Monthly Archives: November 2020

PASSUP

Sometimes, Covid restrictions are criticized as being ridiculous, idiotic, tyrannical, and completely unnecessary. But let’s face it, we can’t stop dictators from being dictators. And the 50 dictators who govern the United States seem to wield unchecked and far-reaching power at making rules for how we go about our personal lives.

When one is faced with such overwhelming force, the most effective weapon of resistance is what I call, Passive-Aggressive Suckup. Or PASSUP, for short. PASSUP resistors openly praise the strictures imposed upon them (the Suckup part of their strategy). But then they go off and sneakily do their own thing anyway (the Passive-Aggressive part of their strategy).

For instance, suppose you praised the Thanksgiving celebration restrictions recently imposed, such as, no gatherings greater than 6, 8, 10, 12, or whatever a governor determined based upon whatever scientist that governor consulted with. And no loud talking or singing. And keep your masks on and windows open. But then you held a large Thanksgiving feast anyway, with loud, boisterous relatives, room-to-room wassailing, and maskless diners, within a closed-up, snugly heated home.

If you did this, you were behaving just like a PASSUP.

Don’t feel ashamed. Many of us have become PASSUPs these days. I’ve noticed that many of those who advocate masks, and all forms of social distancing, have a tendency to violate those rules, right and left.

Maybe that’s because there are so many different rules, it all gets confusing. The problem is, we have so many different scientists saying so many different things about Covid, and so many different governors consulting with so many different scientists, that we’ve been left with a transcontinental hodgepodge of rules and restrictions, that morph into odd varieties with each state border crossing.

Here in California, Governor Newsom recently issued something that I call the One-Night Stand Ban. This bizarre diktat forbids people from different households from congregating together between the hours of 10:00 pm and 5:00 am. I guess some scientist must have told the governor that Covid has been spreading via all-night orgies and dates with strangers.

Some states have closed restaurants. Others only require them to close at around 10:00 pm. I guess the scientists in those states have determined that Covid spreads more readily in restaurants, after 10:00 pm. What is it about 10:00 pm, anyway? Does Covid get bigger and badder as we approach the witching hour?

Some state scientists don’t allow gyms to be open. Others allow them to open their doors at limited capacity, such as 10%, or 25%, or whatever the scientific opinion happens to be in that locale.

In some states, scientists are apparently telling governors that it’s okay to keep schools open. But in other states, the scientists tell the governors to shut the schools down. But the scientists who run the federal government have never told schools to shut down.

Masks aren’t required in states like Arizona and Florida. But the scientists in other states have agreed that masks are so effective they should be mandatory. Presumptive President-Elect Biden also agrees with these scientists, and says he will make them mandatory nationwide. But current President Trump has been listening to different scientists, who are telling him not to make masks mandatory.

Scientists in some states, such as Hawaii and New York, won’t allow people in from other states, unless they quarantine or test negative. Scientists in other states, such as California, have never imposed such a quarantine requirement. However, California scientists do “advise” that you quarantine. We took that wise advise under advisement, when we recently returned from a trip to Nevada. But we didn’t follow it. That’s the PASSUP way.

I feel proud to be a PASSUP. There’s no shame in sucking up, and then doing your own thing. After all, many of our top government officials are PASSUPs, too. For instance, Governor Newsom, along with two senior officials from the California Medical Association, were recently caught attending a birthday dinner with 12 other people. But indoor dining, in the few places in California where our scientists still allow it, is limited to only 6 people.

Governor Newsom apologized, while innocently claiming that the dining was done outdoors. But then photos emerged showing the dining was, indeed, indoors. Newsom, you’re such a PASSUP. Don’t try to fool us, bro. You’re one of us! You should feel proud.

For your droll amusement, here’s a clip of his lying, rambling, hem-hawing apology:

Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, got her hair done at a beauty salon that should have been closed, but which she asked to open up just for her. And she wore no mask. Yep, she’s another PASSUP.

Philadelphia Mayor Jim Kenney was recently photographed dining indoors in a restaurant in Maryland. But that’s okay. While the mayor and his scientists in Philadelphia have banned indoor dining, the scientists in Maryland have determined that indoor dining won’t spread Covid.

Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot got a haircut during a statewide stay-at-home order. And after Biden apparently beat Trump, she mingled with a large crowd gathered in the Chicago streets, and encouraged celebrations. You’re such a PASSUP, Lori.

New York Governor Andrew Cuomo traveled to Georgia, where he gave a maskless elbow bump and two hugs to Savannah Mayor Van Johnson. Then he returned home and did not quarantine, even though his scientists have mandated that those who’ve been in Georgia must quarantine. So even the Emmy-Award winning governor is a PASSUP.

PASSUPs seem to run in Cuomo’s family. When Andrew’s brother, Chris Cuomo was quarantined after being diagnosed with Covid-19, Chris decided to travel from his home to inspect another home of his, which was under construction. But it’s all in keeping with his PASSUP family tradition.

Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer forbade all boating during the pandemic, because her scientists told her that you can spread Covid even while alone on a boat. But her PASSUP husband didn’t care, and tried to go boating anyway. I admire that in a henpecked husband.

Most recently, Denver Mayor Michael Hancock told Denverites to stay at home, cook a small turkey, and only celebrate Thanksgiving with those they live with. Then he promptly got on a plane to visit his daughter for the holidays. Way to go, mayor! That’s classic PASSUPerism.

If these very important people can be PASSUPs, we can be PASSUPs. They are wise enough to know their rules are ridiculous. And they apparently have just as little faith in their particular camarilla of scientists, as many of us apparently have.

So get out there and live life. Join the ever-expanding PASSUP resistance. Become one the secret rule violators/open rule praisers. If you’re not famous, or running a large medical organization, you have little to fear. You’re not likely to be photographed and held up to public scrutiny. You can be a PASSUP, and very likely get away with it.

The many ridiculous, idiotic, and tyrannical rules we’re told to follow, are all based upon science. Granted, it’s different science in different states but hey, it’s still science. So I’m all for these rules. I love science-based rules. I think they’re just dandy in our modern world, and I publicly vow to follow each and every one of them, to the letter.

Because I am a world-class PASSUP.

To Desert After Thanksgiving Dessert

I grew up back in the Vietnam War days, and I remember seeing the anti-war protests on TV, with hairy-headed hippies and other young folks shouting slogans against the war. The most popular slogan was, “Hell no, we won’t go!” But there were others just as good, such as:

A Vietnam War protestor offering a flower to military police.

“Dow shall not kill!”

“Stop the war, feed the poor!”

“Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh, the Viet Cong are gonna win!”

“Hey, hey, LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?!”

“Girls say yes to men who say no!”

And the ever compelling, “One, two, three, four, we don’t want your fucking war!”

My siblings and I were all against the Vietnam War, but my mother was for it. She didn’t like commies, and she’s always been rather conservative.

Besides, her brother had been a Green Beret. He was among the original 400 Green Berets sent to Vietnam by President Kennedy in May, 1961, supposedly as “military advisors.” There he was wounded and awarded a purple heart, along with several other medals. One of his few comments on his experience was that we did things there that nobody would ever believe.

We lived in Oceanside, California in 1969, which is a town right next to the Camp Pendleton Marine Corps base. This was where many new conscripts were haplessly shipped off to Southeast Asia, to face the terror that was taking the lives of hundreds of fine, young American men per week.

My mother wanted to support our troops in the war effort. She was also 35, single, and looking for a man. So she signed up for a program to host two Marines from Camp Pendleton, for Thanksgiving dinner.

But the men in uniform who showed up were barely 20. Too young for my mom, but not too young for my two teenage sisters. They were enamored with these government issue specimens fresh out of boot camp.

And I, at the innocent age of ten, was also very impressed with them. They got my attention when they told us they were soon going to be shipped off to that war I’d been hearing about in the news. Wow!

My uncle had been a Green Beret, and this was the same war that I’d seen John Wayne fight in as Colonel Mike Kirby, in the movie, The Green Berets. In that flick was a horrifying scene where a soldier steps in a mantrap. His feet are caught in a snare that slings him through the air and impales him on a rack of spikes. It also impaled his bloody, punctured body onto my memory, and left me feeling shaken and anxious. I vowed that if I was ever in a war, I’d watch my step for sure.

A horrifying scene.

So this shit was exciting, to me. As we sat at the Thanksgiving table, gnawing on drumsticks and slurping down cranberry sauce, I wanted to talk about things like war, and killing people, and being shot at and pursued by the enemy, and of course, mantraps, with these frightened young men. But they kind of squirmed in their seats, and tried to change the subject. My sisters shushed me, and warned me I was being rude.

After dessert, my sisters managed to sneak these handsome young warriors up to the loft in our garage for the purpose of candid conversation. Or maybe they had some other purpose on their horny young minds. And that’s when something unexpected happened. The one named George broke some unsettling news. “We don’t want to go to Vietnam,” he announced.

“Yeah, we don’t like war. We think it’s immoral. We want peace,” his friend, Dave, added.

Both sisters felt sorry for them, but most especially my younger sister, Blue Wilder Gnu. Blue had run away from home over the summer, at age 14. She had hitchhiked across Canada, staying in communes, and cavorting like a flower child with draft-dodging refugees. She had returned home in September, after being hospitalized for an ectopic pregnancy. And now, at age 15, she was passionately sympathetic to the anti-Vietnam War cause.

“You don’t have to go to Vietnam,” Blue insisted. “You can stay in our loft. We won’t tell our mother. We’ll bring you food, and you can hide out here for as long as you want.”

It was just the break they’d been hoping for. They accepted the invitation. The two girls and two Marines then brought my brother and me into this conspiracy. I was sworn into secrecy by Dave. I liked Dave. He was a kind young man, and had a fun personality. But I wasn’t so sure about George. He was sharp-edged and impatient with kids like me. But because Dave had sworn me into secrecy, I kept my vow of silence like a secret agent with a cyanide capsule.

One day I was standing near the washing machine in the garage, shooting the bull with Dave, who was sitting at the edge of the loft with his legs dangling over. My mother suddenly walked in through the side door, carrying a basket of dirty clothes. We both fell into instant silence. My mother walked directly beneath Dave’s dangling legs and loaded the washing machine. “Whatcha doin’, son?” she inquired.

“Oh, just hanging out. Nuthin’,” I stared at the floor while my heart pounded like a kettledrum inside my ribcage.

“Well go out and play. It’s not good for you to stand around alone in a dark garage.” She then headed out the door, passing beneath Dave’s legs again. I followed after her. It was a close call.

The food and hospitality we supplied Dave and George was not enough. They were desperate to leave Oceanside and get as far away from the U.S. Marine Corps as they could. One evening they broke into a store and stole some goods for the purpose of pawning, so they could raise enough cash to travel. But stealing wasn’t enough for George. In his anger and pain, he also vandalized the store. Dave and George had a falling out after this.

A few days later, George was picked up by the police after breaking into a car and stealing an 8-track stereo system. That same day, Dave disappeared. He apparently had not been arrested. He just disappeared. To this day, we don’t know what happened to Dave.

I like to imagine that he made his way to Canada and found refuge in that nation that had wisely chosen to stay out of Vietnam. And hopefully he found some way to take advantage of President Ford’s or President Carter’s amnesty programs, so that he could eventually return home.

Or maybe he established Canadian citizenship and still lives in this great nation to our north. Whatever happened, I hope Dave found the peace he had longed for on that Thanksgiving Day in 1969.

When after dessert, he decided to desert.

Masscots

Vic, at Cosmic Observation, has suggested that this blog needs a mascot. I thought a jackass named “Jack” would be an apt mascot, since we have so many smartasses that drop comments here. But then she suggested a female mascot. Perhaps a jackass named “Jenny.” She pointed out that Jenny is the animal husbandry term for a female jackass.

First of all, now that I know this, I feel sorry for any woman named Jenny. And I also feel sorry for any husband that has to marry an animal. But if I had to marry an animal, I think a jackass would be my first choice. They’re cute, and ornery, and funny, all at the same time. Just what I like in a spouse.

Back in the Old West days, many a lonely desert prospector considered their jackass to be their best friend. And who knows what went on between them, in the name of animal husbandry. So if a scruffy old desert prospector can marry a jackass, I think it’s only fitting that we smartasses choose the jackass as our mascot.

As Chancellor of Jackass University, I hereby make the choice, without objection, for all of us. I nominate our new mascots to be jackasses.

Only I’m calling them “masscots,” with two s’s. And their names are Jack Ass, and Jenny Ass, from the Ass family.

If anyone objects to this nomination, please leave your smartass comments, below. If necessary, we can hold an election. And then we can contest the results of the election. We might even take it all the way to the Supreme Court, and leave it up to its nine jackasses to decide the matter.

And now I introduce to you, our nominees. Our two prospective masscots. Our symbols of the hallowed craft of smartassery. Here, ladies and gentlemen, are Jack and Jenny Ass . . .

Code of the Smartass

I’m afraid this blog might get out of hand, with all the smartasses that comment here. I think we need a code. So the following is a new page I’m adding to my blog:


CODE OF THE SMARTASS

Just read the cheeky comments on this blog, and you’ll realize that those who follow me tend to be smartasses. It’s fun being a smartass, and everyone is invited to join in on all the good times. But please keep in mind that we follow a code. It’s called the Code of the Smartass:

Code of the Smartass

We’re smartasses, and proud of it. But smartasses can refer to each other by a variety of names, including: smart aleck (whatever an aleck is), smarty, smarty-pants, wise-ass, wise guy, wiseacre, wisenheimer, witling, brat, cheeky boy (or girl), malapert, rascal, saucebox, and troll. However none of these other names detract from the fact that we are all just smartasses.

Smartasses are not easily offended. But that doesn’t stop us from working hard at it.

Smartasses don’t take life too seriously. Nothing is sacred, including being a smartass.

Smartasses don’t care about convention, tradition, perdition, or any of the other shins.

Smartasses respect all religions, creeds, political beliefs, and cultures. Because without these things, there would be little left to make fun of.

Smartasses appreciate and respect wisdom. After all, wisdom is the fictile clay for creating wisecracks.

Smartasses are troublemakers, and also get into trouble a lot. We accept this as the risk one takes when acting like a smartass. We take full responsibility for the consequences of our smartassery, unless there’s a patsy nearby who we can conveniently blame.

Smartasses do not organize well. Such an organization would fall apart from internal ridicule. The only thing that keeps smartasses together is our love for smartassery.

Smartasses aren’t known for being profound or thought-provoking. But we’re commonly thought to be profane and provoking.

Even though we strive to be smartasses, sometimes we fall short and are dumbasses instead. But that doesn’t mean we can’t pick ourselves up off of our dumbasses and keep striving to be the best smartasses in the whole world.

Smartasses chase unicorns, because unicorns are unique, novel, new, different, strange, weird, and thus, interesting. And that’s all smartasses really want. Relief from boredom. Otherwise we wouldn’t be such smartasses.

Tale of Two Worlds

I woke up one morning and realized that I inhabit two worlds. I suppose that may be a good way to describe sleep. It’s like traveling to another world. My waking world belongs to the sublunary realm of humans. My sleep belongs to the superlunary world of the gods.

From the hypnagogic gates to the final hypnopompia, I wander through a strange ether. The gods guide me through scintillating scenery, regale me with mellifluous oratories and music, and surprise me with curious gifts, amorous women, and ambrosia.

I gambol with the spirits of lost loved ones, now denizens of kingdoms in Valhalla and the Islands of the Blessed. I rewrite histories and rehearse futures, like Shakespeare directing plays at the Globe. And I haunt familiar-seeming habitats that I’ve never actually habitated. Déjà vu in HD.

Sometimes wrathful gods attack me with minacious beasts or other malevolent beings, then pour lead into my legs. Or they assign me impossible tasks, as if I’m some kind of Sisyphean inmate. I bear these hagridden episodes by theorizing that they are auguries of misfortune that previse me of avoidable danger.

Sometimes I’m cognizant that this is an alternate reality, and fly lucidly through walls and roofs and sky and space, with a ration of conscious control. But usually it’s all harum-scarum, where I inhabit the only world I know of at the time, and the script is entirely written by a bunch of crazy gods. My input is not welcome.

Shall I tell you about my latest dream? No I shall not. My dreams are only profound to me, as yours are only to you. The dreams of others are boring. It’s hard to hear one without yawning and drifting away. Drifting away to that other world.

That fantastic world of sleep.

Zzzzzzzz . . .

Trouble sleeping? Try traveling through the infinite universe, where perhaps you may find your dreamworld.

Who the Hell Am I?

We haven’t played Who the Hell Am I? since January. And everyone failed miserably, as I remember. However, Carolyn, at joyroses13, won the contest with a half-point. But she cheated. Which is pathetic.

But I want to give everyone another chance, so how about we play the fun and exciting game again, of Who the Hell Am I?!

In this game you get 10 clues to guess the name of a famous person. These clues are numbered countdown-style, 10 to 1, with the first clue numbered 10. Your score is determined by the highest numbered clue that evokes the correct answer.

At the end of the list you can click a link for the answer. However, this link is numbered zero, so if you haven’t figured out the answer by the time you click it, you get no points.

Who the Hell Am I?

10. I was born in Glendale, Arizona in 1925. My father was a drunk, and my mother was a Paiute Indian. She divorced my dad when I was 12. My maternal grandfather regaled me with many fascinating stories of the American West, while I was growing up. He was an inspiration because later, I would achieve great success writing and singing songs about the Old West.

9. My one and only wife’s name was Marizona, and we were married for 34 years, until the day I died.

8. I served in the Navy during World War II, and in the Solomon Islands I learned to play the guitar. There, I fell in love with Hawaiian music and later, in 1957, recorded an album entitled, Song of the Islands.

7. After World War II, I pursued a career in music, and in 1952 I recorded a #1 Country hit entitled I’ll Go On Alone. My career took off like a nitro-powered race car after that, and I was eventually named to the Country Music Hall of Fame.

6. I recorded 18 #1 hits during my career (two were #1 in Canada), 11 albums that went gold or platinum, and was named Artist of the Decade, for the 1960s, by the Academy of Country Music.

5. Even though I was a famous country singer, many of my hits crossed over to the pop charts, including one in 1957 about a heartbroken teenager in a white sport coat, who was stood up for the prom.

4. In 1961, I won a Grammy Award for an album entitled, More Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs.

3. I loved fast cars, and competed in 35 NASCAR Grand National Series races, finishing in the top-10, six times. One of my race cars was a ‘34 Ford coupe named Devil Woman.

2. My last NASCAR race was in November, 1982. I died one month later, at age 57, after failed quadruple bypass heart surgery.

1. My signature song was a 1959 Grammy Award winner about a cowboy who loses his life over a Mexican girl, who works in a West Texas cantina. This song was featured in 2013, in the series finale of Breaking Bad. The episode was entitled Felina.

0. So, who the hell am I? For the correct answer, click this link.

And if you’re up to a little fun, here’s a youtube link to this artist’s signature song, as featured in the Breaking Bad finale.

Warner

Warner on our front patio. He seems to be a young roadrunner. Notice the downy feathers?

This is our newly adopted child. Or maybe he adopted us. All I know is that he always wants food. We named him Warner, after the Warner Brothers cartoon roadrunner.

Warner seems to be a young roadrunner, judging by his smaller than normal size and abundance of downy feathers.

It’s nearly impossible to gauge the gender of a roadrunner, but we assume he’s a male. That’s because all roadrunners have a bare patch of skin behind their eyes, and in some that patch is white, while in others it’s blue. Some ornithologists think the white may indicate male, and the blue may indicate female. This hasn’t been proven yet, but Warner has a white patch, so we’re assuming he’s a dude.

This speedy bird follows us around when we’re out in our front yard, begging for a handout while clattering his beak. When we’re inside he hops up on a table next to our livingroom window and stares forlornly at us, hoping for a sympathy treat. If we don’t notice him, he pecks on the window pane to get our attention.

He’s an omnivore, like all roadrunners, so he’ll eat just about anything. But meat is preferred. We feed him rolled up, raw hamburger balls, which are hastily gobbled up whole. Roadrunners also love to eat lizards and snakes, and with their speed, they’re particularly good at killing rattlesnakes. My wife is ophidiophobic, so I think that’s what she likes best about Warner.

Roadrunners prefer to run, but they can fly if they need to, in order to escape a predator. A roadrunner’s top speed is generally about 20 mph, although some have been clocked at up to 27 mph.

Coyotes, on the other hand, can sprint up to 45 miles per hour, over about a quarter mile stretch. Unfortunately, rather than use their superior speed, coyotes try to outsmart roadrunners. The inevitable result is that they find themselves smashed against paintings of caves, ineffectually shielding themselves with small parasols, from large falling rocks, or free falling into unbelievably deep chasms.

Roadrunners are cuckoo. Literally. They are members of the cuckoo family, and are known as ground cuckoos, of the genus Geococcyx. There are only two species of roadrunners, and these are the Greater Roadrunner, or Geococcyx californianus, and the Lesser Roadrunner, or Geococcyx velox. Warner is a Greater Roadrunner, and we do think he’s pretty great.

The Greater Roadrunner can be found in a southerly range that stretches from California, all the way east to Missouri, Arkansas, and Louisiana, and south into Mexico. The Lesser Roadrunner, which is a little smaller and more colorful than the Greater, can be found in Mexico and Central America.

Roadrunners mate for life, and make their nests about three to 10 feet up, in trees, bushes, and cacti. We haven’t seen any other roadrunners around Warner, so it seems likely he hasn’t found a mate yet. But when he does, it will be interesting to see if she has blue behind her eyes.

Roadrunners don’t go beep-beep. Rather, they make a clattering sound with their beaks. They also make a descending cooing call, like a dove, though I haven’t yet heard this from Warner.

They have built in solar heaters, which consists of black skin on their backs. When they need to warm up, they fluff up their back feathers to expose their black skin to the sun.

Their tracks are X-shaped, which keeps you from knowing which direction this bird has traveled. Indian lore has it that this keeps evil spirits from being able to follow them. Cartoon lore has it that this keeps coyotes from following them.

Indians also believe that it’s good luck to see a roadrunner. We think so. And we hope it’s even better luck to adopt one.

And if you’re in the mood for a roadrunner cartoon, check out this recent post from Vic, at Cosmic Observation.

The Most Important Election in History?

Today is Election Day, and both President Trump and his opponent, Joe Biden, have touted this as the most important election in history. It’s nice to know they both can agree on something.

Their agreement has a familiar ring to it, also, because both Trump and Clinton said the same thing, four years ago. And Obama and Romney said it in 2012. Obama and McCain proclaimed this in 2008. And, and . . . ad infinitum.

It seems these presidential fuckers try to get us so scared, each election cycle, that by election day we’re convinced our very lives, livelihoods, and liberty are on the line.

For instance, if Biden wins this election, we can expect our country to plunge into a depression, while power-hungry Democrats destroy our democracy and turn us into a totalitarian, Marxist state, controlled by China. According to Trump.

But if Trump wins, we can expect millions of Americans to die of Covid, while we lose our health care, our planet melts, and our Commander-in-Chief gives away our country to Russia. According to Biden.

I’m frickin’ shaking like a hanging chad. If only they could both lose, is my desperate wish. But after I slap myself in the face a few times to dispel my hysteria, I realize that maybe the Donald and Joe are exaggerating. Only time will tell, but this is probably not the most important election in history.

It does beg the question, though. If this doesn’t turn out to be our most important election in history, which election was?

I think a good argument can be made for the election of 1788. After all, it was our first election, and helped established precedent for all future elections. But as elections go, it was a real yawner. George Washington ran virtually unopposed, and was unanimously elected, garnering every single electoral vote.

A much more exciting year was the election of 1860. This was a 4-way contest between Abraham Lincoln, John Breckinridge, John Bell, and Stephen Douglas. Lincoln won with 40% of the popular vote, and 180 electoral votes of 152 needed. Southern states were so incensed at his victory that seven of them seceded from the Union before he could even take office. And within two months after his inauguration, four more had seceded, propelling us into a prolonged civil war.

Personally, I think the election of 1860 was our most important election in history. It’s pretty hard to top a civil war. So unless today’s election also triggers a civil war, our current exercise in voting won’t hold a candle to 1860.

As for the least important election in our history, I think we have to go back exactly 200 years, to the election of 1820. This occurred during the so-called Era of Good Feelings, in the aftermath of the War of 1812. Americans were unified, and partisan politics was at a low ebb. James Monroe ran for reelection without any major opponent, and won 80.6% of the popular vote, along with all but three possible electoral votes.

But the Era of Good Feelings met a sudden death just four years later, during the election of 1824. This was probably our most exciting election in history.

Four candidates ran a cutthroat race. 131 electoral votes were needed to win, and every candidate came up short. Andrew Jackson got the most votes, winning 41% of the popular vote, and 99 electoral votes. John Quincy Adams came in a fairly distant second, with 31% of the popular vote, and 84 electoral votes. Secretary of Treasury William H. Crawford came in third, with 11% of the popular vote, and 41 electoral votes. And sucking hind tit was Henry Clay, with 13% of the popular vote, and 37 electoral votes.

Because nobody won a majority of the electoral votes, this election had to be decided by the House of Representatives, among the top three finishers.

Henry Clay was the Speaker of the House. Since he had finished fourth, he wasn’t in the running. But as Speaker of the House, he could be a king maker. Adams allegedly made a “corrupt bargain” with Clay. Conspiracy theorists of the day alleged that Clay agreed to use his influence in the House to get Adams elected, in return for an appointment to Secretary of State. Whether that was true or not, the House did vote the second-place Adams in as president, and first-place Jackson lost.

And true to his alleged corrupt bargain, Adams appointed Clay to be his Secretary of State.

It sparked a national uproar. Jackson’s supporters were apoplectic. And the nation sympathized with Jackson, believing he’d been cheated out of the presidency.

Jackson responded by building a political apparatus that would later become known as the Democratic Party. This machine went to work on President Adams, making him as miserable as possible, and preventing him from accomplishing almost anything. And in 1828, this machine helped Jackson defeat Adams by a landslide, installing him as our seventh president.

Pundits warn we could very likely have a similar election this year, to 1824. There are many signs that the election results may be close and hotly disputed. And this could throw it to the House of Representatives. Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi seems to have it in for Trump, so who knows what would happen?

These are interesting times. I doubt this is the most important election in our history. But I would agree that it could become our most exciting.

Countdown to Old Age

One of my blogging buddies turned me into a duck, in one of her posts. That was a few months ago. But I have a long memory, and don’t forget these things easily. Recently, she transformed me back to my anthropic form. That’s good, but it’s not enough.

I told her she should have turned me into a Prince Charming. Or a handsome prince. Or whatever the hell happens in those fairy tales, when ducks and frogs and such, become human. This would have made up for turning me into a duck.

But instead of transforming me into Prince Charming, she wrote a story that depicted me as a bumbling, daydreaming factory worker who trips over a hole and gets knocked out. While in a coma, he dreams he is a prince who suffers all manner of bodily injury.

I’ll admit the story is entertaining, but I am not amused. And I have concluded that she has failed to redeem herself. I won’t reveal her name, but her initials are C.S. (which stand for Carolyn Shelton). You can find her blog, and the infamous story, at joyroses13.

It has come to my attention that C.S. will be turning 50 very soon. Yes, soon she will transform into an old lady, and there’s nothing she can do about it. I’m sure she’d like to forget this upcoming climacteric in her life, but how can I allow that to happen after all the things she’s done to me?

Therefore, I have posted a countdown calendar in my sidebar. Just glance over to the right and you will see it, plain as the bump on a concussed prince’s head, counting down the days until the big birthday. As you can surmise, it won’t be long before C.S. is no longer a young, smartass whippersnapper.

No, she will soon just be a plain old smartass.

Always listen to the SCE squirrel, and never turn a blogger into a duck. Or an accident-prone prince.