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Being Nasty is Everything

Go to Urbanconservative.com. Have you seen a blog war? This is your chance. Don’t pass it up.

“She lives by a code of ethics. Brutus, Bubbles, whoever the hell you are...where are you? Listen...she says she lives by a code of ethics. Who wrote the code? Do you have to be a cryptologist to break the code? What does it say? “Be kind to all good men?” Well, dammit, I am kind to good men. There just aren’t many here. You’re supposed to be nasty to bad men. And women...after all, they are capable of some of the worst atrocities known to mankind. Faking orgasms. Going on insane rampages every 28 days. Putting yellow mustard on Pastrami sandwiches. Taking the skin off chocolate pudding. Having parents. Making socks disappear. Believing that reality shows are real.”

“Now that I think about it, women are the cause of all the world’s problems. They should be exterminated. All of them. Then we can finally relax with a beer and a baseball game and curse to our hearts content. We’d be so happy we wouldn’t even need to fight wars.”

“Mr. Bubbles, how do you feel about this? I value your opinion. You and Dora are the only two people here with brains. Check this out. I once stole Dora’s silverware. This was back when she disliked me because I’m a jerk. I returned all her silverware. She invited me to lunch. No...she said “Let’s do lunch.” There’s a difference. So naturally I fell in love with her. I talk about it all the time. She ignores me completely. I think she has a husband that bends steel with his breath.”

“Ah, the heck with it. Nobody cares.”

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Justice vs. Law

THE ULTIMATE CONTRADICTION...Justice vs. Law

The United States Department of Justice is the umbrella agency for law enforcement in America. Paradoxically, the agency is bound by rigid articles of law that conflict with the misnomer “Justice.” The agency cannot change the laws it enforces and “justice” is neither its province nor is it obtained; except, perhaps, by sheer accident. The same is true at every level of law enforcement. Judges and District Attorneys must follow the law to the letter, as must all front line enforcement agencies; police, the FBI, ATF, DEA and...well I’m not so sure about Homeland. The Supreme Court renders opinions and decides appeals. Their conclusions often become legal precedents, but again, like the men and women involved in this work, (notwithstanding the normal and perfectly acceptable amount of corruption) they are expected to adhere to the highest standards of the law. As I see it, however, they are trapped in a philosophical dilemma that is addressed in almost every version of the Bible; the most comprehensive legal compendium in existence.

Paradox defines the dilemma. Our Constitution, which mandates separation of Church and State, inadvertently legitimizes the biblical concept of justice by virtue of the mandate itself. Justice is desirable, but the actions required to carry it out are prohibited by both documents. While we have taken great care to separate the law of the land from the law of the Bible, most of us recognize that they are strikingly similar both in content and the degree to which they are ignored by humanity.

Can you imagine the confusion, frustration and anguish that victims and law enforcement workers must deal with on an everyday basis - as a rapist goes free on a technicality; or a cold blooded murderer is sentenced to 7 years in prison for killing a child.

Plea bargaining is a criminal perversion of justice and on close examination contradicts everything we believe in as a society presumably committed to protecting the innocent and prosecuting the guilty to the full extent of the law. How do we rationalize the fact that a murderer can admit his crime in exchange for a lesser charge? Who is served by this? The courts that are overloaded; the DA’s who embellish their conviction rates or the criminals that walk with GPS locators on their ankles?

Perhaps Samuel L. Jackson said it best in Pulp Fiction. “May justice be visited upon thee with the full vengeance and wrath of the Lord!” Maybe that is how things work in the criminal underworld, but certainly not for Martha Stewart...O.J. Simpson finally got nailed - only because of his stupidity and arrogance.

When a cop plants evidence on a known drug distributor, justice is being served while the law is being broken. Did he do the right thing? The law says that every man is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Yet we know that some men are guilty regardless of what a jury may decide. We also know that some are innocent despite the fact that they have been found guilty. Mistakes are made in the administration of law and in the misguided pursuit of justice. Again, paradox rules the hierarchy of mistakes in both action and concept. If I kill a man who has murdered my wife, I too am a murderer and if the state chooses, both of us can be killed. The rules say that I may not take the law into my own hands in the pursuit of justice. I am permitted to kill in self defense or by act of war but in neither case am I considered “in pursuit of justice” - another paradox. By definition, war is waged for a “just” cause. Like capital punishment, it is viewed as justifiable homicide.

Law is a reflection of society’s need to prevent chaos, yet law itself is chaos because it represents mankind’s attempt to bring order to a random environment. As humans, we hesitate to accept this fact but the body of contemporary mathematical evidence effectively nullifies everything we believe to be true about the world we inhabit. There is no mathematical equation that validates the existence of justice. There is no written document of law that recognizes justice as anything more than a symbol of man’s desire to discriminate right from wrong. In the topsy turvy catalogue of law, doing the right thing is often wrong, while doing the wrong thing is often right. Many people don’t care one way or the other. I do.

I want to do the right thing; the thing my heart and soul scream out for - I want justice! The same law that guarantees my right to pursue it says I cannot have it, unless it is sanctioned as an exception. There are exceptions. On our side of things, they are known as operatives. On the other side, they are terrorists. I want no part in any of this, but I have questions. Can I purchase an AK-47 from a gun runner and use it to kill the man who tortured and raped my nephew? No. Can I use the same weapon to kill Osama Bin Laden? Yes. Will I be prosecuted? A ticker tape parade would be more likely. Can I plant evidence in the home of the drug dealer who sells heroin to my child? No. Will the state incarcerate me for doing that? You better believe it. Internal Affairs has little interest in justice. Who does?

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Reality Reading

Every time I see this particular naturalist magazine, I wonder - what causes people to read it? Some of the articles bring on a condition known as “vomitus impendis,” as they describe in vivid detail the sickeningly unspeakable behaviors of anything from insects to aborigines. On both occasions that I read this magazine, I found myself ready to hurl.

 

Are you interested in the mating habits of the bot fly? How about the diet of the Plubanumba, a pygmy-like sub-human that inhabits the rain forests of Costa Rica? Would you like to know all the revolting details? The writers seem to discern little difference between eating the dried feces of pre-pubescent females to downing a Quarter Pounder at McDonalds. Who needs to know all of this anyway? For what it is worth, here is a slightly fictionalized example of a typical article.

We reached the Zambezian desert region in broad daylight and while the heat was oppressive, we set out immediately to find the sarcophagus beetle. These amazing insects bore holes into the blazing hot sand to protect themselves from predators. Phillips, our entomologist, found one sucking the juices from a recent kill – a black filigreed groggissthymus termite, (see photo upper right). These sand termites are huge; this was a well deserved feast for the little sarcophagus beetle, who must have fought courageously to take down his prey. Phillips told us that the brain juices of the groggissthymus are thought to have healing properties by the Tellittomees, a local tribe that lives among the rocks at the edge of the desert plain. We all took turns sampling the juice, which tasted like chicken broth.

 

The next day, we set out to find the Tellittomees. When we reached their habitat, the chief of the tribe welcomed us and bid us to sit on soft bags stuffed with warthog bladders. Chief Nurembega proudly showed us his collection of skulls, which the tribe saves after dining on freshly killed Bobangas, the only other inhabitants of the region.

 

Later, when the sun began its nightly descent, it was time for dinner. We were treated to an incredible diversity of indigenous food. Included in the feast was an appetizer of dried wax scraped from the ears of Tellittomee adolescents. The taste was remarkably like shoe polish, with a hint of blueberry - delicious. Phillips offered a pouch of dried beetles we had collected as a gesture of good will. The Tellittomees were profoundly grateful for the gift, and proceeded to have the women crush the beetles into a pasty mash that contained liver bile and thyroid glands of recently killed water buffalo. To say that it was tasty would be an understatement and the chief was visibly gladdened by our expressions of delight.

Is it me? Or is there something truly perverse about this. Well of course there is, since I am the one who wrote it, but it is not far from the real thing. I have read articles in which adventurers and scientists have eaten things that are absolutely repugnant. What do these guys eat when they are home, cows brain and fried grasshoppers? Here is a little bit more to whet your appetite.

Dessert was served in little sacks, which we learned were sun dried kidneys of wild boars. The dessert was a delectable combination of something that tasted like exotic cheese. According to one of the tribesmen, this cheese like substance is collected from the toes of the tribe’s most revered warriors, mashed together with the soft bark of the Salamabalonna, a very rare coniferous tree found in the region. The tribe believes that this mash brings favor from the gods, so we considered ourselves lucky to be served such a rare delicacy.

 

It was nearly dark when we bid the Tellittomees farewell. “Unnagoddadavidda” was their word for goodbye, and we all said it, which pleased the chief greatly. We had managed to forge a bond with these highly advanced people, and that was supremely important. A mistake, even in pronunciation, could lead to serious consequences. We had all heard of the Milton/Hamilton expedition two years ago, when all nine scientists were boiled and eaten. Thankfully, we observed no boiling cauldrons present. It was a successful visit and we were both thankful and relieved when we departed. I must say, the Tellittomees surprised us with their willingness to share their local customs. It was unfortunate that we did not have the time to watch the tribesmen prepare skulls, which they offered to show us before we left, but we wanted to get back to camp before complete darkness, and there was some uncertainty among us concerning the skulls they planned to prepare. We certainly did not want to overstay our welcome.

What more could you possibly want to know? I can think of no other publication that revels in so much nauseating and useless information. And the magazine never misses an opportunity to display photographs of topless, post - menopausal women and naked youngsters. I cannot for the life of me understand their obsession with such photographs. It is reality reading at its most revolting.

 

Perhaps I have been overly critical. Sometimes I get carried away, though nowhere near as much as the magazine does. I suppose I owe them and their readers some apology if I have offended them in any way. So, with all due respect, “Fablungit.” That is the Tellittomee word for “Sorry.” ¨

 

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THE LIBERAL MEMBER

WHAT WAS PHIPPS THINKING...
 ...when he named the yearling? The Liberal Member? I recall my comment to my brother.
"What the heck is that? Strange name, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess. Look at this." He handed me his copy of the Racing Form and pointed to The Liberal Member's chart. There wasn't much to look at - the horse was a maiden, making his first start as a three year-old...in an open allowance that included multiple winners. Angel Penna, contract trainer for Ogden Phipps, had evidently decided that this horse needed no experience at the conventional level - termed Maiden Special Weights. 
"I know. Penna does that occasionally. Don't jump to conclusions - he actually may have found a softer spot. Look. Most of these haven't run in more than six months, and six of them have never run on grass before." 
"No, I mean the breeding." I looked again. The bloodlines were phenomenal.
"Hey, how much money do you have?" I asked.
"$150."
"Plus my $200, that's $350 to win at 4-1 odds. I don't know why they're betting him down to 4-1, but that's fine with me...a $1700 return is okay with you?"
"Let's do it."

We knew as soon as the gates opened. The Liberal Member went straight to the front and looked like he was frolicking on that firm Belmont turf. I had binoculars and watched as he lengthened stride down the backstretch, grabbing the turf with such force that huge clods of grass and dirt flew in his wake, only to be inherited by those behind him. There is nothing like having a clod of turf thrown in your face to make you lose interest and seek the back of the pack. By mid-turn, heading into Belmont's expansive homestretch, The Liberal Member was making the field look terribly conservative. We watched quietly as he bounded through the stretch, 14 lengths clear at the finish. I looked up at the teletimer. 1:39 4/5 seconds. Two ticks off the course record for the distance, set by a son of Secretariat named Forever Sparkle. There was a story in that, too, and I reminisced while my brother went to collect our winnings.

Forever Sparkle inherited virtually none of Secretariat's physical characteristics. This was a roan 3 year-old; big like his father but clearly lacking in maturity. I actually thought he may have been slightly retarded. Forever Sparkle seemed to enjoy racing almost as much as he did watching people. The homestretch was his playground. With hundreds of people crowding the fence, he would invariably turn his attention to them...ears pricked, head turned sideways to get a better view of the humans, he managed to win his first three races and he won them easily despite the shenanigans. One thing was clear to us - he had inherited Secretariat's turf gene...a gene that has yet to be fully exploited. Secretariat used turf as a springboard. Much like a diver, he propelled himself with incredible power and grace. His only two grass races were course record performances in which he completely destroyed the best older turf runners in the country.
Forever Sparkle had the gene...but not the mentality.

July 14, 1978   
A relatively cool afternoon for this time of the year - it meant that my Racing Form was dry for once; not soggy with my own sweat. We had seen all three of Forever Sparkle's races. His winning margins were 12, 6 and 8 lengths respectively. His comment line read "greenly,"
"hard held" and "distracted, won easily." Now he was entered against older, more experienced runners. One, First American, was coming off two impressive wins; in both he had to battle through the stretch in head to head duels. In both he just happened to lower his head at the wire for a narrow victory...the smallest part of a nose. In both he was forced to split horses in mid-stretch, which he did by bulling his way through. We had seen him. His temperament was...shall I say, nasty. Of his three wins, one resulted in a disqualification. A horse passed him in deep stretch. He had afterburners and came again, biting the horse on the neck as he blew by. Did this horse understand the concept of winning? 
"Impossible," my brother said, "he's an animal. Winning, as a concept requires an ability to reason. Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm telling you, he's going to be a problem for the Sparkler." (as we called him)

Forever Sparkle was 9-5. We would come close to doubling our money on a $1000 bet. First American was 19-1.
"No, I'm not doing it. I'm afraid of that horse."
"Okay. How about this? We put $500 to win on the Sparkler, and box an exacta for $250 each way." I looked at the projected exacta payoffs. If they came home together, with the Sparkler on top, the payoff would be $93. That would amount to an $11,000 windfall. Oddly, with First American on top, despite his 19-1 odds, the exacta would pay $98. That meant that most of the smart money was on First American in the exacta pool. He wasn't really 19-1, he was more like 9-5. That was all we needed to know.

Four minutes to post and I had a new idea. 
"Listen, if we're that sure they are going to finish 1-2, why are we betting exactas?"
"Oh no, I'm not doing that," my brother said, sounding a bit irritated.
"Okay, I'll use my own money." I boxed the two on top of every horse in the field - a triple that could pay anywhere between $9500 and $65,000 on a $10 bet if a longshot finished third. I sweated the $180 investment. It wasn't part of our enterprise which was $3800 in the black, and it was my stereo money, which I had been saving for a year. Still, I had to do it - I had seen this race; a flicker of my imagination, perhaps, or maybe...

About flickers, I knew something. I had been seeing them for almost a year. Like the rapid technical changes employed as special effects in movies, they were brief...no more than two or three seconds when everything appeared to re-format the way a computer screen does. I told no one. A stay in the local psych unit didn't appeal to me. I wasn't enamored with the thing on Duck's back, either, which had appeared following the previous race.

Duck was our silent partner. He wasn't in on our enterprise and only made one bet - always the seventh race...this one. Duck had a routine that he followed religiously. He slept through races 1 - 6, had a hot dog and bet on the seventh race, which he watched. Anyway, I learned a valuable lesson that day. If Duck asks you, "What's on my back?" don't look. The thing on his back was not by any means earthly in appearance. It looked like a small owl with transparent wings that spanned about 18 inches each and a furry head with bulging red eyes. Having looked and seen, I bolted, along with my brother who also looked. We left our poor friend siting there with this monster on his back. I'd say Duck took it rather well until the thing grabbed his hot dog and flew off. That upset him.
"He took my hot dog!"
"Did you see it?"
"Yeah. It had a face like my Uncle Irv." That was Duck.

Both Forever Sparkle and First American broke poorly from the starting gate. They were both blocked by a wall of horses at the top of the stretch. Both riders were patient and waited for holes to open, though Forever Sparkle decided to make on himself, bashing his way between horses and watching the crowd at the same time. First American was all business. They both cleared with a sixteenth of a mile left. The bumping began. Each time Forever Sparkle forged a short lead, First American gave him a nice pop, edging him closer to the inside rail. I could see that the Sparkler wasn't having any fun. It was the first time he had ever been hooked, and he couldn't see the crowd. To correct that situation, the Sparkler made a right hand turn and drove First American clear across the course, circled his flank and gained an outside position where he was able to gawk. How talented was he? In spite of all the ground he lost goofing around, he hit the wire a head in front of First American, who proceded to throw a fit, throw his rider and run off. They got him quickly, however, and it turned out that his presence was required for a photoraph in the winner's circle. It came as no surprise to anyone that Forever Sparkle was disqualified and placed second. 

The third place horse was 55-1. The triple paid $2900. I made $14,000. We never saw Forever Sparkle again. Perhaps he changed careers and went into slapstick comedy. First American was sold to Sheikh Makhtoum Mohammad for $300,000. He won his first race in Dubai on a day when the temperature rose to 110 degrees. A few yards past the finish, he dropped dead. Heat exhaustion.

The Liberal Member made a name for himself as a successful stakes runner. 

Me? Still Conservative! 
Queries: smthmort@gmail.com  Feed: http://ml-Smith.blogspot.com

  
      
       
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