All a man needs out of life is a place to sit ‘n’ spit in the fire.

Category: Current Events (Page 8 of 9)

Stuff that’s pop-tastic, pop-o-licious, and currently playing on FoxNews

DTOP Schenanegans Part Dos

The whole mess of fraudulent fines is blowing up here now.  The local paper is featuring the story and outrage on the front page.  Through the article, I learned that I can go online and check my driver’s record to see just what fines I supposedly owe.  Okay, cool, I’ll at least be able to see what they have fabricated for my fine-paying pleasure.

THEY DON’T EVEN SHOW THE SAME AMOUNT.

Let me repeat that.  The hard copy printed letter on paper, that had to come from somewhere, that had to be generated from something by someone, doesn’t even match what they have in their own database – not even close.

I knew criminals were stupid.

Supposedly, I was driving through red lights hours away in Mayaguez a week after 9/11.  DTOP shows a fine for $30 and no license plate number.  So apparently I was jogging through red lights on the other side of the Puerto Rico with my special jogging sneakers and super powers.  Luckily I had my license so that they could indicate the proper fine for flying through red lights with an invisible car or something.

BAH!  So where does the $120 come from?  I think they just made it up, pulled a number from their collective ass, and called out –

Hah, schenanegans on me.  You kidders you.

Puerto Rico Defrauds its Citizens

I got a letter in the mail, addressed to me, from the DTOP (Departamento de Transportación y Obras Públicas, Dept of Transportation and Public Works).  Weird, I thought, this is weird indeed.  What could they possibly want with me?  I quote (my thoughts in parenthesis)

Esteemed James, (ooo, I’m esteemed, that’s good, huh?)

I have good news for you (oh my goodness, good news, let me read more).  You can save $48.00.  (wow, how?  more more more!) Currently, our system reflects that you have pending traffic fines totaling $120.00 (WHAT!?)

Take advantage of this offer.  You have from March 3rd to May 1st to receive a 40% discount, a savings of $48.00. You can get out of all your fines by paying only $72.00. (WTF?)

This offer is for a limited time and will not be repeated.  Don’t waste time or money. Visit your closest local collecting office and pay your invoice.  You only have to bring this letter. (They wish)

Pay now and save.  Don’t wait until it is tool late. (or WHAT?)

Gabriel D Alcaraz Emmanuelli (Crook)
Secretario de Transportación y Obras Públicas

Okay, it looks like it came from DTOP, on official stationary.  They are not asking for a mailed check.  They ask that you go to the official government collections office to pay.  The letter is legitimately from DTOP, but it reads like a bad CompUSA rebate offer.  It just sounds like fraud, fraud disguised as a great offer.  Couple that with the fact that I just re-registered my car a week ago (so I was clear a week ago) and have never ever ever been pulled over let alone ticketed.  This is just false.  And the letter does not provide a phone number or any information to report an error.  Okay, I think to myself, I’ll have to deal with this.  What a pain.

I am reminded of a corollary to Arthur C. Clark’s "Any
sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic" which
is "Any sufficiently advanced incompetence is indistinguishable from
malice."  I love that quote.

Then I find out that Laura’s father, mother, and brother also got the same letter.

Okay, so that’s how it going to be, huh, naked malice.  There is speculation that the cover story is going to be a computer glitch, that if you drag your sorry ass into the collections office, wait all day for a useless government functionary to see you, you may have your "fines" removed.  Otherwise, if your time/job is worth more than the extortion demand, then you’ll just pay it and move on with your life.

I also find it weird that amount of the "fine" is suspiciously close to
the median daily income of the average worker.  It’s like the dollar
figure is perfectly calculated to match the cost of missing a day of work.  It’s probably a close race for the majority of Puerto Ricans
today.  It’s just too perfect an amount for my "fines."  It’s too
perfectly crafted.  Too high, everybody fights, Government gets no
money.  Too low, and most everybody pays it resulting in an increase in
revenue, but a loss on how much they could have actually gotten.  The
tone of the letter makes me believe they are doing me a favor, going
out on a limb, and the amount is just about right for the average joe.

This is just sick, sick, sick.  I have never heard of such a thing, government run extortion, fraud.  I mean, usually they just stick to back room graft and mismanagement.  How often do governments just come right out and say, "pay us this money, and there won’t be any problems,"  except in Cameroon?

Any lawyers out there want to take up a case against the Department of Transportation in Puerto Rico and Gabriel D Alcaraz Emmanuelli, alleged mastermind of this fraud?

Leave Cheating Death to the Pros

Dear City of New York,

It has come to our attention that you have been considering changing the tone of your Thanksgiving Day Parade.  We note with interest the throngs of people cheating death by avoiding falling lamp posts.  We have been observing our annual running of the bulls (Festival de San Fermín) for hundreds of years and we view your attempt to copy us as pathetic and ill advised.  First, you don’t know how to do it right.  Second, our lawyers have a lot more experience with liability.  Besides people being mauled in the street was our idea first.

So, in closing, stop hitting handicapped women with lamposts hurled by renegade balloons and stop promoting your city as the best destination for those who wish to cheat death.

That’s our shtick.

Sincerely,
The City of Pamplona, Spain 

P.S. The irony of using the work "shtick" is not lost on us.

If We Pull Out Now, It Will Have Disastrous Consequences

How about not?  How about if we said that pulling out of Iraq wouldn’t have disastrous consequences – or put a different way: Why are we supposing that for us to get tired and pull out early would be the end of the western world as we know it?  Why are we playing that card?

So, let’s say I’m one of the terrorists.  What scenario would make me blissfully happy?  What scheme, plan, strategy spoon-fed to me by my adversary, allowing me to not tire my little mind with hard thoughts, or having to be book smart, or know geo-politics, foreign policy or even to have read Sun Tzu’s Art of War – would be like a gift from Allah?  What gift could be so great, so timely, so wonderfully selected just for me and my little comrades, ready made like a Pillsbury ready-bake biscuit roll… one of the ones that goes pop,  I love that – that I would fall on my knees in gratitude.

What little gift is the gift that keeps on giving?  A stupid enemy.

Why, tell me exactly what I have to do to win this thing.  "I say to you my comrades, look at them, they are tired, they are in-fighting, and they have told us that all we have to do is hold out for a little while longer, and we will have victory and their way of life will die dying dead like an infidel’s dead dying stinky dog that smells.  Straight from the camel’s mouth, they have said it.  To lose would be the worst possible thing.  Take heart, my brothers, we are close."

You see?!  All they have to do is re-double their efforts hang on a little longer and we are screwed. 

We – are – so – stupid, my teeth hurt.

So, what should we be doing?  What should we be saying?

Look, this is no big deal – we have already won.  The Iraqi people have already conquered the enemy.  They are marching toward prosperity.  We should be saying that victory is assured whether we pull out or not.  And if we do pull out soon, we will declare victory and go with pride having accomplished the mission.  Failure?  Not a chance, because we have already won.  Say it over and over and over and over again, until it sinks into that tiny stupid acorn-sized cell-bundle you call a brain.  Like any confederate flag waving KKK rally attending red-neck racist you fascist islamists don’t realize you lost the war.  It’s over.  It’s been over.  The world is moving on.  There is NO CHANCE of disaster striking.  No amount of car bombs, suicide bombs, shootings will change that.   You lost.  Even if we leave, you’ve still lost.

All you can do now is put your little Al Qaida bumper sticker on your little shit-hole pickup truck full of watermelons and drive your sorry ass on over to the Walmart to buy yourself some scented Christmas candles and a Coca Cola.

Why They Hate Us, Part II

Well, not that I’m happy or anything, but I was figuring that since the hurricane was going to rape and pillage the Yucatan Peninsula, I’d hear the stories of the folks that live there.  I thought I’d get to hear of their plight.  I was wrong… again.

I forgot about the "American" angle – *smacks head* tourists in Cancun.  Can we at least just hear about their waiters, maids, and hotel staff? hmmm? Is it too much to ask?  Did one of them trip over a beer can or something?  ANYTHING?!

Florida Keys Evacuated Again. Wilma Bears Down

Evacuated again?  Hmm, let me have a look.  Oh, will you look at that.  What a storm.  It’s bearing down on – hmm, what’s that tiny insignificant spot of land? – oh and that other one.  I thought the Florida Keys were small.  That looks too damn big to be the Keys.  Did CNN, MSNBC, and FOXNEWS get it wrong.  Perhaps I should write them that THE FUCKING YUCATAN PENINSULA AND CUBA ARE RIGHT SMACK IN THE PATH OF HURRICANE WILMA, THE BIGGEST DAMN HURRICANE TO COME ALONG SINCE, WELL, EVER!

You know what, I finally have a crystal clear vision of why the world hates us.  I mean I always kinda knew, but it’s never been quite so apparent. 

Don’t Count on the Sanguine

The other day, the head of only Home Grown Puerto Rican Terrorist GroupTM, the MacheterosTM
Filiberto Ojeda Rios was killed in a gun battle with the FBI.  He
had been convicted in absentia, casually sought for years, and finally
killed in his home in the western town of Hormigueros in Puerto
Rico.  His crime? – robbing a Wells Fargo armored car of $7
million to fund la revolución de la sagrada independencia, una
revolución santificada por el pueblo puertorriqueño, or so they tell me.

Ah,
but the sanguine have come ablaze, fiery rhetoric, tongues lashing,
beating their chests.  This man, this most blessed man died
fighting for what he believed in, the ideals of the pueblo, a popular
movement comprised of less than 10% of the population.  He died
defending his right to take what doesn’t belong to him, to fund a fight
that no one cares about.  And now that he’s dead, and out they
come, the student riots, the graffiti (FBI Asesinos!), the big big big
honking idiotic funeral, the flowers, the speeches, the wailing and
gnashing of teeth, the eulogies.  Filiberto stood for
something. 

"Um, what did he stand for?"

"The dignity and patriotism of the Puerto Rican."

"And the bling, don’t forget the bling."

"Pardon?" 

"$7 million buys a lot of bling.  I’m just sayin’."

"No,
he took that money to help take back what was rightfully ours, nuestra
patria, our land, our hearts, our independence, and to remove the
accursed blight of imperial America."

"And how’s that going for you?"

Bah,
I’m bored with this post.  The pueblo is already covering up the graffiti with posters for the upcoming Concierto con Carlos Vives.  I like Carlos Vives.  I’d call him the hardest working man in Latin Pop.   Ah, Carlos Vives.  The ladies think he’s cute too.  Carlos is the man.

Now, I just can’t bring myself to care for
long enough to write what I wanted to write.  Sigh.  It’s
irrelevant.  It’s folly.  Riverdance doesn’t hold my
attention, I don’t see why this should be any different. 

Check out CNN for more information.

WHY DIDN’T HE SAVE US?!

Dear God/Bush in Heaven save us from this awful torment.  We bow to your everlasting capacity and power to render unto us the bounty of your talents and treasures.

Okay, so that’s sarcasm.  I’ve been reading some blogs recently, and they all seem to be wailing and gnashing their teeth because Bush didn’t save the asses of the poor folks in New Orleans.  Now, I’m no fan of Bush as you know, but I can’t just sit idly by and listen to this drivel.

"Why didn’t he save us?!"

"Dear God, he’s abandoned us?"

"See, SEE?  How damned incompetent he is?"

Who do you think Bush is, your daddy?  Why give him that job title.  Nanny-in-chief.  Hail to the Protector. Who’s your daddy?  Why, Bush is your daddy.  Didn’t you know that?  I’m George "Rick James" Bush, Bitch!

Bah!  When will you people learn pick up what is left of your broken free-will and put it to use.  See somebody without water?  Go find some for them.  See someone without food?  Go seek it out for them.  Need to have a problem solved?  Solve a problem first. 

Look, we’re only going to get out of this alive if we pull together and act.  Don’t wait for the Man to come save your asses.  You’ve been living at his behest for too long, when will you stop giving your souls to him?

He doesn’t deserve your devotion or your wrath.  The two go together like peaches and cream.

Songs of my Youth

Yesterday was a weird day to say the least, an odd confluence of events that left me feeling nostalgic. 

I had been following the Michael Jackson trial with a combination of revulsion, sadness, and hope; revulsion because of how far he’s fallen, how weird and repulsive he has become, sadness for a broken man, broken lives, and an uncertain future, and hope that a beloved figure from my youth wouldn’t end up being a total lie.  

You see, I didn’t want Michael Jackson to be guilty.  I didn’t want that man who made such great songs throughout his life to be something so horrible as to make his entire life a lie.  I didn’t want my youth to be trashed.  He’s gotten weirder and weirder throughout his career, but it’s been in discrete steps.  I can deal with that.  Okay, between "Off the Wall" and "Thriller" he got a nose job.  That’s okay, I guess.  Between "Thriller" and "Bad" he became white.  Okay, nose job, white, maybe something else.  It’s weird, but okay.  And it went from there, little by little the man that was Michael Jackson became someone else… but slowly.

I still liked his music.  That was the one thing that remained constant.  It was always great stuff.

The accusations of pedophilia had been mounting throughout the 90’s, and I remember many a conversation with fellow Jackson fan and friend, John, "Do you think it’s true?"

"Nah, you see it’s – " And on we would go, justifying Michael’s behavior, weirdness, and a media and populace eager to tear down stars, thirsty for bloodsport only too common in our society of idol worship.

It reminded me of conversations that I had with friends in the latter half of the 70’s and on into the 80’s throughout the unrolling of George Lucas’s Star Wars. 

"Do you think Darth Vader is Luke’s father?" We would ask each other.

"Naw, man, no way.  Darth Vader is evil." And our eyes would go wide at the possibilities.  We would debate it for hours.  It consumed us as we waited what seemed an eternity for Return of the Jedi.  Three years is an eternity to a 10 year old. 

I guess in some ways yesterday was too bizarre for words.  I silently cheered that Michael Jackson was declared Not Guilty.  My heart beat in fear before the verdict was read, not for Michael Jackson, but for my youth, my ten year old self, for pureness, passion, and love.  If Michael was just another sick twisted bastard, what can a child believe in?  Are we all to become jaded, cynical, and empty at such a young age?  Is there any place for a child to find refuge in the pure and the clean? Does everything always have to soiled with the muck and sludge of our failures, our inadequacies?  Is there anything pure and noble left for which to strive?

Laura, Olaia and I watched Return of the Jedi last night.  Laura and I had finally gone to see Revenge of the Sith and afterward had undertaken the trek through the first three movies.  It was weird watching them again, blasts from the past.  Olaia watched them with us, full of questions about who was bad, why they were bad, who was good, why that guy was trying to kill that guy etc. 

So we were watching Return of the Jedi last night and Yoda was on his deathbed.  I looked over at Olaia and she was crying.  Tears were welling up in her eyes as Yoda lay dying.  "Daddy, why does Yoda have to die?"

"Because he is old, Olaia.  It’s okay, Yoda is going to be Luke’s guardian angel." She focused on that and seemed to be take heart.

When the movie was over, she came to me and gave me a hug.  "Daddy, I loved that we watched that movie together.  I really liked it."

"You are the sweetest little girl in the whole world.  I’m glad too."

And I basked in the warmth and glow of my daughter’s innocence, her pureness, her faith. 

I sit here reflecting on my own.  Maybe, just maybe I have retained a portion of my youth today, or if not real, at least I have plausible deniability, and I’m gonna go with that.

Peering into Dark Places

Why oh why is the world like this? I was listening to the bizarre
account of the two little girls who where stabbed in Illinois. The
suspect/culprit is the father of one of the two. How could it be? How
could a person become so enraged that they would kill their own child.
Obviously the answer is that this person is broken, a broken human,
aberrated and twisted by a lifetime of apathy, violence, and despair.

What
is it about our society that crafts these wackos? They are works of
beautiful twisted art, perfectly shaped from babes to fulfill their
seeming lifelong purpose to go out in a blaze of violence and
destruction.

Remember the runaway bride? It was so long ago
now, and I don’t give a crap what her name was, I don’t even remember much
about her particular case. It is lost to me lo these many days. What I
do remember of the incident was that I’m sure she was mad at somebody.
There was anger, displaced resentment against, I can only imagine, her
parents and their relentless pressure for her wedding to be perfect,
her husband to be perfect, for her to be perfect. She had been arrested
and convicted twice for shoplifting. Her family was wealthy,
upstanding, but they’d demoralized her, belittled her, drove her insane
with their control, her church’s control, her community’s control.
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" She acted out in the only way she didn’t know how.
She flailed and writhed to cause them pain in the way that gave her
control. I want to hurt them, she screamed to herself. She didn’t care
about consequences. She was not thinking. She just wanted to hurt them
because it was the only thing that she felt she could do.

Fight or flight. Let’s do both, shall we?

So
back to Zion, Illinois. Let’s paint a picture of this guy Mr. Hobbs and
his life. He was born into poverty, possibly lower middle class. His
parents struggled all their lives. Dad was an abusive type. He worked
long hours at a menial job. He resented his lot in life… these damn
kids, this damn job, and his meager life of anonymity. So he drank. The
alcohol helped him not care. When he’d smack his son around, he didn’t
feel a thing. Damn kids, clean up your goddamned room! Pick this shit
up! Your mother’s too soft on you. And he’d whack ’em, whack ’em good.
When he wasn’t hitting his kids he was just gone.

Sooner or
later, Jerry started getting into trouble in school. First he’d just
pick on those littler than himself. He was the classic troubled bully.
As he got older, he got into more and more trouble with the
authorities, both school and otherwise. He dropped out of school.

You
should be able to figure out the rest from here. When he got into a
dispute with anyone or anything, he lost it. He’d start lashing out
with whatever was handy. He didn’t care. His rage flooded his senses,
brought back his powerlessness. Somewhere deep down he remembered the
lessons of his father.

They are bringing it on themselves. Bitch doesn’t listen to me. She’s a fucked up bitch, telling me what to fucking do.

She
screams that she’ll kick him out, or she’ll leave him, or call the
police. She used that threat a lot. She used it like a blunt object.
I’ll call the fucking police, she screamed.  She doesn’t deserve to be
treated this way, she’d say.

Goddamnit… treat HER this way.
What about how you’re sucking the life out of me. You – you’re doing
this to ME, fuck you, bitch, I don’t give a fuck how you feel you
deserve to be treated. You’re a whore and bitch, and – and.

He
was cooling down in county lockup. He wasn’t so enraged now. The
bruises from his tussle with the cops who responded to the domestic
disturbance were starting to throb. Four of them had piled on. They
seemed to take pleasure is roughing him up. "Hit a woman, didcha, tough
guy. You’re a big fucking tough guy, hittin’ a woman. You hit kids
too?" He rubbed his shoulder where they’d wrenched his arm high up on
his back in a chicken wing. They’d clubbed him in the kidneys too.
Damn, that hurt. He couldn’t sit comfortably. Was he still mad? He
hurt, but he’d calmed down. It was out of his hands now. Remorse
started to creep in. Damn it, he didn’t mean to lose control. She was
just – doin’ it again. A twinge of rage lit off like a spark plug.

He
was sentenced to 18 months in state prison. This was the final straw.
The judge could see where this was going. This guy needed to know that
society was serious and that he’d done wrong. Justice decided that he
spend some time outside of the boundaries of society, an adult time
out, so to speak.

Jerry, fully intended to change his ways.
He thought about it every day. He wrote crudely spelled sentiments to
his wife. He loved her and looked forward to turning it around. He saw
all the good in his life. It was modest, but they had a little house, a
beautiful daughter, and he could always get some work. It’s not like
they needed much.

The day came that Jerry had waited for.
Here was his big chance to start over, to take control of his life and
live it. His wife accepted him with open arms. She’d fallen in love all
over again, mostly. Jerry, it seemed, was a new man with a new outlook.

Mother’s Day 2005

"Jerry,
don’t worry about it. It’s okay. It’s Mother’s Day. I don’t want to
fight about this. I’ll punish her tomorrow. Can’t we just have a
special day without yelling?"

"No, she took that money, she’s got to answer for it. I won’t have any daughter of mine growing up a thief."

"Look, can we just drop it?"

Little
Laura pranced out the front door with a nahnahnah to greet her friend
and scamper off to play. There it was again. His blood began to boil.
She’d sassed him. They’d all sassed him, made him feel powerless.,
revealed his impotence. Nahnahnah, there’s nothing you can do, you
stupid son-of-a-bitch with your limp dick and ugly face, they seemed to
say. His face twisted up almost unrecognizably and he charged out after
her. I’m going to drag her back to the house by her hair if I have to.
She’s not going to get away with this. I’m the man around here. She’s
the kid. She’s got to listen to me. He flew down onto the path where
the two girls were laughing and giggling. "Come here," he yelled.
"You’re going home."

"Mom, said I could go out," she retorted.

"I say you can’t, now get over here."

"I’m not coming and you can’t make me. Mom said I could stay out. Leave us alone." and the girls turned to leave.

First
he slapped her, then grabbed her hair and threw her down. Her friend
had a small pocket knife and stabbed at Jerry to protect her friend.
She didn’t know any better. She thought she was protecting her like on
TV. A knife?! raged Jerry’s mind. You’d try to stick me with a knife
you little bitch. What the fuck kind of parents do you have. And he
grabbed her wrist twisting it unnaturally. She yelped in pain as Jerry
snatched the knife and stabbed it back at her. Stick me, will you! He
slashed and slashed and slashed. His daughter’s horrified face looked
to him like contempt. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!! He silenced her
disdain. That’ll teach her.

As soon as it was over, the rage
left him and the weight of what he’d done came down. It was only a
matter of time, but he was strangely calm. It was all out of his hands
now. He was free.

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 El Gringoqueño

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑