Just who the heck are these debates for anyway?

I am of the view that anyone who has even paid moderate attention to his or her surroundings for the past several months already knows what each candidate stands for. As such, perhaps the debates are for the people who identify themselves as among the “undecideds?” I wonder how many of them are truly undecided and how many of them are simply uninformed.

For those who are informed and are still undecided (and I question how many of them there are), I cannot see how anything that will happen or not happen in the debate will make them any more or less informed. For those (and I fear that there are many) who really don’t pay much attention to the election campaigns, I question whether basing one’s vote solely on what happens during these events makes any sense, particularly since form is elevated to such a great degree over substance.

I am coming around to the position that, if you haven’t been paying enough attention to know by now what the issues are and each candidate’s positions on the issues, and if you are planning to base your vote on a candidate’s performance in these artificial events, in which the goal of each participant is simply avoid a major screw up, then maybe you ought to just stay home on election day and watch reality TV.

Sadie has made her long-awaited appearance. Please go and congratulate Jay and Deb on the birth of their beautiful daughter. Welcome to the Laughing Academy, Sadie.

Thanks to Zombyboy for the good news.

Teresa: (Opens front door) “Hey, you! Yeah, you over there, standing by the bush! Come here.”

Evans: “Yes, ma’am?”

Teresa: “Are you one of my people?”

Evans: “’Your people,’ ma’am?”

Teresa: “Do you have shit in your ears? I asked if you are one of my people? Do you work for me?”

Evans: “I suppose that’s true, ma’am, in a manner of speaking.”

Teresa: “’In a manner of speaking?’ You must be some kind of wiseass. Who the hell are you?”

Evans: “My name is Roy Evans, and I am one of the Secret Service Agents assigned to protect you and Mr. Kerry.”

Teresa: “So, you do work for me, after all. Why didn’t you just say so?”

Evans: “That’s not exactly correct, ma’am. I , work for the Department of Homeland Security, but I am assigned to you.”

Teresa: “That’s just great. Now I have to put up with nuance from the help too.”

Evans: “Ma’am?”

Teresa: “Never mind. Did anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot like that son-of-a-bitch Zell Miller.”

Evans: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m from Georgia. I suppose that’s why I sound a little bit like Senator Miller.”

Teresa: “Well, I friggin’ hate it. Do you know that his awful speech made my husband shit his pants?”

Evans: “No, ma’am, I didn’t know that. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Teresa: “Well it did, and I don’t think you are at all sorry, because you sound just like him.”

Evans: “Was there something in particular you wanted, ma’am?”

Teresa: “I’ll bet you don’t speak French.”

Evans: “No ma’am, I don’t.”

Teresa: “Did you know that I speak five languages? I do, you know.”

Evans: “Yes, ma’am. I have heard that.”

Teresa: “I’ll bet you don’t speak any language other than English, if you can even call that mush-mouthed shit you speak English.”

Evans: “Actually, ma’am, I speak Russian, Korean and a fair amount of Farsi.”

Teresa:

Evans: “So, what is it you wanted ma’am?”

Teresa: “Well, the first goddamned thing I want if for you to start showing me some respect. I am going to be the First Friggin’ Lady, you know, and I don’t need you bragging about all the languages you speak.”

Evans: “I intended no disrespect, ma’am. It was you who raised the subject.”

Teresa:

Evans:

Teresa: “Tell me something, Evans. Are you married?”

Evans: “No, ma’am, I’m single.”

Teresa: “You must work out. I’ll bet you’re pretty buff under that shirt.”

Evans: “Ma’am, I should return to my post. Was there something that you wanted?”

Teresa: “Do you think I have nice legs?”

Evans:

Teresa: “How about my ass? Tight as a drum, I’d say. I’m pretty damned sexy, and sassy too. What do you think?”

Evans: “If there won’t be anything else, ma’am, I think I should return to my post.”

Teresa: “I have shitloads of money, Evans.”

Evans: “Yes, ma’am.”

Teresa: “When I move into the White House, I could set you up real comfortably, if you get my meaning.”

Evans: “If there’s nothing else ma’am, I’m returning to my post now.”

Teresa: “Oh I get it. You’re one of those goody-two-shoes, red-white and blue patriot assholes, and you think you’re better than I am.”

Evans: “Ma’am, I haven’t done or said anything that could possibly be construed that way.”

Teresa: “OK Captain America, rather than your standing over there by the bush doing nothing, I want you to run out to the store and pick me up two packs of Newports and a copy of the Enquirer.”

Evans: “I’m sorry ma’am, I cannot do that.”

Teresa: “WHAT? You insolent shit. I don’t tolerate that crap from my dipshit husband, and I’m sure as hell not going to tolerate if from the help.”

Evans: “Ma’am, my assignment is to protect you and your husband, not to run your errands, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Teresa: “Don’t hand me that horseshit. I know that you guys used to do all sorts of personal things for Hillary.”

Evans: “Those days are over, ma’am.”

Teresa: “Evans?”

Evans: “Yes, ma’am?”

Teresa: “SHOVE IT!!” (Slams door)

John: “Was that you talking with someone at the door again, Muffin?”

Teresa: “Jesus Christ!! Yes it was. Butt the hell out.”

John: “OK I’m sorry I asked.”

Teresa: “On second thought, I want you to be sure to add something to the “Whitehouse To Do List” I’ve been having you keep.”

John: “Yes, Muffin. What is it?”

Teresa: “Move everything down one notch, and put at the top ‘Fire Roy Evans, the insolent bastard’.”

John: “Who is Roy Evans?”

Teresa: “Did I give you permission to ask me any goddamned questions. Shut the hell up, and do what you’re told.”

John:

Today is this obnoxious knucklehead’s birthday. I wish I knew how to gift wrap a farookin’ clue.

Thanks to my friend Joe for reminding me of this most important event.

It seems that the upcoming Blogtoberfest has caught the attention of a genuine Bavarian blogger. He has posted twice about the Helen, Georgia Bash, here and here. It’s worked out well for him, as he reports that Dax Montana, Straight White Guy and Acidman have sent a shitload of traffic his way. For me (as a Blogtoberfest attendee), it has been fun, sort of, because Eric has me dusting off thirty year old German vocabulary to make a yeoman’s effort at translation.

In his most recent post, the Augsburg blogger wonders aloud whether he should begin posting in English. I can tell him that it would make my life a bit easier, and the other folks who will be attending the event in Helen might well get a kick out of what he has to say. I do not, however, think that anyone will be impressed with his sharona (don’t bother looking that one up, Augs), although tits, ass and red toenails are always a hit, particularly with one of our number – the red toenails, that is.

Yo, Augsburg dude, poste auf Englisch, bitte. Sicher wirst du ein shitload of traffic bekommen.

Life 101 today has prevented me from coming up with anything resembling original content. Therefore, I thought that you might like to kill a minute or two with these bears. You need only pass your cursor over them to the get the effect.

Speaking of bears, I think you might also get a kick out of this particularly cuddly bear, made in New Jersey. Be sure to turn up your sound, unless you are at work or around the kiddies. (I did say that is a Jersey Bear.)

Thanks to my friend Brian, the Air Force Vet.

Teresa: (Opens front door) “Who are you? I’ve seen you here several times before, and each time I instructed Pierre not to answer the door. I’ve had enough of this, and I demand to know who you are and what you want.”

Paperboy: “My name is Tommy, ma’am. I’m your paperboy.”

Teresa: “Paperboy? What is that?”

Paperboy: “I deliver your newspaper every day, ma’am.”

Teresa: “Oh, I see. What do you want?”

Paperboy: “Well ma’am, I deliver the newspaper every day here, even on weekends, and I stop by every other week to make my collections. I’ve been here at least four times, and no one has ever answered the door.”

Teresa: “I still don’t know what you want. Go away, and leave us alone.”

Paperboy: “Ma’am, I need to be paid for the papers I’ve delivered for the last eight weeks. You owe me thirteen dollars and fifty cents, and that includes today’s paper.”

Teresa: “Do you really expect me to actually give you thirteen dollars and fifty cents?”

Paperboy: “Well, yes ma’am, I do.”

Teresa: “I’ll bet you don’t speak French.”

Paperboy: “No, Ma’am, I don’t.

Teresa: “German?”

Paperboy: “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t.”

Teresa: “Italian?”

Paperboy: “No, ma’am. No Italian.”

Teresa: “I thought as much. I speak all those languages, you know. Do you know who I am?”

Paperboy: “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

Teresa: “Well, then you know that I am a very important person, and you must be out of your mind, if you think I am actually going to hand you money. Have your Accounts Receivable Department send my Accounts Payable people an invoice, and don’t expect payment until sixty days after they receive the invoice.”

Paperboy: “Ma’am, I’m a paperboy. I don’t have an Accounts Receivable Department. I come by every other week to get paid. Everyone pays me that way.”

Teresa: “Listen, smartass, I’m not everyone. I am the next goddamned First Lady of the United States. And, if you plan on staying in business, you’ll just have to manage your cash flow better.”

Paperboy: “That’s the problem, ma’am. I have to pay for the newspapers I deliver to you, and if you don’t pay me, I am out that money, and I’m saving for a new bicycle so I can expand my route.”

Teresa: “I guess it sucks to be you, then, doesn’t it?”

Paperboy: “Please, ma’am. I really need to be paid.”

Teresa: “I told you. Send an invoice to my Accounts Payable Department, and they will pay you in sixty days.”

Paperboy: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but if you won’t pay me, I can’t deliver the paper here any more. I can’t afford to pay for your newspapers and not get my money.”

Teresa: “Are you telling the Future First Lady that YOU have decided on your own to stop delivering our paper?”

Paperboy: “Yes, Ma’am.

Teresa: “Try it, you little shit, and you’ll hear from my lawyers.” (SLAMS door)

John: “Who was that, Muffin?”

Teresa: “It was nobody.”

John: “Nobody? I heard you talking with somebody? Who was it?”

Teresa: “What the hell you think this is? ‘Ask Teresa Questions Day?’ It was just some street urchin.”

John: “Street urchin? Did you say street urchin?”

Teresa: “Yes, goddammit, I did, and I don’t want to hear any more from you. I bought you a new swiftboat model, didn’t I? Go to your room and put it together.

John:

Today I was honored to serve as the announcer for the Annual Truck Driving Competition held by the A. Duie Pyle Trucking Company at its New Jersey terminal. In prior years, I have served as a judge for this event, but this year when I was asked to be the announcer, I gladly accepted. I suppose it is the ham in me, born of so many years behind a microphone, while either piloting a set of drums or playing a guitar.

The event is one in which the company’s truck drivers (“professional class”) and other company employees who are not regular drivers, but who like to drive trucks (“amateur class”) have an opportunity to demonstrate their driving skills. It is not a wild, death-defying competition, bur rather it consists of a series of tasks that require driving precision and adherence to all the safety rules.

Indeed, an important part of the competition (specifically for the “professional class”) is the mandatory “pre-trip” inspection that each driver must conduct to demonstrate his ability to identify potential safety-related problems on one of the trucks.

Following the pre-trip inspection, the drivers take to the course where they are required, among other things, to drive through a set of narrow cones, to make precise turns with the front tire hitting a specific mark, to stop precisely at a certain point, and to back up to a loading dock as close as possible without hitting it. The drivers earn points for each task, but a violation of a safety rule (e.g. taking one hand off the wheel, or putting even an elbow out of the window) will mean zero points for that event.

There is a similar competition for forklift operators, in which they demonstrate their ability to safely move pallets and navigate within a confined area.

The winners in each class move on to a statewide competition, and if they’re successful there, they compete at the national level.

The company encourages all employees to attend the event and to bring families, which they do. There are special activities all day for the employees’ children. In addition, there is a wonderful array of good Jersey food, barbecued on site, souvenirs, and free pumpkins for the children to take home.

In the days when it is easy to be cynical about big business, this privately owned company has the right idea. I am told that the company pays its employees well, provides them with the best in equipment, and insists on safety at all times. Perhaps more importantly, the company’s attitude toward its employees fosters a sense of family, which is more than amply demonstrated by the enthusiastic support of the annual Truck Driving Competition by the employees who compete and those who come to be spectators and to enjoy the day.

What the Company gets in return are employees who obviously take pride in their work and who are proud of their considerable skills (I don’t think I could successfully drive my car through that course!). One does not need an advanced degree in economics to see the value in having skilled employees with a strong work ethic and pride in their performance.

I hope they invite me again next year.

Alas, we’re all getting older, even supermodels.

Here’s Cybill Shepherd then, and here is Cybill Shepherd now
now.

I have to say, my hair aged better. I think her current “doo” must have been inspired by this marginally famous woman
.

The “now” pic via Side Salad.

John: “May I have a moment, Muffin?”

Teresa: “Can’t you see that I’m watching television here? I bought you your own television, didn’t I? Go watch television in your room, and don’t bother me.”

John: “It’s just that the advance people have to know whether you will be coming with me to the South to campaign.”

Teresa: “The SOUTH? You mean that awful place where they eat those gricks, or grits – whatever – and other disgusting things? They’re not sexy. They’re not sassy. They don’t even speak French. They all have trucks and guns, but no teeth or shoes, and they marry their cousins. Is that the SOUTH you want me to campaign in? They can all shove it, and so can you. Now, scram.”

John: “I appreciate what you are saying, Muffin. Remember, I actually told you that I didn’t like the South before I told you I did like the South. But, our advisors say it will not look good if it appears that we have something against the South or southerners.”

Teresa: “Screw the advisors, and screw you. I’m not going!”

John: “Pretty please? There must be at least one place in the South you wouldn’t mind visiting. … Please?”

Teresa:

John: “It would mean a lot to me.”

Teresa: “Who gives a rat’s about you?”

John: “Sweetheart,…I……”

Teresa: “Quiet! I’m thinking. … You know? There actually is one place in the South I think I would like to visit.”

John: “Splendid, Muffin. Where would that be?”

Teresa: “Mayberry.”

John: “Mayberry??”

Teresa: “Absolutely. I would love to go to Mayberry. I know all about the place. I want you to have our advance people be sure to have that nice sheriff up on the stage with us. Oh, what is his name? Andy….Andy Taylor. That’s it. They should tell him to be sure to bring his little boy with him. Opie’s his name. What a cute kid. No thumb sucker, that one. They’re so cute together. How could I forget Andy’s Aunt Bee. I want her on the stage too.”

John: “Muffin….”

Teresa: “Dammit John, I’m making important plans here. Let’s see… Yes…. There’s Barney (that’s Andy’s deputy, you know).…I don’t think he should be on the stage. He’s a really nervous guy, and he does carry a bullet. I think the crowds might scare him..…”

John: “Muffin…..”

Teresa: “Make sure you tell them to keep that Otis fellow in his jail cell while we’re there. He’s a nice man, but he gets pretty drunk, and………..”

John: “MUFFIN!!”

Teresa: “Are you raising your voice with me, you turd? Have you lost your mind? Get moving on this with the advance people before I change my mind.”

John: “There’s a little problem, Muffin.”

Teresa: “Problem? I don’t do ‘problem.’ If there’s some kind of problem, straighten out with the staff.”

John: “Muffin, the problem is that there is no such place as Mayberry.”

Teresa:

John: “It’s a fictional town, and Andy Taylor, Opie and the rest of the people you mentioned are not real people. They’re actors in a television show that was popular in the sixties. You’ve probably seen them on Nickelodeon. The show has been in re-runs for years.”

Teresa:

John: “I’m sorry, Muffin.”

Teresa: “You miserable shitbag. If you EVER breathe a word of this conversation to ANYONE, I swear I’ll tell Matt Drudge about the helmet and flak jacket game you like to play in the bedroom.”

John: