perfidy

I have spent most of my life among the Yankee nekulturny. I know my way around a trailer park. I've made art...of a sort...out of carefully peeled beer bottle labels. I am as defensive about being uncultured as I am ashamed of it.

And yet, I can't imagine there are enough tacky people in all of America to buy enough of these to show a profit.

With a hearty "Amen" to Minister GeekLethal's post below, a quick follow up.

In an op-ed from today's WSJ, I saw a line from the Governator that went like this:

How ironic it is to hear some of the same voices who complain about the outsourcing of jobs also complain about the use of immigrant workers here in America.

Realizing that the proper answer to the question I'm about to ask is, "Well, both", I'll ask it anyway.

Is it just me being thick-headed, or does that line not necessarily mean what Ahnuld hoped it would? If by ironic, he meant "totally predictable", then I think I understand. Otherwise, not so much.

Hep me out here.

Still not entirely clear what it is that the roughly gazillion people taking to the streets in our major cities are taking to the streets about. From what I've read so far about all this protest and march and waving of national symbols, the word "illegal" has not yet appeared.

I've read alot about "immigrants' rights", but I'm not sure what that means. I'm willing to bet that if I asked 10 random people what the term "immigrants' rights" means, I'd hear 10 different answers. Or more.

I have a couple of major bighuge problems with illegal immigration, but that's a specific problem: illegal immigration. There are solutions that might fix it. I'm not sure if that has anything to do with "immigrants' rights", but it does have to do with solving a stated, specific problem. I don't believe though that has anything to do with the current demonstrations. Besides, I feel that any event that includes the ANSWER people entering the lists on your side pretty much shuts down the possibility that I'll take you seriously.

If at its core we equate "rights" with "fairness", and by that we mean that illegal immigrants are treated like citizens, it also means that citizens be treated like illegals. Now that might have some merit. Free health care, for starters; if I don't pay medical bills now, I get a lien on my house. Working tax free might be nice, too; I am willing to wager that an illegal working under the table somewhere has a helluva lot more disposable income that myself, who as of this writing, has precisely $54 to my name and by the way it has to last until Friday.

But look, don't get hung up on that rant- I'm more concerned about the future. As best I understand it, the last amnesty ca 1986 gave legal work documents to something like 3-7 million illegals. THAT was supposed to fix the problem, because after that one-time event, we'd get serious about enforcing our immigration policies and border security. So 20 years later we have something like 3-4 times as many, and face the same problem, with the same language being used to offer a fix. And I believe that what will ultimately come down is amnesty by another name. I think it's a slam dunk.

OK, fine. Everyone who came by legal means, ridiculous expense, and interminable paper drill was a sucker. Lady Lethal and I and a whole lot of others will have to live with that.

But what happens in 2026?

I wonder whether it might just be easier, for everybody, to just dispense with the American border altogether. Anyone who wants to live here can just arrive, by whatever means it takes; no pesky checks to see whether the person's a felon in his home country, or infected with a communicable disease; and work. Or not. The legions of bureaucrats who run immigration could be fired and thereby save a ton of dough, which would definitely be a net plus. And it's not like America's market for unskilled- or nominally skilled- labor is going to dry up.

So open it up, dispense with the red tape and the lines on the map, and come what may. I think the cultural, language, and class problems that would be created or intensified by the sudden influx of a billion or so new citizens might not be nearly as bad to contend with as the mush-mouthed verbiage that political leaders and demonstration organizers try to make me believe these days.

Ziggurat now for great justice! The new Carnival of the Recipes is now up at a very fascinating website, The Ziggurat of Doom. They are a like collective of evil-doers and evil-averters, apparently working along a similar eschatological path as your very own Ministry of Minor Perfidy. They would do well to pay a friendly visit to the Catastratorium for dinner and vetting; this plane of existence is hopefully, but not assuredly, big enough for the both of us.

Otherwise, we will be forced to set up them the bomb.

Last Friday, the Buckethead clan welcomed its newest member, Jocelyn. After a mercifully short labor, Jocelyn Anne regarded the world with suspicion, and immediately commenced to crying. Resigning herself to her fate, she abandoned that approach and began eating. In stark contrast to my son John who slept through the entirety of his first five days on Earth, Jocelyn has been occasionally awake, and feeding most of that time - so much so that she has already gained several ounces of weight. This may not seem like much, and in fact it isn't. I could do the same in a matter of minutes with the aid of moderately large pizza. But when you gain a twelfth of your body weight in a week, that's a rather impressive enbiggenment. The equivalent for me would be on the order of twenty pounds.

On the way to the birthing center, my mom made a critical error. She told my son that that day was Jocelyn's birthday. In an amazing and utterly typical display of cunning, self interest and the appearance of empathy, John made insisted that we should have a birthday party for his baby sister. I don't believe that he knew for certain that Jocelyn wouldn't be able to eat a birthday cake. But I'm sure he was confident in his abilities to horn in on any cake that might happen to arrive at the house. The other thing that his febrile three year old mind associates with birthday parties is presents. He knows that when, in the past, he has had a birthday party, people give him things. He assumes that when other people have birthday parties, they will give him things.

For a number of reasons, I assented to his cunning birthday party scheme. One, my wife likes chocolate. A lot. Two, giving John a matchbox car would distract him at least momentarily from his sister. And three, I could do this:

Happy 0th birthday, Jocelyn! And God bless the CVS for having that candle.

Over the next week, John has actually been really good with his baby sister. He says he loves her, he gives her kisses, and it's all very sweet. We only have to be careful that he doesn't try to feed her things, or crash toy airplanes into her head the way he does with me. Mrs. Buckethead and I are rather tired, as you could expect. She's tired because of Jocelyn, and I'm tired because all of a sudden John is waking up at O dark thirty every morning and wanting a Banana so he can watch Dora the Explorer. Hopefully, this will end soon.

And before I forget, here is a picture of the little girl:

You can click on both pictures for a bigger version.

I eagerly await the mittens that Johno informed me he was going to send us. When I get them, I will post more pictures. Until then, you'll just have to wonder.

So NBC really doesn't get most of this country, a revelation which should not surprise anyone overmuch. In an attempt to engineer controversy for a Dateline segment on anti-Muslim sentiment (which seems to be conflated with anti-Arab sentiment a lot of the time in both press and popular perception) in the US, they Sent a cadre of Sikhs to Martinsville Speedway on race day, looking for them to get hassled.

Leaving aside the fact that Sikhs are neither Muslim nor Arabs, the gentlemen did not, in fact, get hassled. Perhaps if NBC had gotten a bunch of guys from Central Casting in turbans and tunics to fake a gas tank explosion on a GM pickup with an effigy of Richard Petty in the back while ululating and burning an American flag they'd have gotten what they were after. I mean, no sense in holding back if you're trying to bring out the worst in people, right???

All kidding aside, this really goes to show you how little NBC's producers understand about the sport of kings (a sport they have lucratively televised for several years) and the people that love it. All you needed to do to get those dudes hassled at a race was to put them in hand-lettered t-shirts reading"#3 was a pussy." Turbans and dusky skin don't matter so much, but don't you dare question the manliness of The Intimidator.

Hat tip to loyal reader #0016, EDog.

[wik] A big shout out to the Possum for the post title.

Part three of the Ministry's collaborative fiction-writing project is after the break. Previous installments: part 2, part 1.
On this particular day, Alexei disrupted his longstanding lunchtime routine of munching a sandwich with his nose buried in a paperback in order to go to the bank. As menial as his staple-removing job was, he had still managed for the first time in his life to accumulate a little extra money and thought it might be a good time to try to drop that into a savings account. Moreover, whether it was the diesel, allergies, or a cold coming on, Alexei had been growing quite a headache behind his eyes. It was bad enough that he had swallowed a few painkillers and still had to stop sharking staples every so often to shake away stars that crept into the corners of his vision. Maybe some fresh air and a walk would do him good.

The streets around the office building were not too different from the streets around his apartment save for a greater density of brutal concrete architecture. The squat blocky skyscrapers hogged any warmth the sunlight could provide, and created plenty of dim nooks where chilly breezes stirred drifts of plastic bags and discarded paper. This part of downtown was usually quiet, with very few businesses of the type that needed foot traffic, so Alexei's walk to the nearest branch of Imperial Trust was lonely except for the odd clutch of office girls or homeless people shivering into coats in the weak spring sun.

As he walked, each step thudded behind his eyes and made the world judder like a video feed from a badly-held camera. Things kept happening at the corners of his eyes: shadows resolved themselves into shapes that moved toward him with purpose; green darts leapt around storefront windows; an office girl separated herself from her gaggle to sprout a pair of gigantic white wings and leap into the sky. When he turned his head, Alexei saw a Dumpster, a green pennant flapping on the breeze, a girl in a dirty white raincoat.

Alexei stepped into the warmth of the bank and stopped a moment to massage his head. An attractive woman behind a desk to the left was watching him. As he caught her gaze she said brightly, "Are you here to see someone, sir? In particular?"

"I want to, I..." said Alexei as a wave of pain crashed over him. "...savings account," he managed to finish.

"Very good sir, won't-you-have-a-seat-I-won't-be-a-minute," said the woman as she stood and began to walk toward a door in the far wall.

Alexei slumped gratefully into the chair. "Sarah Moloney," he said to himself absently as his eyes skipped around her nearly bare desk, found her nameplate, and settled on the people at the next station. A man in an ugly necktie was helping a tired-looking middle aged couple with a loan application. As Alexei watched, the man's necktie danced and dangled around the rim of a large coffee mug. As he leaned forward to gesticulate with his pen toward a paragraph at the end of the document, it slipped in.

Alexei leaned forward a bit to say something, and sat back nonplussed as the man's necktie began to bulge and pulsate rhythmically.

"Good afternoon Mr..." said Sarah Moloney, as she sat down again.

"Hi. I need to..." was as far as Alexei got before another pain-wave broke. "I'm sorry... I'm having the worst day. I have a terrible headache and I might be going, uh, a little crazy. I swear I just saw that guy's necktie..."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir,' said Sarah Moloney, then leaned in to stage-whisper, "Carl does wear the worst clothes, doesn't he?" Her face as it came closer seemed pale, her smile a little frozen. She leaned back and picked up a glossy brochure from her desk. "Savings account was it, sir?" Sarah Moloney's knuckles were white on the brochure, and the tip of a turquoise pump visible under her desk quivered.

"That's right, but... I think I'd better go. I'm seeing things. I've got this terrible headache. My eyes are killing me."

"Well then, sir, you'd better try mine," Sarah Moloney chirped as her thumbs went to her face and began to press. A tiny whimper escaped her throat and her smile slipped the slightest bit as her thumbs disappeared and her eyes popped loose from their sockets.

I've always thought the biggest mistake I ever made was being born in Ravenna, Ohio.

This prank's exactly the kind of thing my smart-and-bored younger sister used to get up to in Ravenna, Ohio no less, when she was in high school. Except that fifteen years ago, the cops were merely overzealous because they were raging pricks, not because they were raging pricks ennobled by their li'l anti-terror crusade. As if, of course, the terrorists who so famously hate our freedom can't pick strategically significant targets, letting their hatred of town squares, hardware stores, pickup trucks, Dairy Queens, and underutilized faux-historic downtowns recently renovated at significant cost overruns on the backs of taxpayers overwhelm whatever other beefs they might have with said freedom &c &c.

In the town of Ravenna, Ohio, five teenage girls, ages 16 and 17, crafted some life-sized power-up boxes modeled after those in the NES classic [video game Super Mario Brothers]. The cardboard boxes were covered in shiny, gold wrapping paper and had the black question marks familiar to most gamers. As an April Fools joke, the girls laid 17 of these boxes around the town in public spaces Friday morning.

The humor was lost on some residents, however. After noticing one package on the steps of a church, a concerned citizen reported the "suspicious package" to local authorities, who called in the county's hazardous materials unit and the bomb squad.

. . . . .

Ravenna Police Chief Randall McCoy told the online edition of the Record-Courier that one girl came into the police department with one of her parents and claimed responsibility, saying it was just a joke.

Apparently, the girls got the idea from the Web site Qwantz.com, which gives detailed instructions on how to make the boxes. The Web site intended the posting to inspire art projects, and several subversive artists have submitted photos of their Mario blocks in action across the country.

. . . . .

The girls face possible criminal charges for their actions. While most in the online community think the authority's actions are a tad extreme, McCoy defends the proceedings of his department.

"The potential is always present when dealing with a suspicious package that it could be deadly," McCoy told the Record-Courier. "In today's day and age, you just cannot do this kind of stuff."

Actually, the real lesson is never admit shit to the Portage County cops even when it seems like the right thing to do. I'm glad the girls are learning now the value of subterfuge and the horrible price you pay for creativity, honesty, and coloring outside the lines.

Here are alternate links to stories in the Akron Reekin-Urinal and to the Portage County Record-Courier, whose site is currently slashdotted. From the Urinal:

Boxes were found at the Immaculate Conception Church on West Main Street, the Portage County Courthouse, Deluxe Pastries, the corner of Cherry Way and Main Street, Reed Memorial Library, Ravenna High School and a residence at Sanford and Main streets.

Clearly, the terrorists know what we value most as a society. Deluxe Pastry make the best cream sticks, which other parts of the country may know as Bismarcks.

The Record-Courier, by the way, had their finest hour the week of May 4, 1970, with a series of triumphalist feature stories about the "dirty piggies" (in the words of several contributors to the letters and even op-ed pages) who got what was coming to them at Kent State. The May 5 headlines ran something like, "STUDENTS RUN RIOT...BURN PROPERTY....." and over to the side "(four people killed)."

But I digress. It's always a little touching when the long arm of Roscoe P. Coltrane reaches out and touches something it plumb don't understand. Omigod, Skeeter!! The terrorists are bombing Deluxe Pastry! They hate our freedom and our maple-frosted cream sticks!

Feh.

[wik] It's stories like this that throw cold water all over my occasional urge to quit Massachusetts for Ohio, to take advantage of lower costs of living.

[alsø wik] Is it wrong of me that I almost put a "Crazy Foreigners" tag on this story?

My continuation of the Ministry of Minor Perfidy's collaborative writing exercise is below the break. Read the first installment, written by GeekLethal, here.
It didn't help that the only job Alexei could seem to keep - the only job that hadn't ended in some ignominious frogmarch to a distant office on a top floor where he was harangued in words he barely even understood like "malfeasance" and "restraining order," or lying bent and bruised underneath some cruel steaming machine with a nickname like "The Mangler" or "Hobart," was a job in a nearly forgotten department of a past its prime molded plastics concern removing staples from endless reams of flimsy yellow paper.

Endless reams of yellow paper that flapped, folded, stuck and tore at the slightest touch. Endless reams of yellow paper faintly inscribed with fifth-generation carbon copies of nearly irrelevant data, crinkled and landscaped, spindled and folded. Endless reams of yellow paper with edges that, for all their insubstantial creperie, cut like a razor. Endless reams of yellow paper that some craven middle management types insisted must be saved, must be kept! in case of lawsuit or audit by overly curious head honcho.

But the staples added, so the craven middle management types held, the equivalent of five pages' thickness to any given thinly stapled document, and so in order to save file space, they must first be removed. Alexei knew, as any intelligent person would, that this was silliness of the first water. But it paid the bills and it left his mind free to wander far afield from his shabby bus stop, from his grimy office/closet with the dingy grey-tan carpet, from the stifling pong of the diesel fumes, from the suffocating closeness of the endless reams of flimsy yellow paper, from the trailing skein of bad timing and bad decisions that clung to him like stale cigarette smoke.

Plus, he got to use a staple shark.

"Repeat after me. I, state your name,"

I, state your name,

"Do hereby swear and affirm,"

Do hereby swear and affirm,

"That you'll post a lit'l som'n som'n real soon now."

Amen.