Tagged: family

I Enjoy the Topic, That’s Why

I didn’t write anything at length yet about Afghanistan etc. I never went there. My helicopter was there for a bit before I was officially qualified on it, but it kept crashing or having expensive mechanical issues due to the combination of its gross weight and mountain operations. Therefore, it was relegated to Iraq. That said, I was an officer in the United States Air Force, during the main time that we were in Afghanistan and I joined for the main reason that we were in Afghanistan—revenge.

I want to talk about today’s Kabul attack more than Afghanistan in general, but I want to get this out there before the moment has passed. Daily I am more convinced than ever that the minute 9/11 happened, if not sooner, the United States should’ve declared war on Islam.

I don’t think this war would be blood-free, but it doesn’t have to have any killing. My aim is not killing people, but killing lies, killing Allah, and killing the Koran. All the other false gods of human history, at least in the West, went the way of the dodo, for very complicated reasons. Allah still holds his own because of lies.

Islam is a totalitarian system, not a religion.

By way of example, I wore sweat pants and a sweat shirt every day in college. It was my burka, of sorts. Additionally, I went to the weight room every Monday-Friday, like it was a mosque. That behavior, while religious, didn’t qualify me for sainthood. Anyone who knows anything knows this.

Don’t give me that “most muslims are peaceful”. The supposed “peaceful muslims” are owed an end to Islam as much as everyone else.

No one in human history has ever eradicated Islam, despite many other world-views being trounced, so it must be difficult. Enter the United States.

Now. To today’s attack. Here’s my initial gut reaction. This is said in the same vein as the one during the heated rhetoric of last election, where many of my veteran pals and I had some sort of instinct telling us to make sure our weapons were in working order. This was, of course, to no avail, and ultimately brought a healthy feeling of foolishness. But right now today, my gut is telling me the place to avoid is DC. And that’s my negative way of saying my gut is telling me the place that is going to suffer is DC.

Remember my post on “alignment”? The one where I said we need alignment, not “justice”? Well, the bad guys are being bad guys. The bad guys are aligned. It’s the United States that isn’t aligned. We’re the good guys. And we all know it. We feel it in our bones, no matter how many lies are trending right now.

I am a fairly normal, if at times recluse and eccentric, citizen. Heck, my wife just became a citizen today. Imagine that! I almost forgot about it already. This morning I stood among a lobby full of newly sworn-in Americans who were holding new American flags, who were asking each other to take pictures, and who were genuinely smiling. But there are other Americans making the news daily who seem to me to have my vision, but, unlike me, they seem to have nothing to lose.

If these other citizens get the itch to take action, I don’t think Kabul is accepting inbound flights right now. But I’m pretty sure American roads are wide open.

Again, this is just a feeling. My meaning is figurative and my aim is posterity. Except the war on Islam, bit. That needs to be declared immediately. (Consider your own loathing of the idea. I didn’t know you were an Islamic apologist, did you? It’s not a religion in any meaningful sense of the word. That’s its first lie. There is no constitutional protection for totalitarianism. After clearing that hurdle, the path to victory is clear.)

Another Way I Know I’m Right

The company I work for is waiting to mandate the vaccine until FDA approval. Good for them.

Universal masking is back as the order of the day at work. Again, good for them.

But now I see something I hadn’t before, as I read their recommendation to get tested if you have symptoms.

Why?

Seriously. Why get tested? There’s no treatment. And we’re not contact tracing. By finding out that you have COVID, what have you discovered? Does it make you feel better to pinpoint the issue? Are there scores of people feeling crummy that are still inserting themselves into others’ 6ft bubbles, just for fun?

Of course not.

But if you get tested, the data empowers the morons known as “humans” who are literally having orgasms as they read the Indo-Arabic numerals. So don’t do it, I say.

See, you or I read a numeral, say, 2,349, and nothing happens. No “initiative” as my wife’s broken English would say. Not even a twitch, as I might say, if I were to be vulgar. But for these power-hungry vessels which are completely void of God, full on climax occurs. Even this post and my inclusion of 2,349 above is being seen as a tease—like a personal ad of the 90s which had “WSM” would cause a teenage boy to think, “Really?”

The difference, of course, comes from how numerals do their thing. Unlike letter acronyms, which already have quite a range of meaning depending on context, numerals can mean anything. 2,349. I’m getting a bit hot just thinking about the possibilities. Maybe that’s how many sexual positions fake blondes can be bent into? Then again, it could be how many people were murdered in South Africa over the weekend. Hmm.

In any case, if we want to make a dent, maybe we assess that the problem is we (the public) are talking out of both sides of our mouths. We want the data-driven pandemic to be over but we keep creating the data. As stated in an earlier post, even watching a baby eat proves that you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.

If I wouldn’t have got tested, the only difference in my life is I would have 8 hrs more pay because the stupid policies surrounding workman’s comp and COVID jacked my shtuff up and I’m too lazy to keep trying to get my money. Oh well.

Just About Halfway There

To a fearless hero like me, the funny part is that neither of the two patients we flew the other day made me think of my own mortality, despite their obviously traumatic injuries. One ol’ timer had a head wound that contributed more blood to the atmosphere than I can say I thought was possible while still outputting normal numbers on bp, heart rate, sats etc. The other was a person who had made an ill-timed pass and was subsequently thrown from the vehicle. (Who doesn’t wear their seatbelt in 2021? Seriously? Put it on!) A hundred yards away, at the helicopter, I could hear their cries of pain.

But I didn’t think of death.

However, upon returning home last night and laving up yours truly with some Aveeno body wash that my wife picked up for me (it just pours easier, so what?—the Suave charcoal flavored manly stuff takes the strength of Superman to be squeezed out of the bottle and this gets annoying), well upon laving up and in the midst of repositioning myself in the shower, I almost fell, slipping on the self-same lady-parts-soap that has rinsed off and coated the tub floor.

The “almost fell” really means, that while shadow-boxing the water, the next thing I know I feel the wall with my back. I can’t say for sure why I stayed upright, but my right foot dug in and the help from the wall was enough to offset whatever other project the devil had set in motion.

I immediately started laughing. “Only old people fall in the shower! I’m not old,” I chuckled. “And what would I have done if I did fall? I have no rope!” I thought. You know, those ropes on the wall to pull if you need help. “I have no rope!”

It’s true, my 40th birthday is a couple weeks away. What does that have to anything? It just means I’m halfway there. Halfway to 80. Halfway to natural death, unless I get some of them bonus years.

I’m not old. It was the soap.

Two Things I Learned Today By Watching a Ten Year Old and a Seven Month Old Eat

If you want to get a ten year old to eat his cold cereal to the point the bowl is dry, then have his day begin with him having to rewrite his previous three days’ mistake-ridden writing assignments.

If you’re still unclear the meaning or origin of the popular, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” then you haven’t watched a seven month old eat with her hands. She grabs the wafer just fine. Her mouth opens. Her hand goes into her mouth. Her tongue touches the wafer. Then her hand and the wafer come back out. Boom. Unlikely as it seems, we now know that a baby’s hunger gave birth to the adult’s sad truth.

I Don’t Know Why It Evokes Such Emotion

Yesterday as I listened, I kept thinking, “If you’re not careful, you may end up highlighting who really incited the demonstration…yourselves,” as the Left made its case.

Today, when I watched the opening statement and the barrage of montage highlighting the utter hypocrisy of the Left, I cried.

Apparently I can take the dose from the Left when offered daily.

Apparently I am overwhelmed by the administration of many of the Left’s daily doses into one five minute period.

Oh. And the rest of the “very fine people” response now seems like the most sensible sentiment he ever uttered. Anyone else find that to be true? Separation makes the heart grow fonder, I guess.

Why I Say, “It’s All Hype”

Let’s pretend for a moment that my claim, “It’s all hype,” is not your claim. Let’s now go further into this fiction and make it more fantastical too. Let’s have you be curious and bold and ask, “But, Pete, it seems pretty crazy out there. Why do you insist that it’s all hype?”

My answer, “Because of one key phrase that all the hucksters are using: recent memory.”

It’s bizarre actually. There’s some lingering spirit of truth in the profession, some agreed upon need to quantify the false claims, and yet they will not use a definite quantity.

“In all human history…” would be fine.

“Since 1963…” is perfect.

“As far back as I can remember…” is weak, but ultimately has a definite date.

“In my lifetime…” same.

No, sir. None of these are in play.

Why not?

(Drumroll please…)

Because it’s all hype.

I Love My Wife’s KitchenAid Artisan Mixer!

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Today we have a post from a guest blogger. Today, Captain “Is-There-Really-a-Difference-Between-Half-a-Teaspoon-and-a-Teaspoon?”, call sign, “I-Don’t-Care-If-the-Internet-Says-There-Is-a-Difference-Between-Baking-Soda-and-Powder-I-Can-Plainly-See-They’re-the-Same” will be taking controls.

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That’s right, Pete. And I am excited! Let me tell you why!

First, I need to set the stage, as it were, for our readers. Picture this: a handsome devil, about 6 foot in height, adorned, from bottom to top as follows. Faux fur-lined, real Native-American-tribute moccasins connect him to the spiritual earth. (Cabelas.) Boot socks add enough insulation to his keep-warm feet. (Cabelas.) An odd type of heavy fleece sweatpants, nylon knee reinforcements and all–Gore Windstopper to boot (Cabelas–discontinued)–keeps two strong legs warm between innings. Up top, a baby blue, v-neck pajama shirt hangs out of a 1/4-zip desert green fleece (Cabelas) and together the core stays kindled.

Now, onto the main course. The recipe for mom’s Peanut Butter Blossoms Christmas cookies calls for mixing 1 3/4 cups flour with 1/2 t salt and 1 t baking soda as the first step. Then, separately, you’re to cream 1/2 cup butter and 1/2 cup peanut butter. After this, add a mix of 1/2 cup sugar and 1/2 cup packed brown sugar. And at some point an egg, 2 T milk, and 1 t vanilla come to the party. Four bowls for one cookie? No, thank you.

Breaking things into those clean cut groups might have worked in the 90s, sure. But this is 2020. And doing dishes is still a chore. Plus, I have my wife’s new, red, KitchenAid artisan mixer at my disposal.

Segue: Most husbands love this item because they love how their wives finally stop complaining. I mean, what part of life is hard after obtaining the Kitchen-Aid mixer? Not me. I love the item because I get to rebel while baking cookies.

I don’t doubt my mom. I don’t. I need to be clear about that. What I doubt is that she really intended to be so an-, I mean, particular as to limit in which order I add the ingredients. So, in the bowl (before attaching the proper tool), I began with a stick of butter (directly from the fridge) and the peanut butter. I just put them in the bowl, added the paddle-outline looking deal, and set-it-and-forget-it as they say.

Next, I, after only stopping the machine–no other adjustments–added an egg, the milk, and the vanilla. I just cracked the egg on the side of the mixing bowl and plop. Only slightly doubting whether I should have stirred the egg a bit before adding it, I figured introducing the liquid elements now might help cream up the chunks of butter that seemed resistant to my will.

Measure sugar, add. Measure other sugar, add.

Finally, I stopped the machine, and took off the paddle thing. I measured the first cup of flour, not packed, into one cup and then for the other 3/4 cup of flour–instead of using the 3/4 cup line on the same 1 cup cup, I used an entirely separate 3/4 cup cup. Did I tell you how refined I am? (You just have to rinse dry measuring cups to clean them, anyhow.)

Now, here’s where the salt and soda issue unfolded.

Finally, I pressed my luck, because, ‘Why the eff not? It’s Christmas!” and carefully prepared to visually note any detrimental changes to the consistency of the cookie dough as I by feel increased the speed from 2, to 4, and then 6–but only for a second!

In the end, what I am most happy with myself about is that while back in the prison of the index card recipe, as I rolled the dough into balls, I, through some sort of ESP, thought, “Shouldn’t I be rolling them in sugar before placing them in the over?” And, sure enough, I was right. Can you explain that?

Speaking of extra sensory perception, I’m using caramel Hershey kisses this year.

The only problem now is that I feel guilty. No–not for resisting my moms dictatorial recipe. But because my perfectionist personality is pretty positive that with all these changes to order and decor, I cannot claim to have baked my mom’s cookies after all.

What kind of son have I become!?

Concluding Thought On Locke’s “Concerning the True Original Extent and End of Civil Government”

I’ve moved on to, Travels Into Several Remote Nations of the World by Lemuel Gulliver, by Jonathan Swift (known more popularly as, “Gulliver’s Travels”), but before I forget, I wanted to record my concluding thought on the infamous Locke.

It is well known that white people (nothing to do with skin color) generally—and just past playfully—ridicule black preachers (nothing to do with skin color) for their energy. “No need to get so excited. Just say what you’ve got to say and let us go home,” we comment.

I was, accordingly, surprised to hear the following critique by my black mentor after we heard a particularly rousing sermon one day, at our black church. My mentor was a retired former Navy-man who had also worked in prisons. To temper my jubilant, childlike-wonder-filled praise, he replied, “I don’t like when preachers incite. And,” he continued, “now this may just be me, but it felt like he was inciting. I used to see this kind of thing in the prisons. It’s okay to be loud and full of passion—we are talking about the Lord, mind you—but sometimes some folk cross into inciting. Remember, Pete: not everyone that’s preaching is called.”

Returning to political philosophy, my concluding thought is this. I used to think the reason we weren’t assigned John Locke anymore was because he was irrelevant, being old and clearly having rued the day. But now, after reading his essay, in full, I see our predicament differently. The reason we don’t assign each other John Locke anymore is because he is dangerous. His writing and his ideas are so powerful that you will find yourself incited to make war upon our government. Promote an essay suggesting that, anytime government prevents its citizens from bettering their lives, war is the divinely approved method to change the situation? Heavens, no! We can’t have people reading this!

I, for my part, was driving down I-35, halfway to Cabelas’ guns and ammo department (already depleted), before I remembered that I have a family and that things in my climate controlled dwelling aren’t actually that bad—even without TV.

In short, before reading Locke—and subsequently fighting the war that makes America great again—read your Bible. Best to put first things first.

The Apple of My—not Polyphemus’—Eye(s)

“Okay, H-, so we last read how Penelope had promised the suitors that she’d marry one of them after she finished weaving the thing, but, then, secretly, every night she had been undoing the day’s progress. Then, one of her maids ratted her out and so now she has to finish the weaving,” he explained, pausing to let the girl catch up.

“She should make it very, very big,” H- suggested, apparently already in the lead.

Thanksgiving Blues

“So, it looks like you’re sad,” he said. “Is everything alright?”

H- hesitated and began, “Everything’s mostly alright.”

“Now I know something is wrong. Want to talk about it? Can I guess?”

The girl just about began again, then stopped. Her eyes said she would rather he guess.

Her father continued, “Well, obviously it’s the holidays and we’re not together. So that’s sad.”

“Yeah, and then you brought up the time when we were at Miss M’s house for Thanksgiving.”

“I didn’t know that you didn’t like being there for Thanksgiving.”

“It’s not that. It’s that we were together,” she clarified.

“Oh.”

A pause.

He began again. “And then I suspect seeing me having fun at work makes you sad.”

“A little.”

“Well, H-, I don’t know what to say.”

A longer pause.

“So we’re just going to read! Like always,” he faux exclaimed.

She chuckled, pathetically.

“What we’re actually going to do is repress our feelings,” he said smiling.

Now as they were FaceTiming, he really amped up the physicality of his mockery and explained with accompanying motions, “We’re going to push our feelings way down deep. And we’re going to try and hold them there as long as we can. Then, one day, unexpectedly, they’re just going to burst out!”

She laughed at his large unexpected expressions of surprise.

He cloaked the next line in mystery, “We won’t know when; we won’t know in what way-”

“-like a Jack-in-the-Box!” she interrupted.

Yes, H- had done it again. She had the gift—even if she had the blues.