rustling of the net.

"Yo, Jewboy. I'm talkin' to you," Gonzales says.

"And, I am playing basketball." Madoff grabs the rebound and lays the ball up, watching it kiss the backboard, finding the hole. He knows that he has crossed his own Rubicon.

Gonzales moves toward Madoff, who stands his ground.

"Some one's gonna get hurt, Kike."

"And," says Madoff, "that someone is you." Madoff grabs Nushawn by his loose-fitting shirt, pulling him closer. Bernie gives up a good six inches, and a cool hundred pounds, but he knows that there are times to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

A crowd gathers, watching Bernie commit (in their minds) suicide.

They are surprised when he delivers a punishing blow to Nushawn's solar plexus, which causes the large, sweating man to wince in pain. Then, another to the stomach, followed by a knee to the testicles.

Nushawn crumples to the ground as his crew watches, in horror, as Madoff kicks him in the face, shattering his nose, and spilling his blood.

The guards, who have been watching from a distance, come rushing to break up the melee. They spirit away Madoff, none too gently; but, with respect for this man who had proven not only to be money from fifteen feet, but a badass as well.

"Into the hole, Madoff," says the warden.

"It's 'Mad Dog'," says Madoff.

After his time in solitary, the inmates give Madoff a little more room, a lot more respect.

"So, let me get this straight," says DeShawn Jackson, a triple-murderer from Newark. "I gives you a carton of cigarettes today, and in three weeks, you gives me two?"

"That's right," says Bernie. "And, I want a tatt. They say that you are the best artist in the joint."

"D'as a fact," said DeShawn, his chest swelling with pride.

Tomorrow...

Mad Dog gets his ink.

Ha!

Rene Descartes walks into a bar and sits down on the bar stool.

The barman asks, "Would you like a beer?"

Descartes pauses, then says, "I think not."

Then, he disappears.

Well, have we?

Michael Jackson Is Still Dead...
Has anyone seen La Toya?

I didn't think so.

Nicolas Sarkozy Bans This...
The burqa, not Mikaeel X (a/k/a Michael Jackson, who is still dead).

The picture, by the way, is of Mikaeel going through customs, in Bahrain, in a burqa. No, he wasn't the least bit odd.

Smokin' A...

Is Anyone Even Reading This Blawg Anymore?
Alienating the readers, and spotty (read, "irregular") posting seems to have reduced the traffic on this spot significantly.

But, with summer here, The Lifeguard is on duty full time. Working harder, for you.

Which reminds me of two recent--important--observations.

At Number Two's baseball game one evening, I was overcome by the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Looking around, I realised that I was standing alone...with a baseball bat. An aluminum baseball bat that positively reeked of cigarette smoke. A motherhumping bat. Stinking of cigarette smoke. A mainly non-porous object that smelled like a dive bar from the 80s (when people could still smoke in dive bars).

Yikes!

A chap, weighing in at a cool three hundred pounds (at least), rode up to put some air in his tyres. (No shit.) Engaging me in conversation, he began making observations about global warming, the need for fewer cars, and more bike trails. Oh, and by the way, "Really, you shouldn't let your car idle. It's bad for the environment," he said.

"Huh?"

"Letting your car idle contributes to global warming," he said.

Which made me think, as I stood there, engaged in conversation with this Brobdingnagian gent, why I was being singled out for this bullshit.

"You know, you are a bigger threat to the environment than I am," I said.

"Look at you," I continued. "A barrel of oil went into the making of those bike shorts."

[Query: Why do cyclists insist on wearing garb so tight they look like human sausages? Shit, Seven-Time Tour de France winner, Lance Armstrong barely makes the attire look good...and he's in shape.]

"And how many cows did you eat to get to this...this state."

My point? No one--except for Lance Armstrong, or world-class cyclists--should ever wear bike shorts. Ever.

Next week, a frank discussion on the choice of the Speedo by middle-aged and saggy men.

At Least She's Hot...And Over 18...

It's A Love Story Baby Just Say, 'Yes."
Number Two is a big fan of Taylor Swift. As such, I have been forced to listen to her music, which I am starting to find rather catchy. In fact, it's not too bad.

That probably makes The Lifeguard gay.

But, damn, Taylor Swift is hot.

Happy Father's Day!

It Has Been Seven Long Years....

Seven years since my own father went gentle into that good night.

And, for him, I offer you one of my favourite poems, courtesy of Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Happy Father's Day, y'all.

Can't Understand Normal Thinking...

Obviously Her Momma Didn't Tell Her...
that she should be more respectful of men (and women) who serve our great nation under arms. (Or, that she shouldn't be such a snot-nosed bitch.)

Brigadier General Michael Walsh, of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, was testifying before Senator Barbara Boxer's (D*-CA) committee, and he erred on the side of protocol, referring to her as, "Ma'am."

She stopped him, and upbraided him for not calling her "senator."



Notwithstanding the fact that even the Queen of England is properly addressed as "ma'am" (and she worked pretty hard for the title, too), this bit of snottiness demonstrates Boxer's contempt for the military (and the rest of us common folk).

And, she will not apologise.

It sort of reminds me of the time that I got booted out of a Constitutional Law class for saying, "Yes, ma'am" in response to a female professor's question.

Professor: "What did you call me?"

Lifeguard: [Still waking up.] "Huh?"

Professor: "Did you just say 'yes, ma'am' to me?"

Lifeguard: "Yes, ma'am."

Professor: "Please leave my classroom. That is offensive."

Lifeguard: [Stunned.] "You are kicking me out of your class for being polite?"

Professor: "I am kicking you out of my class for being sexist."

I spent the next several days, banned from her classroom, lobbying various members of the administration for support. Finally, a deal was struck where I offered (and she accepted) my non-apology. She never required my participation in class, never called on me, and I ended the year with a B.

*Dumbass

[Ed. note: The picture above was taken while the good senator was discussing what she saw when she walked in on The Lifeguard in the men's room at a convention celebrating the 25th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. (We won't say any more about why I was at the convention, or why she was in the men's room.) Let's just say that Barbara calls me, "sir."]

HFWTFMF?!?

Miranda Warnings For Terror Suspects?
In his most recent bout of stupidity, the smartest man in the world has ordered that terror suspects captured on the battlefield be read their Miranda rights. You know, like the criminals on Law And Order: Man-Caused Disaster.

Frankly, The Lifeguard agrees.

"You have the right to remain silent...."

[BLAM!]

Then, shoot the motherfucker so he can't cause any trouble later.

Because dead men tell no tales.

I Was Wrong?

Oops!
A couple of days ago, The Lifeguard applauded the choice of Javier Sotomayor as the latest Supreme Court nominee. Unfortunately, I was wrong.

President Obama had nominated Judge Sonia Sotomayor, pictured above, to be the first Hispanic justice.

A self-described Newyorican, Judge Sotomayor is a graduate of Princeton (cum laude) and Yale Law School (where she was an editor of the Yale Law Journal). While she only high jumps a mere half-metre, she is well respected by lawyers who appear before her.

Still, The Lifeguard is a little nonplussed at this pick. As such, The Lifeguard reserves judgment on Judge Sotomayor until after he has read some of her decisions.

Peace!

HFWTFMF?

AT LEAST NERO PLAYED THE FIDDLE...

President Barack Hussein Obama--who is not a Muslim--took his baby mama to The Big Apple, for dinner and the theatre. (How sweet.) At least he didn't take the big plane, which had scared the shit out of thousands of New Yorkers earlier this year. And, since he went on the cheap, it only cost The Lifeguard (and the American taxpayer) about $45,000.00.

The best part, however, is that our star pupil did this on the eve of General Motors' Chapter 11 filing.

You know, right about the time that thousands of Democrat voters are sweating the details that may land them on the unemployment line, the Maximum Leader is eating, drinking and making merry with the First Lady.

What a tool.

And, for his unbelievable sense of noblesse oblige, President Obama (and Baby Mama Obama) win The Lifeguard's vote for "Dumbasses of the Week."

Congratulations!

SOTOMAYOR IS A GREAT NOMINATION!
The Lifeguard likes the pick of Javier Sotomayor to replace Justice David Souter on the Supreme Court of the United States.

If confirmed, the Cuban-born Sotomayor would become the first Hispanic (and Olympic medalist) on the Court. He is 42, and will likely have a long career on the Court. As perhaps the greatest high jumper in history, he will certainly raise the bar for his fellow justices. He is a devout communist, which makes him a top choice for the Senate Democrats which will have to confirm him. He is a supporter of abortion rights, banning guns, and imprisoning and torturing those who don't support the Maximum Leader.

He has a brilliant legal mind, and is a graduate of the Universidad de la Habana, where he took a law degree, with honours, from the alma mater of the Maximum Leader. He is also an Olympic gold medalist.

Sadly, Sotomayor was accused of drug use (the positive cocaine test is not the problem; but, the steroid use is). Still, if confirmed, Sotomayor would be an asset to the Court (especially at the Judicial Branch's summer picnic).

The Lifeguard is pleased that President Obama has not made a cynical pick of an Hispanic to fill Justice Souter's seat. At the moment, The Lifeguard is poring over Sotomayor's judicial record; and, when finished, will make an assessment on the merits of this nomination.

At the moment, however, The Lifeguard likes this choice.

Well done, President Obama.

DFL? DFT!

The Lifeguard Raced In The Figawi...
and he is still tired.

Menage A Trois struggled with sustained 20 knot winds; and, we suffered because we stayed high on the course (expecting a wind shift that never arrived). Although we did not lack talented crew, we made tactical errors (staying high, even though the majority of the fleet started reaching off almost immediately), sail-handling errors (the sails never looked that great), and weather helm that kept Menage rounding up every minute or so.

As a consequence, we had our worst Figawi finish...ever. DFL.

But, Nantucket was a blast, and my liver survived.

The Lifeguard Runs, Too!

These Women Weren't In My Road Race...
The Lifeguard, wanting to get back into top physical condition for the summer drinking season, planned on entering a 5K that was a fundraiser for a local charity. (Donate here, if you wish.) I talked about it for weeks, until finally Number Two asked, "Dad, when are you going to start training for the race?"

The Lifeguard's snarky (and, totally honest) answer: "When does the race start?"

So, on May 9th, The Lifeguard showed up at 1045 HRS (for an 1100 HRS gun). Stretching for two minutes or so, then pinning on my number, I started stalking the competition. Preferring to trash talk men and women pushing baby joggers, the seemingly mentally deficient, and the physically infirm, The Lifeguard took his place in the herd.

Hell, I knew that the crowd would sort itself out--the racers breaking from the pack, leaving the runners behind. And, the course was suited for that--one lap around the track, then out onto the local roads.

The Lifeguard started in the middle of the pack, getting out of starting area in 1:49 for the first quarter-mile. (A pace that still would not have put The Lifeguard in the money.) The first hill was nearly my Waterloo--I have never done well on downhills--when I started feeling a little knee pain. (The Lifeguard is thinking that it would be really embarrassing to drop out at the 1 mile mark, especially since there is no nearby bar; and, no way to pull a Rosie Ruiz.)

I started thinking, at the 1.5 mile mark about Richard Pryor (who talked about getting a cramp while running).

"Hello, I'll be fucking with you for the next hour or so. I'll be moving from side to side, down your groin, and up your ass. When you drop dead, I will stop."

At the 2 mile mark, the men and women pushing baby joggers were passing me (including one woman whose child was wearing a hockey helmet). Now, don't get me wrong, I get the whole safety thing; but, making your child look like a tool when you are wearing running shorts and a pink LIVESTRONG singlet is so wrong. Kicking my ass while you're doing it? Even more wrong, even more emasculating.

On the uphill to the finish, The Lifeguard was managing to stay focused, in spite of the tremendous buildup of lactic acid (and thoughts of having erred by not training for this race). I managed to pass a few people, too. (Of course, those people were receiving medical attention; but still....)

Then, the finish. Fighting off the pregnant woman (who later delivered her triplets on the infield), I managed to get through the gate in 33:45 (my best 5K time since my last 5K, in 1989). And, while I wasn't first, I sure as Hell wasn't last...so that is something.

And, the day after, The Lifeguard's quads are still screaming; but, I finished.

Next up, The Boston Marathon...

Now playing centerfield, Dominic DiMaggio.

Where Have You Gone, Dom DiMaggio?
The "Little Professor" died peacefully yesterday, reportedly while watching a replay of the Indians v. Red Sox game.

A lifetime .298 hitter, DiMaggio was one of the greatest centerfielders to play for the Red Sox; and, his 34-game hitting streak in 1949 remains a Red Sox record. He was known for his great arm, tremendous range, and capacity to read the batter. Indeed, Ted Williams, DiMaggio's partner in the outfield, noted that he and DiMaggio had a deal that DiMaggio would get every ball that he could. (Even Ted Williams followed the "Rule of Nine.")

The 5'9", 168 pound DiMaggio joined his brothers, Vince and Joe in professional baseball, where he enjoyed a ten-year career. DiMaggio later went on to not marry Marilyn Monroe or be remembered in a Simon and Garfunkel song. Instead, he was a founding partner of the Boston (later New England) Patriots and a successful Boston businessman. He is survived by his wife of 61 years, Emily, and three children, Dominic Paul, Peter and Emily. Oh, and of all of the citizens of Red Sox Nation.

God bless you, Dominic DiMaggio.

Photo Oops!

What Is It With Muslims And Airplanes (And New York City)?
President Barack Hussein Obama (who is not a Muslim) wanted a shot of a VC-25--the military variant of the Boeing 747 (more commonly referred to as Air Force One)--flying over New York City.

Rather than have his best and brightest PhotoShop something, his best and brightest arranged to have Air Force One fly low--really low--over New York City (with at least one F.16 apparently in pursuit). Oh, and White House Military Office Director, Louis Caldera, called everyone...except for Mayor Michael Bloomberg (and the thousands of people scared shitless by the sound of a low-flying jet over Manhattan.)

Instead of generating massive amounts of pride in their country, the flyover generated massive amounts of panic and cost scads in lost productivity.

For this incredible waste of taxpayer money (and the good will of the good citizens of New York City), The Lifeguard gives President Obama (and his personal douche) the "Dumbass of the Week" Award.

Fuck The Heck?!?

President Obama Travels The World...
working the diplomatic version of a glory hole, as he smiles, bows, caresses, and apologises his way into the hearts and minds of every enemy of the American state. Eight years of Gunboat Diplomacy were beyond the ken of our beloved President Obama; and, he is going to effect a change--overnight. Naively, like a man walking among a streak of tigers, he believes that if he gives away his colourful new clothes, his shoes and his umbrella, the hungry cats will leave him alone.

Sadly, he has weakened America's position, and the hungry tigers--called Ahmadinejad, Chavez, Castro and Abdullah--can smell the weakness, the deference. They will not be running 'round the tree, turning themselves into delicious melted butter.

Instead, we can expect more sabre-rattling from Ahmadinejad, Castro and Chavez. We can expect more crazy Islamists, learning their trade at Saudi-funded madrassas (Slogan: "Training the Taliban, one smelly, sweaty, religious crackpot at a time!") And, we can expect the United States to become a mere shadow of what it once was.

As someone once noted, "Those that fail to learn from history, are doomed to repeat it."

What The Deuce?

The Lifeguard Was Out The Other Night,
enjoying a few cocktails, thinking about Surf City (where there are two girls for every boy), and the upcoming sailing season.

When I went outside, I found that she'd dug her key into the side of my pretty little souped-up four wheel drive, then carved her name into my leather seats. She took a Louisville Slugger to both headlights and slashed a hole in all four tyres. She left me a note, saying "Maybe next time you'll think before you cheat."

So, I dialed 911. Within minutes, Boston's finest were on the scene, taking pictures, dusting for fingerprints, and shortly thereafter, placing her under arrest. Really, you don't need brilliant police work when her motherhumping name is carved into my leather seats. She might as well have left her address and phone number, with a note that says, "Please arrest my sorry, stupid ass."

Maybe next time she'll think before engaging in the malicious destruction of property.

Wrong!

NATO Ships And Helicopters Hunt Pirates...
then, they let them go.

Dumb asses.

Not that anyone asked The Lifeguard; but, those same NATO crews should have shot the mother*&^%ers. (Well, they could have given them a trial first.) That way, they can't come back later to haunt merchant shipping in the region.

And, for the record, if the Free World is going to consider halting piracy to be a law enforcement problem, then they should remember that giving the criminals the opportunity to dispose of the evidence during a protracted chase is WRONG!

Coincidence? I Think Not.

Captain Richard Phillips Is Safe...
and three Skinnies are dead. The fourth is in the custody of the United States Navy.

I note that the rescue took place just a few hours after The Lifeguard indicated his intent to move to France if immediate action was not taken.

I am, however, a bit concerned that the chattering skulls are talking about the Skinny doing a life term in a U.S. prison and not a long walk on a short plank. A life-term in an American prison is probably a whole lot better gig than a life-term in a Somali village. Shit, he'll get three squares a day, a bed in a small (but climate-controlled) cell, 105 channels, and access to the best lawyers that the ACLU can buy.

To paraphrase Crocodile Dundee, "That's not life. That's the life."

Peut-etre que?

Le sauvetage se dirige vers la France?

Si le président Obama ne prend pas de mesures contre les pirates, je viens peut-être. J'aime le vin français, les femmes en France (quand ils se sont marié), et les frites. Le seul point négatif est que je dois apprendre à parler français.

Au moins le Président Sarkozy a une colonne vertébrale ... et une belle femme.

Happy Easter!

Christ Is Risen!
The Lifeguard wishes y'all a Happy and Blessed Easter.

Poetic Justice?

I Am Sure Former VP Dick Cheney Is Smiling...
How unbelievably cool would it be if Captain Richard Phillips were rescued by the USS Halyburton (FFG-40)?

Halliburton. Halyburton.

Ha!

Effin' A, Cotton. Effin' A.

The French Have Balls.
Four words that The Lifeguard thought he'd never utter. But, it's true. And, French president, Nicolas Sarkozy, showed them by ordering the French Navy to storm a yacht seized by hostis humani generis--enemies of the human race. The French did, killing one hostage--Florent Lemacon, the yacht's owner--in the process; but, freeing the other folks on the vessel (including Lemacon's son).

Sarkozy gave the order to attack at 1530HRS; and, thirty seconds later, the French were on the S/V Tanit, kicking ass and taking names.

Sadly, the French didn't kill every last pirate. But, there is hope, because the French continue to take the lead role in eradicating high seas piracy.

Who'd have thought that the French president would order swift action, while the American president lets an American merchant sailor languish in a lifeboat with Somali pirates, while the FBI (the motherhumping FBI) handles the negotiations.

Shit, if The Lifeguard were in charge, the negotiations would go like this:

Lifeguard: "Surrender now, or we will board the lifeboat and kill you all."

Skinny: "We want $2M."

Lifeguard: "Go fuck yourself. You have thirty seconds."

Skinny: "We are serious."

Lifeguard: "Oh, and we will hunt your families down and kill them all, if Captain Phillips is harmed."

Skinny: "We surrender. "

Lifeguard: [Taking Phillips aboard the Navy SEALS' RIB] "Thank you."

Lifeguard: "Sink the boat, light up their village."

Skinny: "But you promised...."

At this point, fifteen BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missiles leave the USS Bainbridge, bound for the Somali shitholes that harbour the pirates. At the same time, the pirates are bound and carried aboard the Bainbridge, where they are tried, convicted and hanged as the Tomahawks hit their targets. Hoo-Rah!

Are They Kidding?

"How About 'Blow Me, PETA'?"

Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe, better known as the Pet Shop Boys, gave PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) the finger, rejecting a proposal that the band change its name to "Rescue Shelter Boys."

Which makes me wonder, is PETA still relevant?

Are the Pet Shop Boys still relevant?

Does anyone, aside from Chris Lowe, Neil Tennant, and PETA even give a rat's arse?

The Lifeguard is guessing that the answer is, "No."

The Lifeguard Is Powerless To Help...

"Your President Obama Promised Us Stimulus Money"
Unfortunately, the chickens have come home to roost. When the Chinese and Danish Navies failed to kill every last pirate they captured in February, the pirates were emboldened.

Now, they are testing the limits of U.S. resolve by taking an American vessel, the Maersk Alabama. And, though the USS Bainbridge (DDG-96) is on the scene, you can bet your sweet ass that their response will be not unlike that of the USS Cole. (Lots of talk, no action.)

Rather than talk, the Bainbridge should light up the Somali village that harbours these scum-of-the-sea like the Fourth of Fucking July. A couple of BGM-109 Tomahawks would do nicely; and, the ship's complement of Marines could be tasked with clean-up (and body count) duties. If that is not enough to persuade the pirates to return their hostage, then a few more Tomahawks could be sent to couple of "targets of opportunity" in Mogadishu. (And, frankly, we'd be doing them a favour by bombing them forward, into the Stone Age.)

In the meantime, The Lifeguard will be monitoring the situation, and awaiting the call from President Obama, who will surely be ringing to ask for advice.

In the meantime, the food aid meant for President Obama's kinfolk in Kenya (or, at least those not living illegally in public housing in Boston) sits on the deck of a container ship off the Horn of Africa....

The First Step Is Admitting You Have A Problem...

I Am A Carmex Addict...
I reached into my pocket this evening and I couldn't find my pot. I was jonesing, and I needed my fix.

Fortunately, I have a spare pot hidden in the glove box of the Swedish Ford.

Is that indicative of a problem?

Ketel Car?

The Things One Notices After Eight Cocktails...
Ketel One's lemon-flavoured vodka--Ketel One Citroen--is delicious.

As I was contemplating the label on the bottle, I found it somewhat ironic--like rain, on your wedding day--that the car company has the same spelling.

Coincidence?

The Lifeguard thinks not.

The Lifeguard Saves....

I Love NPR!

Those are words that 89% of the free world never thought they'd hear The Lifeguard say.

Listening the other day, I contemplated the present economic crisis here in the United States. (I was thinking globally, but thought that we should act locally.) The NPR reporter talked about the staggering job losses here in the U.S. (the worst unemployment since late 1983, not The Great Depression, as some would have us believe), followed by a story on a raid by armed immigration agents on Yamato Engine Specialists, where 28 workers were led away in handcuffs (then later released following outrage at the Obama Administration by the Hispanic community).

I hit upon the solution to the whole blessed problem: Deport every last illegal alien.

This will do several things.

First, it will clear out about twelve million (or so) criminals. The one way tickets back to Mexico (or some other Third World shithole) would provide a great stimulus to the airline industry. ("Delta: Deporting Every Last Troublesome Alien") We could let Aeromexico and Tikal Jets Airlines get in on the act, too. Hell, let Air Canada do some of the yeoman's work, too. (Those pesky Canadian frostbacks have got to go, as well.)

Second, it will open up scads of jobs. Sure, those jobs might be menial; but, as we are always being told, they are very important, hence the need for all of those illegal...um...undocumented workers. We could put--conservatively--eight million of the unemployed back to work straightaway. On top of that, we could hire some of those that are unemployed as border guards and enforcement agents.

Third, it will help education in the United States. Imagine how much more effectively the children could learn if their teachers didn't have to worry about non-English speakers in their classrooms. And, the over-burdened schools would get an immediate respite in the form fewer pupils per teacher (which is the goal, right?). No in-state college tuition to illegal aliens also equates to a significant savings. If the Government of Mexico wants Juan to go to Cal-Berkeley, let the Government of Mexico pay out-of-state tuition. (Or, let Juan pay it himself, after he applies for a student visa.)

Fourth, it would help the U.S. economy by keeping dollars at home. Immigrants send about $45 billion dollars to Latin America alone. Keeping that money here, in the United States, would be a boon to the economy. As an aside, forcing the productive members of, say, Mexican society to stay in Mexico might also be a boon to the Mexican economy. This amounts to as much as $1.2 billion to a state, like North Carolina, which loses that amount as a result of remittances abroad. Multiply that across the fifty states, and the benefit to the U.S. economy is staggering.

Finally, the savings in health care costs would be enormous. Illegal immigrants go to the emergency room for sniffles; and, those living on the border cross into America for pre-natal care (and to give birth to their anchor babies). Since an estimated 64% of the illegals in America are uninsured, this would result in a massive reduction in the strain on the hospitals in the country.

In the next installment, The Lifeguard will analyse the improvements that need to be made in the legal infrastructure to effect the changes discussed.

Hold on to your hats, it'll be a bumpy ride.

April Fool's!

The April Fools Day Virus...
does nothing. That's the joke.

Or, maybe it does. How the fuck should I know? All I can say is that I am not opening anything tomorrow (other than a bottle of Grey Goose and a jar of olives).

Huh?

At Least Stalin Wasn't A Democrat...
The White House explained that it was President Barack Hussein Obama who cut--figuratively speaking--the balls off of Rick Wagoner, the (now) former chairman of General Motors.

It seems that if GM is going to take $26 Bn in bailout money, then Comrade Obama gets a say in who is going to run the joint.

Following this logic, the union leadership will be the next to vacate their position since they are as much to blame for GM's malaise as Chairman Wagoner. After all, he may have made the decision to build the Suburban and the Avalanche over the electric and hybrid cars that everyone seems to think that we want right now; but, they were the ones who wanted to have the store...and got it.

The unions gave us make-work, no-fire jobs, the jobs bank, and benefits that only a Congressman might find offensive. Now, they should have to pay.

Management may have made bad decisions; but, labour built a substandard product for years. This was okay when there was little competition from the outside. Then, the Japanese came along with their inexpensive, well-made cars and Detroit was fucked.

The tragedy is that Wagoner said that he'd go. Instead, he should have moved GM into bankruptcy, seeking Chapter 11 protection. He should have broken the unions' hold on GM (and the American auto industry in general). He should have been a man and stood up to Obama, the UAW, and Congress. Then, he should have committed seppuku. Instead, he is reaping the whirlwind (and collecting a massive payout for going on unemployment).

Actually, the tragedy is the stupidity of Congress with CAFE standards and tariffs (e.g., the fact that American automakers can not import foreign-built cars that would meet these standards, and which Americans might actually have wanted to buy); and, the fact that the unions have rarely, if ever, given anything back.

Sure, Wagoner made a mess of things; but, he's not the only one at fault. So, Comrade Obama, clean the stables. Or, stay out of the business of business.

Of course, the funny thing is that we don't blink when the President forces a CEO to leave; but, we keep electing (and re-electing) the clowns in Congress who mismanage a far larger business; and, who take (and misuse) a Hell of a lot more than $26 Bn.

I just hope we can survive the four years of this Five Year Plan.

Maybe we can borrow the DVDs that were given to Prime Minister Gordon Brown. After all, he can't watch them at home.

Politically Incorrect?

I Was Passing The Vending Machine Today...
and I couldn't help but wonder if the package of Ho Hos might offend someone.

I thought of other things, too...

Like my friend from California who suggested that we go out and "...shoot some chink."*

If you talk about a "chink in the armour," have you offended one billion people?

Or, if your child is a "dago" at the local prep school, have you offended Italians everywhere?

My friend S. once called K-Mart and asked if they had any "jiggers." The clerk was absolutely bugfuck crazy with rage, accusing him of being a racist. The situation wasn't helped when he asked if, perhaps, he should call them "jegroes."

I know that the term "Paddy Wagon" gets a visceral reaction from many; but, what about "Black Maria"? (I once had a judge remind counsel, at sidebar, that "...since there are no Nigger Wagons and no Spic Wagons, there will be no Paddy Wagons.")

If you have a "Guinea Pump" (or, own a Guinea Pig, for that matter) have you pissed off the Italians once more?

What about getting your house "spic and span"? Or, using Spic And Span?

If you live in Seattle (or better, Provincetown), and say that you want to "take the ferry," have you offended those who have embraced an alternate lifestyle? Do they think that the ferry boats constitute their very own navy?

Maybe we should all just have a drink...and get along.

*Play basketball. The expression, "shoot some chink" apparently comes from the chain nets that were on the hoops at the playground.