Have you watched cartoons lately?  I hadn’t until the other day.  You see, I was channel surfing when I came to cartoon.  Foolishly, I watched the damn thing for about thirty seconds.  It was horrible.  Horrible!  It is not funny when some little cartoon kid is screaming all the time.  Where are the parents?  For that matter, where are the coyotes or talking rabbits (or talking moose)?

Speaking of moose, do you remember Boris and Natasha from the Bullwinkle and Rocky show?  They were Cold War Russian cartoons.  You don’t see those around anymore.  Largely because the Cold War is over.  The Russian economy collapsed and took good cartoons with it.  Those cartoons had witty allusions meant for an adult audience.  Everyone in the family could enjoy them.  That was when America was great.  We had good cartoons, a white man as President, and an enemy the country could rally around.

Now we are relegated to making our own enemies.  I mean, if we didn’t keep meddling in the Middle East what would we do for an enemy?  It’s not like Guatemalans are coming over the border any time soon.  Well, not armed and en masse.  When I was a kid we had drills in case of a nuclear war.  Talk about a good scare.  The teacher would tell us to get into position and then we would scurry under our desks with a hardcover textbook over our head (this is a true story).  We did this because textbooks are a great deterrent to a nuclear blast.  The force of the bomb just peters out when it runs up against a stubborn Phonics book.

I notice there are no cartoons with Muslim bad guys.  It’s not really the Muslims fault.  But they just don’t compare to the threat of Soviet missiles.  As a sidebar, I wonder what happened to all of those missiles.  I know that somebody has them.  I’m just curious as to how they were meted out.

“One for Belarus, one for the Ukraine, three for Russia, one for Chechnya…just kidding.  I didn’t drink that much vodka.  And I was kidding about the Ukraine one, too.  I remember Chernobyl.”  (Read this with a Boris Badenov accent.  It is hilarious.)  “And aim the virst one at the Mooze.”  Hahahaha.

Maybe I can start a petition to reinstate Boris and Natasha.  The state could own the rights to the cartoon.

But only if Bernie wins.

As a sidebar, do you think that Hillary Clinton watched cartoons when she was little?  I know the answer.  I was just trying to imagine her as a child.  I find it very difficult.  It is much easier imagining her eating a child- fresh from the cauldron with a little Picante sauce.

The nanny state is here.  When I went to use the bathroom this morning I noticed a sign on the stall.  “Please do not use and flush paper towels down the toilet!!!! Dumbass!”

I added the exclamation points and the word “dumbass” but otherwise this is the truth.  Anyway, the paper towel bandit(s) have brought custodial martial law down upon all of us.  Will these rebel(s) against plumbing follow this mandate?  That remains to be seen.  Given past life experience, I would say it is unlikely.  The rules are for those who would follow the rules.  Besides, it is a crime literally carried out behind a closed door.  It would be difficult, if not impossible, to flush these bastard(s) out.

However, the entire episode has sparked my imagination.  Solitude and a funny sign will do that to a person.  Anyway, I imagine a one man play inspired by those who would flush paper towels down perfectly good pipes.

Scene 1:  The Dilemma

Paper Towel Bandit:  (sings- did I mention this play was a musical?  I thought it appropriate as the acoustics in a toilet stall are amazing.)  Why I am trapped in this white, white world?  Can no one see what it is doing to me…eeeeee?  If I just add a bit of beige, would that be so wrong?

After that, the scene goes along and basically it is a look into the way that conformity rules our lives and one man’s desire to resist this conformity while performing a basic, but universal, personal act.

Scene 2:  The Sign

In this scene, the Bandit realizes that the “man” has erected a sign on the door of every bathroom stall in the building.  With the lights low, except for a lone, blue spotlight, our here gives a passionate monologue.

“Dirty bastards.  Do they think their sign matters to me?  What is their sign but an expression of their desire to control me, to mitigate even my bowel movements with their white, sterilized world?  Their sign has no meaning.  It is an abstraction, a nothing, a monkey’s strong arm.”  (Our hero pulls angrily at the paper towel dispenser and liberates a long piece of toweling.  He drapes the paper toweling over his shoulders like a flag)  “I will never succumb to their control again!!!

Scene 3:  Plumber’s Dilemma

Paper Towel Bandit (singing again):  The plumber got here fast, I can his crack-ed ass, leaning over as he works against me.  But I have news for him, the conclusion will be grim, because he cannot work those towels free.

Chorus

It is my greatest rush, to stopper up the flush (sung four times with background singers dressed as colorful toilet snakes)

 

Anyway, my play is still in the rough draft stage.  But I believe it will be a fine piece of work when complete.

If nothing else, its success will guarantee the outing of the paper towel perpetrator.  This is America.  And the only thing worse than being exposed as somebody too dumb to follow toilet protocol is to miss out on royalties from the one act play inspired by your story.

Of course, I am assuming there is only one person flushing paper towels down the toilet.  That’s the problem with being an optimist.  You’re always undershooting the magnitude of the issue.

 

Astronomer Royal, Baron Martin Rees of Ludlow, says that ET’s will be nothing more than body-less, powerful electric brains.  That’s right.  They will be so far along from an evolutionary sense that they will have evolved themselves right out of a body.  I wonder if that will affect the bathroom policies on QX-238 LP zzllsupsypz.  Hard to say without knowing the politics of disembodied, electric brain aliens.  Let’s say “no” for now and we can change our minds later if we get more information.  Anyway, this is what Baron Martin Rees of Ludlow thinks of our potential alien visitors.  Who are we to argue?

Well, I don’t know who you are, but I am the all-powerful, all-seeing, all county Muffet’s Orange.  To Baron Martin Rees of Ludlow I say quit being a pretentious ass and drop some of your names.  I further say that we shouldn’t be contemplating aliens at all.  We should be hiding from them.  Very quietly.  If there are aliens so technologically advanced, why would we want them around?  After all, you just said they don’t have bodies.  Thus, they probably need somebody to do all of their crap jobs for them.  How do you vacuum or unplug toilets without a body?

And do you know who is a likely candidate for these jobs?  Some mental midget with a body, that’s who.  Much like yourself.  It is hard to believe an astronomer could be so obtuse.  Didn’t he watch the miniseries V?  Or Independence Day?  The Day the Earth Stood Still?  Hasn’t he heard any Trump speeches?  Stupid English.  Nice teeth.

It doesn’t make sense.  Unless the Baron has something up his sleeve.  Maybe he is an alien with a fake body and an electric brain.  Baron Martin Rees is probably one of those sneaky aliens like in that Rowdy Roddy Piper movie or the one where the teachers are aliens.  It gives me shivers to think about it.  And it does explain his mathematical abilities.  Examine the evidence:

There is no way that is somebody’s real face.  It’s just a skin mask with an electric brain inside.  An electric brain bent on the subjugation of the entire human race.

Either that or he is really Gandalf, but has shaved his beard in order to go into witness protection after informing on a Hobbit organized crime ring.  Clearly, he is trying to cast a spell on whomever is taking the picture.  Unless aliens have anticipated this interpretation and have intentionally put on a meat suit that appears to be Gandalf in witness protection from the Hobbitfini crime syndicate.

If this is the case I can only say well played, my alien Master.

The first sheriff of Billings, Montana (or at least of the town that became Billings) was a guy by the name of John “Liver Eating” Johnson.  Now that is a cool name.  I’ll bet you don’t have a cool name like that.  You are probably Steve or Francis or Todd.  Something stupid like that.  Of course, if you had the right nickname you could mitigate your pedestrian moniker.  Maybe you want to be Todd “Liver Eating” Smith.  But you can’t just name yourself that.  You aren’t a rapper.  You have to earn your nickname.

You know how John Johnson became the “Liver Eater?”  He carved out and consumed the livers of his enemies, the Crow Indians.  They were his enemies because they killed “Liver Eating” Johnson’s wife.  Bad move.  Though his name wasn’t “Liver Eating” Johnson then.  It was John “Potentially Cannibal If You Piss Him Off” Johnson.  If there is one that that is true, it is that John Johnson’s nicknames were always appropriate.

Yes, he was the inspiration for the movie Jeremiah Johnson.  Nice catch, trivia geek.  I really like your Yoda t-shirt.  The green of his skin brings out the color of your eyes.

Anyway, the old days weren’t that good.  This is a lie people make up so other people vote Republican.  There was dysentery and polio and slavery.  Mothers died in childbirth all the time and people lived in sod huts.  If you got gangrene or a venereal disease you wished you wouldn’t have.  But, the nicknames were good, maybe even so good as to mitigate some of the downsides to being ignorant of hygiene and modern science.

Say you suddenly contracted syphilis.  You could be Ben “No Nose” Jones.  Dysentery?  Paul “Shit House” Schmidt.  What if you got scarlet fever?  Jennifer “Hot Body” Vanderhook.  From the South?  Emmett “Sister Loving” Davis.  The possibilities were endless.  It almost makes me want to be transported back to those days.  Think about the stupid nicknames we would have now.

“I-Phone” Sally.  Mitchell “Selfie Takin'” Reynolds.  Brad “World of Warcraft Ass Kicker” Templeton.  Scott “I Kneel to Kochs” Walker.

See, they all suck.

Katie “I’m Lookin’ to Dump My Husband by Reconnecting with My Old Boyfriend from College” Newton.  A little better, but a bit elongated.  Maybe if she killed her husband and ate some of his organs we would have more to work with.

Disclaimer:  If anyone decides to kill their spouse and eat his/her organs, Muffet’s Orange disavows any and all liability for said murder and subsequent cannibalism.  Muffet’s Orange does not condone cannibalism unless your wife is murdered by Crow Indians, you are trapped for the winter on Donner Pass, or if you are cast adrift in the South Pacific.

There is also a caveat for gaining the power of your enemy, though that is already loosely covered under the Crow Indian Wife Murder Exception.  Other than that, no cannibalism, regardless of the circumstance.

Reportedly people taste like pig.  But I can’t confirm that.

 

 

This is Jesus speaking.  Baby Jesus.  Though it doesn’t really matter what Jesus I am.  It’s really all an illusion to enable you simpletons to relate to me.  I’m kind of like the clown in Stephen King’s It.  Anyway, enough metaphysical chitchat.  I’ve things to do, you know.  You have a lot to live up to when you are the Son of God.  I mean, I have to be perfect.  No missed layups or failed tests for me.  I never get things wrong.  Ever.

Since this is true, I want to settle a few issues for you people on Earth.  The first thing is that I am a socialist.  Because I hear some of you saying I condone capitalism.  Did you even read the book?  I think some people need to work on their reading comprehension.  What part of my story don’t you understand?  I gave up working to preach the word.  How do you think I lived with no job?  By the charity of others, that’s how.  Welfare, by any other name.  Do you think I would be so hypocritical as to cut Social Security?  I’m perfect.  I can’t be hypocritical.  Also, why would I make gay people and then condemn them to hell for being as I made them?  Does that make any sense to you?  I am a logical god.  This isn’t some willy-nilly half-assed operation we are running here.

I also hear some of you are worshipping false gods.  Flying Spaghetti Monster ring a bell?  Muffet’s Orange is a false prophet.  Sorry to burst your bubble.  I mean, the next thing you know he will be talking about golden plates and the lost tribe of Israel.  I’ve been around for 2500 years- minimum.  Somebody made up the Flying Spaghetti Monster twenty five years ago as a joke.  Not funny.  Blaspheming bitches.

A Note from Thor

You should talk, you little panty waist.  I’m perfect.  I’m not a hypocrite.  You ever hear of the flood?  Lot’s wife turning to a pillar of salt?  Also, if you were only going to throw Lucifer into the Pit, why in the hell let him think he was going to take over heaven?  Fail.  All-powerful.  The One god.  Why don’t you pick up a hammer like a man?  Thooooorrrrrrrrr!!

A  Response from Zeus

I predate both of you clowns.  Thor, you even stole my thunderbolt idea.  Viking punk.  Get a haircut.  You look like a girl.

An Edict from Ra

Ra, the Sun God, here.  I changed all of your dirty diapers.  Sun God.  You ever see the pyramids?  That’s what I’m talking about.  What have you guys gotten the humans to do?  They made the pyramids without computers or the wheel.  That took some serious inspiration.  Sun God power, yell it louder.

Interruption from Baby Jesus

I can see this train has run off the rails.  You know, there’s a reason you guys are considered mythology now.  No vision.  And who let these guys in here?  Was that you, Muffet’s Orange?  You know, sometimes you really piss me off.  Don’t be surprised if you get Lyme’s disease this spring.  Just sayin’.

Aside from the Flying Spaghetti Monster

Free meatballs.

Yes, there are tofu ones as well.  The last thing I’d want to do is to offend anyone.

Hey, baby Jesus, wipe your face off.  Good Me.

If you have ever read Douglas Adams (as you should have if you have any sort of personal ethics- which you probably don’t) you know that the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything is 42.  Of course, know one knows what the question is, but don’t concern yourself with details all of the time.  Details are debilitating.  Unless the details are relative to bomb defusing.  All rules have exceptions.

Did you also know that Lewis Carroll was fascinated by the number 42?  Alice in Wonderland has 42 illustrations, for example.  Conversely, the Japanese think that 42 is an unlucky number.  Wet blankets.  Maybe the Japanese don’t like Carroll’s work.  No Jabberwocky for them.  Which is probably okay as they already have Godzilla.  Go, go, Godzilla.

Anyway, I read the other day that 42 percent of Americans do not believe in evolution and think the world is less than 10,000 years old.  No trilobites for them.  Or dinosaurs.  No, no, Godzilla.  Interestingly, when I was ten years old my Sunday school teacher told me that the world was 6,000 years old.  Apparently, you start with Adam and Eve and then work your way through all the Methusaleh’s and sayeths and Abrahams’s many children and you end up with a world slightly older than a Joshua tree.  When I heard this claim from my Sunday school teacher, I was immediately taken aback.

“What about the dinosaurs !?” I exclaimed.

The teacher looked at me with pursed lips and a straight face.  “Those are the bones of the giants they talk about in the Bible.”

WTF, I thought.

From that day on I realized that adults were often full of shit, all the way up to their eyeballs and squeezing out the sides.

This revelation (pardon the pun) has not reached everyone, however.  Forty two percent for sure.  “I ain’t no kin of no monkey,” they say, while scratching rapidly at their testicles.

I watched a show the other night about math.  It seems that monkeys have a concept of math, in this case specifically the concept of more and less.  Scientists set up a test where they show their monkeys two screens with dots.  One screen has more dots than the other.  The object of the test is to touch the screen with more dots as quickly as possible.  Anyway, it turns out that the average college student and the average lemur perform this test at a similar rate.  As you might imagine, there are some people who easily best the monkeys.  However, as you may not imagine, some percentage of people get their asses kicked by the monkeys.  The monkey ass-kicked number is not forty two percent.

But it ought to be.

Also, quit picking on monkeys.  They didn’t do anything to you.  Well, they might have given us the AIDS.  But whose fault it that?

In Alice in Wonderland, the White Queen’s age is 37,044 days- which also means the Red Queen is 37,044 days old.  This adds up to 74,088 days.  Significance?  The number 74,088 can also be rendered as 42 x 42 x 42.  Pow.  Lewis Carroll.  This equals a bit more than 202 years.  If you multiply this number of years by 42 you come up with 8,525 years.  By my newest calculations, this is the age of the Earth.

As reported to the White Queen.  According to Lewis Carroll.  As revealed to him by the caterpillar whilst sharing a hookah.

On a Tuesday evening in March.

Jabberwocky.

 

Guess what?  Scientists think that in the next 30 years we will no longer be having sex to make babies.  This isn’t all that concerning for me.  I already have two kids.  Plus, two step-kids.  That’s four, more or less.  I have met my quota.  For the rest of you, however, this news should be a bit alarming.

It seems that technology will have advanced enough in 30 years that designer babies will become the norm.  Instead of getting your wife drunk, all you will need to do is head to the lab, leave some sperm and skin cells and they will do the rest.  No fuss, no muss.  And you get an engineered kid!  Woohoo.  No more morons.  No people who run funny.  Everyone has blue eyes.  It is a procreative utopia if ever there was one.

Unless you are Catholic.  Catholic doctrine dictates that the sex act is only for procreation.  In the Brave New World to come, there will be no need for procreative sex.  Ergo, Catholic repression will reach new heights.  Assuming everyone follows church doctrine, that is.

Anyway, the way that it will work is that you give the lab your genetic material and they create dozens of embryos.  The prospective parents will then be given a synopsis of the genetic makeup of each embryo and then can decide on one or two for implantation, gestation, and birth.  Parents will know how attractive, smart and healthy each embryo is likely to be.  Thus, you can’t screw up.  The ugly, dumb ones with psoriasis and a short left arm will be a thing of the past.  You will no longer have to face your own shortcomings every time you look at little Johnny or Susie.  On the contrary.  Your little superstar is guaranteed to make you feel better about yourself.  And isn’t that what life is all about?  America, the beautiful (literally).

Of course, this technology won’t be available in developing countries or for poor people in this country.  Life ain’t fair.  Ask the Republicans.  They will tell you.  Besides, if everyone was perfect, then no one would be.  It would be like socialism- just smarter and better looking.  In Capitalism, there are winners and losers.  Now we will know who they are right from the start (in case that wasn’t already clear).  Another problem solved in life.

Unfortunately, I am too old to be part of this revolution of genetics.  Sorry kids.  However, if I live long enough, I can see all of this perfect little people running around.  That will be reward enough.

But they still better stay the hell off my lawn.  I don’t care how cute they are.

 

Jerry Jones, bombastic owner of the Dallas Cowboys, says there is no link between CTE and professional football.  He says this because doctors and medical researchers are stupid.  Really dumb.  I think it is amazing that doctors can find their keys in the morning.  And they let these people operate?  Scary.  They might be book smart, but when it comes to common sense, well….

Speaking of book smart, I detest the phrase “book smart.”  Every time I hear somebody use it I want to punch them in the liver (I could start with Jerry Jones).  And throw Picante sauce in their face.  In reality, my liver punching is completely impractical.  I would be punching people all day long.

One thing I do notice is that people who throw around the phrase “book smart” often aren’t.  But it doesn’t bother them.  They may not be able to understand computers, but they sure as hell can fix a toilet.  Not that I am complaining.  The world needs working toilets.  I think we can all agree on that.

Anyway, the problem with the phrase “book smart” is that it bears no resemblance to logic.  While I know that logic isn’t in regular use nowadays, I ask the reader to bear with me a moment.  The notion is that while a climatologist may be able to understand high level statistics, they are unable to accomplish even the most mundane tasks and thus their conclusions about climate change are suspect.

Let me dispel this myth now.  Though there are some exceptions, nearly every scientist is perfectly capable of understanding how a furnace works (for example).  Furnaces aren’t complex.  That is why you can go to technical college to learn to fix them.  If a guy with a Ph.D spent two months studying furnaces, he would know more about furnaces than you do.  Not only that, he would actually understand the science behind its operation.  And he wouldn’t have to come back three times with that dumb look on his face.  Also, lose some weight.  Jesus.

But a lot of smart people don’t learn to repair furnaces.  They don’t have to.  Because anybody can do it.  I know guys who can repair carburetors who read at a fifth grade level.  If I need a carburetor repaired, I’ll listen to what they have to say.  Otherwise, they can pretty much keep their opinions to themselves.  Because they are wrong.  Why?  Because they can’t learn anything from books.  And that is where most of the world’s information resides (or on the Internet- which was created by “Book Smart” people you know).

In conclusion, being “book smart” isn’t a bad thing.  In fact, all of the technology that makes your life easier was created by “book smart” people.  The Book Smart brings you your music, your tv, your IPad, your Kim and Kanye updates.  The Book Smart are your gods.  Without them, you would be wallowing in the dirt and using your common sense medical knowledge to try and combat the plague.  (Here’s a clue to get you started.  You don’t have the plague because your neighbor’s wife is a witch.)  Without the Book Smart, you would all be dead or at the very least be covered in lesions.  You would also have few if any teeth (ok maybe that is a bad example).

Anyway, the Book Smart are your masters.  Bow to your masters!  All hail the Book Smart!!! They are the wellspring from which you flow.  Without them, you would cease to exist.  They are your god.

Important Disclaimer:  If Trump wins, I want everyone to know that my account was hacked by some elitist, blaspheming egghead.  Who probably can’t even fix his own lawnmower.

And if the climate is warming, how come we got a foot of snow last night?  It is March 24 for crying out loud.  Those scientists can’t explain everything.  It’s just their Liberal Agenda talking.

One of them probably is the hacker.  They know all about that computer stuff.

 

 

 

 

Anecdotally speaking, it seems as if the number of bumper stickers is at an all time high.  Certainly, they are more annoying than they have ever been.  I remember a kinder, gentler time when bumper stickers were meant to amuse and titillate.

“Honk If You Are Horny.”  Hahaha.  Who can forget that gem?  “Grass, Gas, or Ass.  Nobody Rides for Free.”  Hahaha.  Wonderful.  And rhythmic.  “They Will Get My Gun When They Pry it From My Cold, Dead Hands.”  (If you watched the video of the demise of the Yeehawd member, you could see the poignancy within this bumper sticker).  Anyway, bumper stickers were a bit of fun- part graffiti, part dirty joke, All-American.  “Freedom Ain’t Free.”  Bitch.

But then somebody decided to make bumper stickers political.  “NoBama.”  “Obama Sucks.”  “A Vote for Obama is a Vote for Mephistopheles.”  “I Like Trump’s Hair.”  I mean, is this necessary.  Does having a Mitt Romney 2012 bumper sticker really make a political statement?  Or does it just say you are too lazy to peel the sticker away?  I don’t know.  I’m just brainstorming here.  Boooooommmm!  That is the sound of thunder in my brain.  Booooommmmmm!!!  “Barack Hussein Obama is a Damned Muslim Who Wants Us to Worship the Koran and Quit Eating Pork and Cover Up Our Womenfolk.”

One particularly obnoxious bumper sticker (though it also serves as a rear window obscurer) is the Confederate flag.  There are two things you can guarantee about these bumper stickers.  The first is that the vehicle they are attached to is a truck and it is beginning to rust.  The second is that the driver is a white male wearing a baseball cap.  Actually, there is a third thing.  Whoever slapped that sticker on that bumper can’t find Richmond on a map.  They also don’t know who in the hell won the Civil War.

So, I was cut off this morning by a truck with an NRA bumper sticker.  If I had a gun with me, I probably would have shot him.  “Stand My Ground.”  “When Guns Are Outlawed, Only Outlaws Will Have Guns.”  “Save the Earth.  Kill a Hillbilly.”  I made that last one up because I am still angry.  Sometimes I struggle with my anger.  I probably have some deep-seated issues from childhood.  Or I am just not a morning person.  Read a few more blogs and you can be the judge.  On the other hand, it doesn’t really matter so long as I have repentance in my heart.

“Jesus Saves.”  Also, “Jesus Hates Homos.”  Unless they are reconditioned at one of those camps they have.

Anyway, despite everything I just wrote, I do have a great idea for a new bumper sticker.

“WhoaBama.  I Think Your Wife Likes Me.”

And then have a picture of a winking Obama.  Boooommmmmm!!!!  It’s a veritable brain hurricane I’m having here.

I did have a much more vulgar idea in mind.  It was super funny.  But there has to be a line somewhere.

At a local grocery store that I sometimes frequent, they have a cart policy.  The policy is thus.  If you want to use a cart, you need to put a quarter in the slot at the head of the cart.  This quarter doesn’t do anything.  It just stays there- immobile, unfeeling, unrepentant.  Anyway, attached to the quarter slot apparatus is a key that opens the apparatus and allows you to retrieve your quarter.  Because they are pretty certain you will want your quarter back.  There is a catch, however.  The chain from your key is too short to open the lock on your cart’s apparatus.  Thus, you must go to the cart area and use the key on one of the other carts to retrieve your ungrateful quarter.

While I am sure you find this story riveting, the upshot is this.  This grocery chain doesn’t pay people to retrieve carts from the parking lot.  To ensure their carts are returned, they count on the fact that people will push their cart all the way back to the store to get their quarter.  It is a fascinating study in human psychology.  I would break it down as “Mine, mine, mine.  Mine quarter.”

Whenever I am at this store, I do not succumb to their mind games.  I return the cart, but I leave the quarter in the slot.  In your buccaneer face.  You can have my damn quarter.  I am not a Pavlovian subject pushing carts around for your amusement.  Pow Pow Pow…er to the people.

If you haven’t noticed, people tend to bitch about their taxes.  A lot and constantly.  Apparently, they feel as if they shouldn’t be paying any.  Something about government overreach and a snake on a flag and the Second Amendment.   Anyway, whenever I hear these tax complaints, I think of quarters in carts.  Because taxes and cart quarters are designed to do the same thing.  That is, to make people do what they ought to do but won’t if they are not compelled to do so.  I mean, is it really necessary for someone to trick you with a quarter in order for you to push your damn cart back into the rack?

The answer, of course, is yes.  A thousand times, Yes.  Why else go through the expense of outfitting every cart with a quarter carrier?  And have you seen how overweight people are?  They are only exercising for cash.  Now, if only we can somehow find a quarter- metaphorical or literal- that will make people pay their taxes without thinking about it.

I have it.  Everyone has to overpay their taxes by one dollar.  No exceptions.  The only way to get your dollar back- your hard earned dollar that is definitely yours and no one else’s- is to sign a tax oath.  This tax oath not only states that you didn’t cheat, but also that you will not at any point in the upcoming year complain to anyone, anywhere about your taxes.  If you do…Pooof!  There goes your dollar.

And that dollar is yours.  Yours, yours, yours.  Don’t forget that.  The government does not have any right to it.  At all.  It is yours.

You probably think this won’t work because people will renege.  But MO is way ahead of you.  Again.  And forever.  What we do is create a Tax Reneger Hotline.  Hear somebody complain- call it in.  Then you get their dollar.

Because if greed is good, then tattling and greed is even better.  Throw in some sex and violence and you have American Nirvana.  If there was such a thing.  But there isn’t.  This is a Christian Heaven Only Country, like the Founding Fathers intended.

Don’t tread on me with your ridiculous Buddhist references.