Dear Amanda,
We were meant to be together. Allow me to explain.
Last night, at about 1:00am, I sat there, bleary eyed and fatigued, watching a History Channel presentationon Braveheart's Scotland. I was listening contently to the parade of distinguished, gentleman-scholars, whensuddenly you appeared; you, a brown haired, blue eyed apparition, speaking of Medieval fortifications inyour smokey, sultry, subtly southern-accented voice.
Frankly, dear, I have never been so turned on by adiscussion of castle masonry. Apparently, you're American, and earned a PhD inhistory from Stirling University in Scotland, whereyou now teach. What dedication you must have had,earning joint doctorates in history and HOTNESS!
Amanda, darling, my love for you is as wide as theScottish battle line at Falkirk, and as deep as thewalls at Bothwell Castle. For you, I would swim theRiver Forth in the middle of winter; I would chargethe English lines at Bannockburn wearing nothing butmy claymore; I would declare my love from every peakin the Highlands!
We have so much in common. You enjoy candle lit dinners, walks along the beach, and researching the Balliol Dynasty, just like I do! I once visitedStirling, and I never would have left if I had known a vixen-historian like you was going to show up in a few years.So, can I take you out to dinner sometime? Maybe wecould meet halfway; in Iceland, perhaps? Think of the great time we'll have! We can alternate between making-out and discussing the impact of the Murry clanon Scotland's political infrastructure... it'll be great!
Truly yours,
Peter
Friday, February 1, 2008
Friend Visitation Rights
Friend Visitation Rights
Dear friends, there is treachery afoot. In this land of John Locke inspired government, where we proclaim an individual's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of property (the fact that the founding fathers changed the last word to “happiness” isn't fooling anybody; I mean, isn't “happiness” a piece of dirt you can call your own anyway?), our proprietary rights are being suppressed and threatened as we speak! As I write these very words, the guiding principals of our republic our being menaced by those who would seek to deny us the very rights that constitute the fabric of our great country.
I refer, of course, to that most insidious of social anarchists... the romantic interloper. It is you, romantic interloper, who monopolizes our friends' time, and deprives us of the pleasure that their presence brings us; it is you, who tears asunder the labors of extended platonic friendship with your sweet nothings and appalling attentiveness! Well, NO MORE, romantic interloper! We will no longer have our rights be denied! Anne Marie and I have decided that a resolution must be drafted to keep our rights, those privileges guaranteed to us by the Constitution and natural law, from being degraded any further. All of our friends with significant others will be required to sign the following document:
WHEREAS, in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and seven, Peter and Anne Marie have declared their inalienable rights to persons with whom they claim amicable relations
WHEREAS, Peter and Anne Marie have provided overwhelming evidence in support of the claim that they maintained amicable relations with said persons well before romantic interloper entered into relations with them; evidence of these amicable relations include weekend outings to local nightspots, sporting event attendance, and the occasional night of board games
WHEREAS, The Bill Of Rights guarantees security of person and possessions
WHEREAS, the supreme court verdict in the case of “Cheryl Lamkin Vs. The New Boyfriend Of My Best Friend, Who Takes Up All Of Her Time So That She Can't Like, Hang Out At The Mall With Me Anymore, And Stuff” supports the proprietary claim of Peter and Anne Marie
WHEREAS, Peter And Anne Marie demand visitation rights with their attached friends a minimum of one weekend per month
WHEREAS, this document applies to all romantic interests, including casual, steady, serious, and yes, even THE ONE
WHEREAS, Peter and Anne Marie assert that, one weekend a month spent with them will certainly not strain friend's relations with romantic interloper, and will still allow plenty of time for mushy stuff like kissing, holding hands, and calling each other pet names
THEREFORE, it is declared that Peter and Anne Marie have the right to demand at least one weekend of visitation with their friends per month, and that they posses all rights pertaining to such visits, such as the right to consume alcoholic beverages with them, watch movies with them, etc.
Copies of this legally binding document will be distributed among our friends,
Peter
Dear friends, there is treachery afoot. In this land of John Locke inspired government, where we proclaim an individual's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of property (the fact that the founding fathers changed the last word to “happiness” isn't fooling anybody; I mean, isn't “happiness” a piece of dirt you can call your own anyway?), our proprietary rights are being suppressed and threatened as we speak! As I write these very words, the guiding principals of our republic our being menaced by those who would seek to deny us the very rights that constitute the fabric of our great country.
I refer, of course, to that most insidious of social anarchists... the romantic interloper. It is you, romantic interloper, who monopolizes our friends' time, and deprives us of the pleasure that their presence brings us; it is you, who tears asunder the labors of extended platonic friendship with your sweet nothings and appalling attentiveness! Well, NO MORE, romantic interloper! We will no longer have our rights be denied! Anne Marie and I have decided that a resolution must be drafted to keep our rights, those privileges guaranteed to us by the Constitution and natural law, from being degraded any further. All of our friends with significant others will be required to sign the following document:
WHEREAS, in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and seven, Peter and Anne Marie have declared their inalienable rights to persons with whom they claim amicable relations
WHEREAS, Peter and Anne Marie have provided overwhelming evidence in support of the claim that they maintained amicable relations with said persons well before romantic interloper entered into relations with them; evidence of these amicable relations include weekend outings to local nightspots, sporting event attendance, and the occasional night of board games
WHEREAS, The Bill Of Rights guarantees security of person and possessions
WHEREAS, the supreme court verdict in the case of “Cheryl Lamkin Vs. The New Boyfriend Of My Best Friend, Who Takes Up All Of Her Time So That She Can't Like, Hang Out At The Mall With Me Anymore, And Stuff” supports the proprietary claim of Peter and Anne Marie
WHEREAS, Peter And Anne Marie demand visitation rights with their attached friends a minimum of one weekend per month
WHEREAS, this document applies to all romantic interests, including casual, steady, serious, and yes, even THE ONE
WHEREAS, Peter and Anne Marie assert that, one weekend a month spent with them will certainly not strain friend's relations with romantic interloper, and will still allow plenty of time for mushy stuff like kissing, holding hands, and calling each other pet names
THEREFORE, it is declared that Peter and Anne Marie have the right to demand at least one weekend of visitation with their friends per month, and that they posses all rights pertaining to such visits, such as the right to consume alcoholic beverages with them, watch movies with them, etc.
Copies of this legally binding document will be distributed among our friends,
Peter
I See London, I See France.... (Pt. 5)
See London, I See France (Pt. 5) "If I Pass Out In Paris, Dunk Me In The Seine"
Dear friends,
I invite you to once again don your flowing white robes, and join me as we frolic in the rose hued fields of memory.
When we last parted, I was stepping onto the train that would take me from Normandy to Paris. Having survived a couple of visits to Paris previously, I hoped that this one would not prove to be my demise. Why the trepidation? There is madness in the world, and that madness is Paris. Frankly speaking, while some cities are a cultural smorgasbord, Paris is a cultural orgy. Whenever approaching Paris, I fear that I may be transformed into some hideously obsessed fiend of the arts, wandering empty side streets, mumbling about post-impressionism when anyone asks me what I want on my baguette.
With a cautious mind, I arrived at Saint Lazare Station, and made my way over to Gare du Nord, where I was going to be meeting Joern's train. Many of you have probably heard me talk about Joern before, but for those who have not the pleasure, a brief introduction is in order: Joern is Germany's foremost expert on the American Civil War. I am allowed to declare him as such, because I have also issued a declaration declaring my right to declare such things... and to speak in something akin to the twisted tongue of Orwellian un-speak, apparently.
Anyway, I arrived at Gare de Nord, and immediately began to indulge in the voyeuristic sport of watching train station reunions. Paris is the perfect place to do this, because as we all know, the French have very few qualms about making out in public... and whatever qualms they may have are immediately sent to their doom at Place de la Concorde when they appear.
I wasn't sure what platform Joern was arriving on, but was drawn to a certain one by a large group of Gendarmes (Translation: "Guys with big guns") gathering there. I figured this must certainly be Joern's train, and indeed, upon closer inspection of the sign, it was. Joern's train was set to arrive in a few minutes... via Belgium. Of course, when Joern arrived a few minutes later, I asked him, "Joern, what's up with the Germans always coming to Paris through Belgium?" Joern, being the knowledgeable guy that he is, knew the answer of course, and explained to me that it's simply a very pleasant route, and it's popularity hasn't waned since World War One. So, there you have it.
Under cloudy skies, we set off to find the street of Pierre Dupont, where Ellie had taken up residence. Yes, in fact, this is the same Ellie that appeared in part one of this travelogue in London. I see Ellie all over the place, because... well, that's how she rolls, right Ellie? In fact, Ellie was going to be spending the semester in Paris to study at the Sorbonne, and just happened to arrive in Paris at the right time to offer lodging to her freeloading American friend, Peter (Thanks, Ellie!).
It began to rain, and we wandered around on La Rue De Strasbourg in the 10th District, asking anybody and everybody if they knew where Pierre Dupont was. We didn't have much luck until we flagged down a businessman who was about to run across the street. I bellowed, "EXCUSEZ MOI, MONSIEUR!" and he came back to respond. The gentleman not only gave us directions, but pulled a map out of his briefcase, and spent a couple of minutes explaining them. Very nice. Clearly, since the American media keeps telling me that French people hate us, it must have been the presence of Joern, the German, that prompted this random act of kindness... right Joern : ) ?
We eventually found our way to Ellie and Nick's place (Nick is Ellie's roomate), and discovered they had a trendy little cafe right next door that was stocked with all the libations a good cafe should have.
Ellie's Apartment! Any place where Ellie sets up residence is an intriguing and cool place to hang out, because Ellie's intrigue and coolness wears off on it. Add to this her cool friends, and I never wanted to go bed at night... and often, did not until the early hours of the morning. I think the first night I was up until about 4:30 before finally conceding to my fatigue, despite the fact that I wanted to keep conversing.
Needless to say, when I attempted to get up at 8:30 the next morning, it took several tries. I eventually got to Joern's hotel, and was invigorated by the cheerful good morning of the desk manager, clearly the most peppy man in Paris. When Joern had checked in the day before, he had thought we were checking in together, and had quoted us the price of "Vingt-Neuf Euros!" On seeing that I was leaving, he made sure to inform us excitedly, "Pas vingt-neuf Euros! Juste vingt-cinq Euros!" Joern and I nodded and smiled. "Pas vignt-neuf! Vignt cinq!"
After I took some uppers to get me going, and chased them down with some whiskey, Joern and I headed off to Pere LaChaise cemetary.
Here are some highlights from Paris:
Pere LaChaise: Pere LaChause is the final resting place of most legendary Frenchmen and Frenchwomen except Zola, Rousseau, and the other folks in the Pantheon. Of course, there is also the occasionally rock star, like Jim Morrison. All you have to do to find Jim Morrison's grave is locate the spot in the cemetery where you're surrounded by security guards. Apparently Jim gets all the security because a bust of him that was located at his grave was stolen some years ago; well, that and the fact that Chopin fans, for example, don't tend to get rowdy and destroy stuff as much as Morrison fans... unless of course you play them the second piano concerto, at which point all hell breaks loose. We wandered around the cemetery for hours, and that is to say, we saw about ten percent of it.
La Place de la Bastille: The location of the most famous monument in Paris that doesn't exist now pays homage to its past notoriety in an unusual way; instead of getting imprisoned there for political dissidence, you can imprison yourself in your own vices! The place is filled with trendy bars, restaurants, and S&M chambers erected in memory of the Marquis de Sade.
That guy that yelling in the street: Joern and I were wandering down the street near La Place de la Republique discussing the Republican party's departure from traditional conservatism, as one does, when a man suddenly yelled, "I HATE GEORGE BUSH!". The ensuing conversation went something like this:
PETER: Um, okay.
YELLING MAN: I HATE GEORGE BUSH!
PETER: Okay.
YELLING MAN: Do you have any American cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: That's too bad, because it would be nice thing for you to give me an American cigarette.
PETER: Yes, I suppose it would be.
YELLING MAN: Have you tried French cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: You know what you should do? You should buy some French cigarettes and bring them back to your friends.
PETER: Most of them don't smoke either.
YELLING MAN: Oh. Good day.
PETER: Good day.
The vestiaire at the Louvre: If you're an American and you speak a foreign language, people will be impressed. If you're an American and you speak French, people may just think you're from another planet. The conversations tend to go like this:
PETER: Bonjour, monsieur. J'ai besoin de mon sac a do.
EMPLOYEE: Bonjour. You speak French?
PETER: I try.
EMPLOYEE: But you are not French?
PETER: No.
EMPLOYEE: Are you Quebecois?
PETER: No, I'm American.
EMPLOYEE: American?! Why do you speak French?
PETER: Because it's "la belle langue"; I was born to speak it.
At this point, another couple of museum employees arrive, and hear the other employee and I speaking French. They begin talking amongst themselves
"Ah, he speaks French! Is he Quebecois?"
"No, he's American."
"American?! Why does he speak French?"
Yes, folks, you can be Dutch, speak five languages, and nobody will bat an eye, but if you're an American and you can speak anything besides English, you're some sort of fascinating anomaly : ) .
The vestiaire at Le Musee de Picasso: The collective surprise that I spoke French, and yet, was not from Quebec, also led to an extended conversation at this museum's coat-check. As it turned out, the gentleman working behind the counter had been to Madison! He had liked the city, and asked me to remind him what sort of products our state specilizes in. I told him we make nipple products. Uh...... yeah, there's another one for the books. As you probably guessed, I was trying to say "dairy products". Alas!
Well, that's all for now. Next, we'll be off to the Med!
Peter
Dear friends,
I invite you to once again don your flowing white robes, and join me as we frolic in the rose hued fields of memory.
When we last parted, I was stepping onto the train that would take me from Normandy to Paris. Having survived a couple of visits to Paris previously, I hoped that this one would not prove to be my demise. Why the trepidation? There is madness in the world, and that madness is Paris. Frankly speaking, while some cities are a cultural smorgasbord, Paris is a cultural orgy. Whenever approaching Paris, I fear that I may be transformed into some hideously obsessed fiend of the arts, wandering empty side streets, mumbling about post-impressionism when anyone asks me what I want on my baguette.
With a cautious mind, I arrived at Saint Lazare Station, and made my way over to Gare du Nord, where I was going to be meeting Joern's train. Many of you have probably heard me talk about Joern before, but for those who have not the pleasure, a brief introduction is in order: Joern is Germany's foremost expert on the American Civil War. I am allowed to declare him as such, because I have also issued a declaration declaring my right to declare such things... and to speak in something akin to the twisted tongue of Orwellian un-speak, apparently.
Anyway, I arrived at Gare de Nord, and immediately began to indulge in the voyeuristic sport of watching train station reunions. Paris is the perfect place to do this, because as we all know, the French have very few qualms about making out in public... and whatever qualms they may have are immediately sent to their doom at Place de la Concorde when they appear.
I wasn't sure what platform Joern was arriving on, but was drawn to a certain one by a large group of Gendarmes (Translation: "Guys with big guns") gathering there. I figured this must certainly be Joern's train, and indeed, upon closer inspection of the sign, it was. Joern's train was set to arrive in a few minutes... via Belgium. Of course, when Joern arrived a few minutes later, I asked him, "Joern, what's up with the Germans always coming to Paris through Belgium?" Joern, being the knowledgeable guy that he is, knew the answer of course, and explained to me that it's simply a very pleasant route, and it's popularity hasn't waned since World War One. So, there you have it.
Under cloudy skies, we set off to find the street of Pierre Dupont, where Ellie had taken up residence. Yes, in fact, this is the same Ellie that appeared in part one of this travelogue in London. I see Ellie all over the place, because... well, that's how she rolls, right Ellie? In fact, Ellie was going to be spending the semester in Paris to study at the Sorbonne, and just happened to arrive in Paris at the right time to offer lodging to her freeloading American friend, Peter (Thanks, Ellie!).
It began to rain, and we wandered around on La Rue De Strasbourg in the 10th District, asking anybody and everybody if they knew where Pierre Dupont was. We didn't have much luck until we flagged down a businessman who was about to run across the street. I bellowed, "EXCUSEZ MOI, MONSIEUR!" and he came back to respond. The gentleman not only gave us directions, but pulled a map out of his briefcase, and spent a couple of minutes explaining them. Very nice. Clearly, since the American media keeps telling me that French people hate us, it must have been the presence of Joern, the German, that prompted this random act of kindness... right Joern : ) ?
We eventually found our way to Ellie and Nick's place (Nick is Ellie's roomate), and discovered they had a trendy little cafe right next door that was stocked with all the libations a good cafe should have.
Ellie's Apartment! Any place where Ellie sets up residence is an intriguing and cool place to hang out, because Ellie's intrigue and coolness wears off on it. Add to this her cool friends, and I never wanted to go bed at night... and often, did not until the early hours of the morning. I think the first night I was up until about 4:30 before finally conceding to my fatigue, despite the fact that I wanted to keep conversing.
Needless to say, when I attempted to get up at 8:30 the next morning, it took several tries. I eventually got to Joern's hotel, and was invigorated by the cheerful good morning of the desk manager, clearly the most peppy man in Paris. When Joern had checked in the day before, he had thought we were checking in together, and had quoted us the price of "Vingt-Neuf Euros!" On seeing that I was leaving, he made sure to inform us excitedly, "Pas vingt-neuf Euros! Juste vingt-cinq Euros!" Joern and I nodded and smiled. "Pas vignt-neuf! Vignt cinq!"
After I took some uppers to get me going, and chased them down with some whiskey, Joern and I headed off to Pere LaChaise cemetary.
Here are some highlights from Paris:
Pere LaChaise: Pere LaChause is the final resting place of most legendary Frenchmen and Frenchwomen except Zola, Rousseau, and the other folks in the Pantheon. Of course, there is also the occasionally rock star, like Jim Morrison. All you have to do to find Jim Morrison's grave is locate the spot in the cemetery where you're surrounded by security guards. Apparently Jim gets all the security because a bust of him that was located at his grave was stolen some years ago; well, that and the fact that Chopin fans, for example, don't tend to get rowdy and destroy stuff as much as Morrison fans... unless of course you play them the second piano concerto, at which point all hell breaks loose. We wandered around the cemetery for hours, and that is to say, we saw about ten percent of it.
La Place de la Bastille: The location of the most famous monument in Paris that doesn't exist now pays homage to its past notoriety in an unusual way; instead of getting imprisoned there for political dissidence, you can imprison yourself in your own vices! The place is filled with trendy bars, restaurants, and S&M chambers erected in memory of the Marquis de Sade.
That guy that yelling in the street: Joern and I were wandering down the street near La Place de la Republique discussing the Republican party's departure from traditional conservatism, as one does, when a man suddenly yelled, "I HATE GEORGE BUSH!". The ensuing conversation went something like this:
PETER: Um, okay.
YELLING MAN: I HATE GEORGE BUSH!
PETER: Okay.
YELLING MAN: Do you have any American cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: That's too bad, because it would be nice thing for you to give me an American cigarette.
PETER: Yes, I suppose it would be.
YELLING MAN: Have you tried French cigarettes?
PETER: No, I don't smoke.
YELLING MAN: You know what you should do? You should buy some French cigarettes and bring them back to your friends.
PETER: Most of them don't smoke either.
YELLING MAN: Oh. Good day.
PETER: Good day.
The vestiaire at the Louvre: If you're an American and you speak a foreign language, people will be impressed. If you're an American and you speak French, people may just think you're from another planet. The conversations tend to go like this:
PETER: Bonjour, monsieur. J'ai besoin de mon sac a do.
EMPLOYEE: Bonjour. You speak French?
PETER: I try.
EMPLOYEE: But you are not French?
PETER: No.
EMPLOYEE: Are you Quebecois?
PETER: No, I'm American.
EMPLOYEE: American?! Why do you speak French?
PETER: Because it's "la belle langue"; I was born to speak it.
At this point, another couple of museum employees arrive, and hear the other employee and I speaking French. They begin talking amongst themselves
"Ah, he speaks French! Is he Quebecois?"
"No, he's American."
"American?! Why does he speak French?"
Yes, folks, you can be Dutch, speak five languages, and nobody will bat an eye, but if you're an American and you can speak anything besides English, you're some sort of fascinating anomaly : ) .
The vestiaire at Le Musee de Picasso: The collective surprise that I spoke French, and yet, was not from Quebec, also led to an extended conversation at this museum's coat-check. As it turned out, the gentleman working behind the counter had been to Madison! He had liked the city, and asked me to remind him what sort of products our state specilizes in. I told him we make nipple products. Uh...... yeah, there's another one for the books. As you probably guessed, I was trying to say "dairy products". Alas!
Well, that's all for now. Next, we'll be off to the Med!
Peter
How I Reached Fourth Base
Dear friends,
I'm happy to announce that after many years spent trying to reach second base, and countless more years trying to simply locate third, I bypassed them both and went strait to fourth base with my cousin. Uhhhhh.....
By Fourth Base, of course, I mean the name of the bar on National Avenue in Milwaukee that we were hanging out in with Tim, my cousin, a few weeks ago. Tim was in Milwaukee on business, and invited us to come wander the city with him, rustling up whatever trouble was to be found on a Wednesday night... and trouble, thy name is whiskey. Usually I don't make a habit of partying on weeknights, but it just so happens that Wednesday nights are when I usually stay home, hit the bottle, and brood away the night anyway; so, I figured, why not just go out and brood with company?
Wandering around Milwaukee on a weeknight isn't the only way I've entertained myself in the past week; I've also dug a couple of holes that I'm quite proud of. My parents needed a couple of trees replaced in their backyard, and they called on me to get the job done. For some reason, perhaps because I did a large portion of it after dark, I could not shake the feeling that I was engaged in some nefarious activity; the only thing missing was frost on the ground, a body wrapped in an oriental rug, and me, mumbling the lyrics to some obscure country music song about deceit and betrayal.
Several weeks after the capture of Al Zarqawi, while talking heads endlessly discuss the significance of the event, I am still haunted by one nagging question; Mary Kay, or Avon? Anyone who saw the post-mortem photos of the man knows that, apparently, the cosmetic industry is alive and booming in post-Saddam Iraq. Personally, my guess is Mary Kay, because while Avon can do wonders to compliment a face that still exists, only Mary Kay sells the foundation that can erase the effects of a bomb blast in close proximity. Obviously, the fact that the Mary Kay syndicate is extending into Iraq should come as no surprise to us. As we speak, the streets of Baghdad are probably clogged with pink Cadillac Devilles, clad in aftermarket armor.
This begs the question, since the ranks of Mary Kay are difficult to infiltrate in the United States, how much more difficult are they to infiltrate in Iraq? What do you suppose it costs just to get in the door? The head of an Avon salesperson in a burlap sack? I predict that the Fedayeen Al Mary Kay will emerge as the new force to be reckoned with in Iraq.
Regards,
Peter
I'm happy to announce that after many years spent trying to reach second base, and countless more years trying to simply locate third, I bypassed them both and went strait to fourth base with my cousin. Uhhhhh.....
By Fourth Base, of course, I mean the name of the bar on National Avenue in Milwaukee that we were hanging out in with Tim, my cousin, a few weeks ago. Tim was in Milwaukee on business, and invited us to come wander the city with him, rustling up whatever trouble was to be found on a Wednesday night... and trouble, thy name is whiskey. Usually I don't make a habit of partying on weeknights, but it just so happens that Wednesday nights are when I usually stay home, hit the bottle, and brood away the night anyway; so, I figured, why not just go out and brood with company?
Wandering around Milwaukee on a weeknight isn't the only way I've entertained myself in the past week; I've also dug a couple of holes that I'm quite proud of. My parents needed a couple of trees replaced in their backyard, and they called on me to get the job done. For some reason, perhaps because I did a large portion of it after dark, I could not shake the feeling that I was engaged in some nefarious activity; the only thing missing was frost on the ground, a body wrapped in an oriental rug, and me, mumbling the lyrics to some obscure country music song about deceit and betrayal.
Several weeks after the capture of Al Zarqawi, while talking heads endlessly discuss the significance of the event, I am still haunted by one nagging question; Mary Kay, or Avon? Anyone who saw the post-mortem photos of the man knows that, apparently, the cosmetic industry is alive and booming in post-Saddam Iraq. Personally, my guess is Mary Kay, because while Avon can do wonders to compliment a face that still exists, only Mary Kay sells the foundation that can erase the effects of a bomb blast in close proximity. Obviously, the fact that the Mary Kay syndicate is extending into Iraq should come as no surprise to us. As we speak, the streets of Baghdad are probably clogged with pink Cadillac Devilles, clad in aftermarket armor.
This begs the question, since the ranks of Mary Kay are difficult to infiltrate in the United States, how much more difficult are they to infiltrate in Iraq? What do you suppose it costs just to get in the door? The head of an Avon salesperson in a burlap sack? I predict that the Fedayeen Al Mary Kay will emerge as the new force to be reckoned with in Iraq.
Regards,
Peter
Dear Angelic Brewing Company
Dear Angelic Brewing Company,
Last month I dined in your establishment, and although I was generally pleased with the food and the service, my sense of patriotism was deeply offended by the Un-American treatment I received concerning my side order.
Knowing that you are renowned for your cheese fries, I thought, what better way to compliment my order than to have some cheese put on the fries that were coming with my burger. I made this request, with all intentions of paying any monetary penalties that it may incur, and was promptly told that "No, they can't do that."
They can't do that? Am I underestimating the simplicity of cheese/fry unification here, or something? Now, I know you have the fries, because they came with my burger, and I know you have the cheese, because you offer cheese fries on your menu; what is the disconnect that makes it impossible to put some cheese onto my fries?
Frankly speaking, Angelic Brewing Company, I would become even more incensed by this affront were it not for the fact that I know this incident is symptomatic of a larger, more insidious "can't do" attitude that is infecting many citizens of this nation.
Did Lewis and Clark decide they couldn't do the voyage of discovery because the trip would be kind of long? I think not. Did our boys in World War II decide they couldn't fight because the war was against two superpowers on separate fronts? Of course not! They took Iwo Jima, and secured cheese fries for the free world.
In a day when American values are being threatened and attacked in various parts of the world, and terrorists seek to deny us those very staples of American junk food that make us unique, I find it unbelievable that you would deny one of its citizens one of the most American foods in existence. In truth, Angelic Brewing Company, when you deny me cheese fries, the terrorists win.
Sincerely,
Peter
Last month I dined in your establishment, and although I was generally pleased with the food and the service, my sense of patriotism was deeply offended by the Un-American treatment I received concerning my side order.
Knowing that you are renowned for your cheese fries, I thought, what better way to compliment my order than to have some cheese put on the fries that were coming with my burger. I made this request, with all intentions of paying any monetary penalties that it may incur, and was promptly told that "No, they can't do that."
They can't do that? Am I underestimating the simplicity of cheese/fry unification here, or something? Now, I know you have the fries, because they came with my burger, and I know you have the cheese, because you offer cheese fries on your menu; what is the disconnect that makes it impossible to put some cheese onto my fries?
Frankly speaking, Angelic Brewing Company, I would become even more incensed by this affront were it not for the fact that I know this incident is symptomatic of a larger, more insidious "can't do" attitude that is infecting many citizens of this nation.
Did Lewis and Clark decide they couldn't do the voyage of discovery because the trip would be kind of long? I think not. Did our boys in World War II decide they couldn't fight because the war was against two superpowers on separate fronts? Of course not! They took Iwo Jima, and secured cheese fries for the free world.
In a day when American values are being threatened and attacked in various parts of the world, and terrorists seek to deny us those very staples of American junk food that make us unique, I find it unbelievable that you would deny one of its citizens one of the most American foods in existence. In truth, Angelic Brewing Company, when you deny me cheese fries, the terrorists win.
Sincerely,
Peter
America's Real Illegal Immigrants
Hmmm, interesting stuff. Check it out.
Peter
America's Real Illegal Immigrants
Fellow Americans,
The debate concerning illegal immigrants in this country continues to rage. Legislation is constructed by our lawmakers to deal with the issue, only to be floored when it causes a backlash of protests and demonstrations in the streets. Clearly, this issue needs resolution, but even more clearly, we must face the fact that immigrants coming over the border should be a secondary concern to an even more insidious immigration problem that is growing in America with every passing year.
It is time we stem the tide of illegal newborn entering this country.
Every year, thousands upon thousands of newborns find there way into the maternity wards of America, entirely lacking proper documentation, green cards, or even simple identification. They proceed to put untold strain upon the health care system of this country, costing taxpayers millions of dollars annually.
Certainly, we are a nation made up of immigrants, but our ancestors were immigrants who respected the language and culture of the country they were coming to. These newborns enter the country with precious little English skill, unable to express themselves on even the most basic level in our language. They are content to “goo” and “ga” with those of their own type while making no effort to learn the language of the country they live in.
In addition, our immigrant ancestors made an effort to assimilate with those around them as quickly as possible; as newborns grow, they make no effort to assimilate, seeming content to form "playgroups" with their own kind instead, amusing themselves with bizarre traditions such as trying to hammer square pegs into round holes.
The threat that these newborns pose to our country is not only cultural, it is economic as well. Most newborns make little effort to find gainful employment, and as a result, it is estimated that each one will cost Americans 400,000 dollars by they time they are eighteen. Often, in addition to not having the drive to seek employment, they do not even have the basic motor skills required to do so; anyone who has ever witnessed one of these freeloaders spending time trying grab the fingers of their caretakers, or swinging their chubby legs around in the air as if trying to pedal an invisible bicycle, must realize that this is not a skilled workforce waiting to happen.
We have pleaded and petitioned the government to put a stop to this madness, but our pleas have fallen on deaf ears. As a result, the members of the Minuteman Project have decided that we will forestall our duties of guarding the border with Mexico, and instead, take up positions in the hospitals and maternity wards of this great land. No harm will come to the newborns; rather, we will simply corral them, and turn them over to be processed by the INS. Together, we can help put an end to the problems that these illigal immigrant newborns cause.
God Bless America,
Richard Sam Houston Smith
President, Minuteman Project of America
Peter
America's Real Illegal Immigrants
Fellow Americans,
The debate concerning illegal immigrants in this country continues to rage. Legislation is constructed by our lawmakers to deal with the issue, only to be floored when it causes a backlash of protests and demonstrations in the streets. Clearly, this issue needs resolution, but even more clearly, we must face the fact that immigrants coming over the border should be a secondary concern to an even more insidious immigration problem that is growing in America with every passing year.
It is time we stem the tide of illegal newborn entering this country.
Every year, thousands upon thousands of newborns find there way into the maternity wards of America, entirely lacking proper documentation, green cards, or even simple identification. They proceed to put untold strain upon the health care system of this country, costing taxpayers millions of dollars annually.
Certainly, we are a nation made up of immigrants, but our ancestors were immigrants who respected the language and culture of the country they were coming to. These newborns enter the country with precious little English skill, unable to express themselves on even the most basic level in our language. They are content to “goo” and “ga” with those of their own type while making no effort to learn the language of the country they live in.
In addition, our immigrant ancestors made an effort to assimilate with those around them as quickly as possible; as newborns grow, they make no effort to assimilate, seeming content to form "playgroups" with their own kind instead, amusing themselves with bizarre traditions such as trying to hammer square pegs into round holes.
The threat that these newborns pose to our country is not only cultural, it is economic as well. Most newborns make little effort to find gainful employment, and as a result, it is estimated that each one will cost Americans 400,000 dollars by they time they are eighteen. Often, in addition to not having the drive to seek employment, they do not even have the basic motor skills required to do so; anyone who has ever witnessed one of these freeloaders spending time trying grab the fingers of their caretakers, or swinging their chubby legs around in the air as if trying to pedal an invisible bicycle, must realize that this is not a skilled workforce waiting to happen.
We have pleaded and petitioned the government to put a stop to this madness, but our pleas have fallen on deaf ears. As a result, the members of the Minuteman Project have decided that we will forestall our duties of guarding the border with Mexico, and instead, take up positions in the hospitals and maternity wards of this great land. No harm will come to the newborns; rather, we will simply corral them, and turn them over to be processed by the INS. Together, we can help put an end to the problems that these illigal immigrant newborns cause.
God Bless America,
Richard Sam Houston Smith
President, Minuteman Project of America
The Circle Shall Remain Unbroken
Dear Friends,
Scientists tell us that during the big bang (the scientific phenomenon; not the dvd your friend got for their bachelor/bachelorette party), horrific, atrocious, and (add equally ill fitting adjectives here) amounts of gravity ripped matter apart and caused it to expand over a rather large distance... the known reaches of the universe, to be exact. Regrettably, the known reaches of the universe continue to expand today, constantly frustrating our efforts to use "known reaches of the universe" as a consistent unit of measure. Anyway, I digress...
According to scientists, nothing could withstand the awesome power of this cataclysmic gravitational pull, except one thing... the female dance circle.
With all our knowledge of physics, thermodynamics, and ergonomics, we have still yet to discover a force that can pull apart a circle of girls who "just want to go out and have a good time dancing together". Certainly, this in not caused by any lack of effort. For many years, guys have been trying to figure out how to talk to that cute girl who is shaking it on the dance floor with her friends, and have found themselves dashed like bugs against the most impenetrable substance known to man.
Once the circle is formed, it shall remain unbroken. The only hope of penetrating a female dance circle is to await the moment when one of them leaves the circle to get a drink or go to the bathroom. It is at this time that the breach must be immediately exploited, lest the girls close the circle again, shutting their solar system off from all external forces.
Cockroaches and girls in dance circles are the only things capable of surviving an all-out nuclear war. Einstein once said that "World War Three will be fought with sticks and stones." I disagree; World War Three would be fought with dance-off competitions by all the girls who happened to be in dance clubs when Armageddon arrived. The winning tribe in these competitions would gain possession of the world's last remaining resources... namely, food, water, and tube tops.
Regards,
Peter
Scientists tell us that during the big bang (the scientific phenomenon; not the dvd your friend got for their bachelor/bachelorette party), horrific, atrocious, and (add equally ill fitting adjectives here) amounts of gravity ripped matter apart and caused it to expand over a rather large distance... the known reaches of the universe, to be exact. Regrettably, the known reaches of the universe continue to expand today, constantly frustrating our efforts to use "known reaches of the universe" as a consistent unit of measure. Anyway, I digress...
According to scientists, nothing could withstand the awesome power of this cataclysmic gravitational pull, except one thing... the female dance circle.
With all our knowledge of physics, thermodynamics, and ergonomics, we have still yet to discover a force that can pull apart a circle of girls who "just want to go out and have a good time dancing together". Certainly, this in not caused by any lack of effort. For many years, guys have been trying to figure out how to talk to that cute girl who is shaking it on the dance floor with her friends, and have found themselves dashed like bugs against the most impenetrable substance known to man.
Once the circle is formed, it shall remain unbroken. The only hope of penetrating a female dance circle is to await the moment when one of them leaves the circle to get a drink or go to the bathroom. It is at this time that the breach must be immediately exploited, lest the girls close the circle again, shutting their solar system off from all external forces.
Cockroaches and girls in dance circles are the only things capable of surviving an all-out nuclear war. Einstein once said that "World War Three will be fought with sticks and stones." I disagree; World War Three would be fought with dance-off competitions by all the girls who happened to be in dance clubs when Armageddon arrived. The winning tribe in these competitions would gain possession of the world's last remaining resources... namely, food, water, and tube tops.
Regards,
Peter
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
