Friday, April 29, 2011

Steven Crowder: Play it again, Sam

This has to be my favorite. Not that I've made a scientific study of his videos. I'm just shooting from the hip here.

So much talent. So much fluffy hair.

Monday, April 25, 2011

VIDEO: Would you share your GPA?'s different. That was the most common answer. Of course, no one could explain why.

When these students approached the top 10 percent of their university and asked them to share their "excessive GPA" like the federal government expects individuals earning over $200,000 to share their "excessive wealth", the students supported the "tax the wealthy" mentality while adamantly refusing to share their GPA.

What reason did they give for the double-standard?'s different.

How is it different? Because they were being asked to give, not receive. And they are right. From that angle, it really does look different.

Lean Forward. Until you Lean Over. And Fall.

This isn't the least bit important. I don't even watch this channel. And I only watch interview clips online when I can't watch paint drying. But these are just too bizarre.

Also, I need a second opinion. Does Rachel Maddow usually resemble a 12-year-old boy?

So here you go. MSNBC's new Lean Forward ads.

Visit for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Food is also a human necessity. What this country really needs is GroceryCare, a government-run grocery store where companies must purchase their employees milk and eggs. And Fritos. They're made from corn. And corn is a vegetable.

Visit for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

The Republicans would call Obama an "American" if he didn't view it as an insult.

Visit for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

A company IS all about the people. They call those people "customers". And when that company spends the money they earn, that company becomes another company's customer.

Tada! People.

Visit for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Uh, Rachel. Obama's the one who keeps lauding China. Who said America doesn't have greatness in it's future? Again. Obama. He's the one who tells us 10+ percent unemployment is the new norm, while brandishing pom poms about everyone living with less and sacrificing.

So on that instance we can agree. You really are wrong. And you really do look like a 12-year-old boy.

Thank you for watching. These Leaning Forward ads have been brought to you by your antagonists in the mainstream media and by director Spike Lee.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

It's Friday. But Sunday's Coming.

After watching this, my words fail. Only one response came to mind.

Then Job answered the LORD:
“I am unworthy—how can I reply to you?
I put my hand over my mouth.
I spoke once, but I have no answer—
twice, but I will say no more.”
Job 40:3-5

Friday, April 22, 2011

Would you like to dance?

When music is playing, you dance. Every time. No matter where you are. No matter what you are doing.

I remember thinking this as a toddler. No one told me that. My parents aren't even dancers. But this I simply knew in my heart. When there's music, it's time to celebrate.

My parents tell a story of a time when we were in a restaurant. I was about 18-months old. Who knew I had such notions in my head until someone put a quarter in the jukebox. That's when I stood in the seat and did what I thought everyone was suppose to be doing - a hip-swaying, arms pumping jig.

"You even did it to the beat," Mom says.

A woman came up to my parents, after seeing my impromptu talent show, and asked them, "How did you teach her to do that?" My mom responded, "We didn't."

And so the entertainment ensued. When we'd have company over, my parents would tell everyone to "watch this" before flipping on the radio. That's when I'd put down my toys, stand up, do my thing, and return to my dolls when the music ended.

Yeah. Hilarious. I guess. At least the adults thought so.

Life has a way of sucking the dance right out of you, it seems. When music is playing, I don't always feel a need to get my groove on anymore. Not that I don't. Just not always.

Anyone who grins 24/7 is doing it as a facial-muscle workout. Not from sheer bliss. Besides, smiling that much kind of hurts. And sometimes smiling just isn't going to happen. Not a real one, anyway.

That's life, I suppose. One part beautiful. Another part devastating. Instead of laughing one minute and crying the next, we tend to find an indifferent middle ground and live there.

Whether we always "feel" it or not, however, there really is always something to dance about. When music is playing. Every time. No matter where you are. No matter what you are doing.

That something is a Savior who gave us His life. Defeated death. And reclaimed His life again. All for us, all so that we can conquer death, as well.

A church in Houston, Texas thought this news was worth a jig.

The church was inspired by last year's Resurrection Sunday dance in Budapest, Hungry. Another dance is scheduled to happen worldwide this Sunday. To learn more, you can visit

Here's their debut.

Now if you'll excuse me, the music is playing and a Jewish man has claimed this next dance.

Steven Crowder: It's so not funny

My favorite jokes are ones that mock the helpless, the disabled, and the weak. Freakin' hilarious.

When did having differing political views mean the innocent and defenseless can be targeted? God help our loss of humanity.

Crowder takes these comediennes to task for their rude, bully, and evil ideas of humor. I use the word "comedienne" as a joke.

UPDATE: Greg Gutfield at Fox adds his worthy two-cents.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Chester and the Infinite Coolness

He reminded me of a Cheeto. Not by leaving layers of FDC Yellow No. 6 on your fingers. It was his fur. His golden fleece. And his charisma. Cheetos have incredible charisma.
Mostly, however, it was his resemblance to the Cheetos mascot. If Chester could have found a pair of shades that flattered his face, he would have worn them.

That's why I gave him that name. A name no one else liked. But Chester liked it so it stuck.

What Chester did well was be a cat. An excessively cool cat. He lived in the country with my parents and owned every rodent in a two-mile radius. If you wanted to survive as a rat in his neighborhood, first you made good with Chester.

He came from a humble beginning. Very humble. In actuality, he came from a pothole. That's where my brother found him during his formative kitten years. He had fallen into a pothole in a parking lot and clawed his way out. Or would have if he'd been taller than the pothole.

Because of his spunk and tenacity, and because my brother loves all creatures great and small, Chester was rescued and taken to animal heaven, which equates to living with my mother and her bountiful love, hot milk, soft quilts, and table scraps.

Mom bottle fed Chester four times a day until he finally put up his paw and said, "You're too gracious. I love ya babe. You're adorable. Now how about that bowl you promised."

Once he entered the solid food stage, Chester had hit the big time. He went from soft chewables eaten in the garage to live rodents captured in the barn. He had plans. Big plans. Everyone feared and adored him. Eventually, he hoped to open a gaming casino for infestation. He told me once, "Kid, do you have any idea how lonely these crickets get out here every night? Not to mention the beetles, bees, and Box Elder Bugs. I'm tellin' ya. Untapped money train. Untapped."

Although he didn't live to see his 24th-birthday in cat years, Chester called everyone "Kid". You got use to it.

In the summers, he was a man about the acreage. If anyone was in the garden planting vegetables, he'd help out with a little light digging. If you were relaxing in the shade, he'd jump in your lap because he knew, deep down, even though you hadn't asked, you wanted him there.

He could read people like that.

And, when things became humdrum, he'd stand up, smack his paws together to rid them of dust, and put on a one-cat show.

"Okay, okay. Stop beggin'," he'd say. "I'll chase a bug. Okay? Geez. The things I do to entertain you people."

Chester never left you wanting for affection, attention, or money. His loans had very competitive interest rates.

"You keep the cash, Kid. But next time I have an itch behind my ear, you're there. You got me?" All you could do was nod in acceptance. "Good. Real good. Now, see that fur I rubbed on your pant leg? That's a bonus. That's for you." Then he'd wink and saunter off on one clandestine mission or another.

No one knew what Chester was always doing, though rumors were often wild. One feline said he was in the woods training a stray cat cabal. Another refused to go on record but hinted at "an organized litter".
The cows, however, said he was a true statesmen and had been working feverishly on funding for a border fence. If denied, he'd promised to declare war on the coyotes. But then, other than complaining about wanting more alfalfa grass, the cows were always mooing about the fence.

Mostly, however, Chester loved Mom. Her's was the leg he'd rub against most. Or, if she was out in the garden, he'd surprise her by jumping on her shoulder and patting the top of her head.

"She likes it," he'd say, when one of us would ask why. "Who doesn't like to be petted?"

It's hard to define a guy like that. Few leave such an indelible mark. Especially with fur. But Chester achieved it. He loved to be around the action, to listen in, to add his two cents, and then to head into the horizon for another day of claiming his territory.

He loved to love and be loved. And his downy fur and bunny soft belly meant no one could deny him a scratch and a rub. You could try. But then he'd cock his eyebrow and with a jaunty, "Really? Resistance? I think not," you'd give in. And the rest of the evening would be spent dabbing masking tape all over your clothes to remove the hair.

I'm not much of a cat person, really. I'm a dog person. A German Shepherd dog person, to be exact. But I've never met a cat, or rarely an animal, with as much fearless sass and personality as Chester. His untimely death yesterday has been a great tragedy for us.

So this is for you, buddy. As silly as it may be, it'll be awhile before your absence isn't heart-wrenching. The farm isn't the same without you. Even the insects seem sad not to be chased and eaten.

You were a truly benevolent creature, a spirit that warmed everyone around him, an animal with a huge heart that was so often a balm to my own. You didn't live long. But you lived big.

Here's looking at you Kid.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Real Storm Chasers love Jesus

Nothing to get excited about. It's just a little debris from the passing tornado.

A reporter asked Steven Hoag how he stayed so calm. He answered, "I was a Marine and I love Jesus."

Oh, yeah. That's my kind of man.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Quote Them: Taxes are benevolent

“There’s nothing serious about a plan that claims to reduce the deficit by spending a trillion dollars on tax cuts for millionaires and billionaires."

commenting on Rep. Paul Ryan's Plan for Prosperity during his speech today

How can you spend money on tax cuts when the money the taxes are taking doesn't belong to you? Anyone else wonder if Obama spends a lot of time hanging upside down?

Here is Ryan's succinct and blunt response.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Four More Years

Another term?

No thank you.

I don't want the man as President. I don't want the man in any position where his authority can affect my life, the lives of the people I care about, the lives of people I don't care about, the lives of people I dislike, the lives of people I haven't met yet so I don't know if I like them or not.

No thank you.

I don't want the man as President. I would't even want the man as a department store manager where I only worked part-time.