The Best Bargain in America

Current mood:  gloomy
Category: Life

For some time I’ve wanted to tell you about the best bargain in America: XM Radio. Since having it installed in the car, I haven’t had to listen to a single moronic car commercial from a single car hawking moron on local radio stations.



XM is chock full of fun stuff. As a stand-up comic once said about internet porn, “there is almost too much of it now. Almost.” There are almost too many channels on XM. I listen in my car. I can listen online when I am working at the computer. Granted many of the channels are stupid, and of course there is the requisite ten or so devoted to Americans who are still Africans, as well as several channels geared to people who work at the Oklahoma City McDonald’s. Those of you who live here know what I’m sayin’. If you speak English, don’t even bother to apply there; they won’t hire you. If you don’t speak Spanish, don’t even try to order. If you want McDonald’s, drive to North Dakota; it is faster.

But I digress. I’ve slept soundly since discovering XM, because I knew that for $12.95 a month, I was getting a tremendous bargain. Frrrl. In my car and on my computer, 150+ channels, for my listening pleasure, including one of my favorites, “The Roadhouse,” which plays true classic country. I’m talking about performers who influenced Loretta Lynn or Porter Wagoner.





Also, there is Fox News. NPR. Opera. Showtunes (Virgil’s favorite). The BBC. Some weird Canadian stations. British gay music. Check out the lineup some time at XM.com. In the car, I love to text on my cell phone, surf XM, and cause wrecks.

I sat down this morning to write about XM, and when I logged on to the service, I was greeted with a message that the XM Party is ending in March. My “party” has been XM all the time. Starting in March, though, I’ll have to pay an extra three bucks to listen online. As a wise friend of mine once said, “I cain’t have nuthin’ nice.” I am not so sure I’ll pay them more to listen at my computer. To be honest, AOL Radio has some channels that are even better than similar offerings on XM, particularly 90’s alternative. There are just a few commercials on AOL, and none are the cheesy local ones. I can take that. AOL Radio is FREE, son. Yahoo! has awesome and free videos, including many one can’t find elsewhere, e.g., my best friend Gavin Rossdale-Stefani doing his version of R.E.M.’s “The One I Love.”



I’m sure all of this is racism. Only white people listen to XM on the computer anyway, and now THE MAN is making us pay more for it. Soon, THE MAN will take everything away from us.

I was one who was happy THE MAN permitted the merger of XM and Sirius. I should have known what was coming. White people are going to be screwed now. I read on the internet that Obama fixed it so black people won’t have to pay for XM at all.

That ain’t right.

XM is the best bargain in America until March.

# # #

Many friends, old and new, as well as a number of strangers, sent cards and emails after I posted the story about Virgil – Thanks. It meant a lot to me. I still miss the little dog. I have about two regular readers of my posts, so the counter I installed at blogspot.com has been slow to increase. I won’t be competing with porn sites any time soon. But right after I posted my dawg stories, there were over 300 hits. That is a lot on the water. I’m flattered. Lots of Dog People out there. Some days do you ever wish that in all the world, there was just you, a pack a dawgs, and a big healthy lortab tree?

I asked Pat B. to nominate me for a Pulitzer, or to get me a job for Rolling Stone, but I guess he forgot.

# # #

In Memory of H.A.J., a very Special Greeter, among other things.



©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

Now He Belongs to the Dog Ages

The Baby Virgil



Virgil the Wonder Dog





In those days he could fly if he wanted.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that sometimes Virgil, my aged Rat Terrier, would pace aimlessly and fruitlessly around the room. He seemed to be looking for something he would never find. Occasionally he stopped, raised his head, whimpered, and continued his "journey." It was clearly frustrating for him, and it was annoying for me. But some sort of plan or mission called forth from deep inside his once sharp mind. I wanted to grab him up and say, "shake it off and stop acting so goofy, before I slap your face and throw you up against the chain link fence."

But I didn't.

On Saturday, I found him underneath a dining room chair. Somehow, he'd caged himself. He could not find a way out of there, and I don't know how he got under it in the first place.

(most likely the evil monkeys who stole my Rolex put him there)

Just yesterday I noticed Virgil was standing in the corner of the room. He kept walking into the wall, banging his head each time. Over and over again. He reminded me of a "Stepford Dog," as if he'd been programmed to walk forward, into infinity, even if there was a wall. Maybe a zombie dog. I don't know, but it was creepy. I thought to myself, "okay, this is effed up." It occurred to me that perhaps his brain wasn't telling his legs what to do. Sucks to be you, Virgil. So I kicked him, and yelled at him and called him a dog-tard.

Not really. It was fairly heartbreaking, to be honest. I picked him up and looked into his sightless eyes. I held him awhile (he weighed about 2 ounces in the end) and took him outside before he peed on me.

I concluded not only had he lost his senses of hearing, sight and smell, his mind had also been profoundly and irreparably affected by this jacked up aging process. He was old, alright. I'd been meaning to research dementia in dogs. Wondered if they got it like humans. Sure enough, there is something called "Canine Cognitive Disfunction." Possible signs include becoming lost in familiar places, getting trapped behind familiar furniture and corners, having trouble finding doors and using stairs, failing to respond, frequently trembling or shaking, pacing and wandering aimlessly, frequently soiling in the house (in Virgil's case "frequently" is putting it very conservatively), and staring at walls or into space.

Virgil had exhibited every symptom but the ones directly related to the senses he had already lost.

It didn't take me long to admit what I've known all along. This dog isn't enjoying his life now. It was as simple as that. No more hope that maybe the Dog Baby Jesus and the cast of "Touched by an Angel" would come for him in his sleep, thus freeing ME of making the decision. So I researched the reasons people decide to release their pets from this world. It boils down to "quality of life," as my best friend Melissa told me. She is an expert on many things, particularly animals. I couldn't think of anything about his life that was pleasant now. He couldn't walk or play. He couldn't find his food and water, much less smell them. He may have lost his sense of taste.

A monkey with a crayon would conclude that my Virgil was not happy. We couldn't do anything that might change that, he likely hurt all over, he was so thin I was always afraid someone would report me for abuse and neglect, and he peed as often as he breathed. I asked myself if I'd want to carry on until my 18th/126th birthday if someone had to steady me while I relieved myself. As a matter of fact, I would like that.

Virgil didn't like it, though, and that assumes he was even aware of WHO was holding him up. In the end I don't think he really knew me. I was something unseen who carried him outside so he could do his bidness. How much fun would that be, for a dog to find himself living in a Helen Keller world? Helen Keller was an inspiration. Her life was an example of the value and potential of all human life. But dogs can't overcome adversity the way we can. I'd say in the end Virgil's life was frustrating and often terrifying. He couldn't Google things he didn't understand the way we can. I came to believe it DID suck to be Virgil.

Virgil's private vet was able to get him in at 5:00 this afternoon.

Right before it was time to leave, I was almost starting to begin to consider perhaps I should think about having second thoughts about the whole thing. I did not want to be Josef Mengele...



...to a little dog who'd been my friend for 18 years. Sure did not. My sponsor, David, came by and hung out with me for a few minutes and even offered to go with me to the gas chamber. I said, "nigga, that's the gayest thing I've ever heard of," but I was thinking I wished he would go with me. He gave me a nice hug, though, which made me feel better. David does not dispense hugs lightly, so if you ever get one, it means something. Just FYI.



I wasn't sure what to expect at the vet, but I hoped I wouldn't do anything goofy like well up with tears, or cry. Most of all, I hoped Virgil wouldn't have any idea what was going on, and that he wouldn't be scared. I talked to both vets at the office, and I described what I'd observed during Virgil's decline. I didn't have to say much, as Virgil looked pitiful anyway -- just as I will if I live to be 126. Both agreed without hesitation that he was suffering, and one said, "he is ready to go chase rabbits."

I didn't bother to point out that being a sissy dog, Virgil preferred to stay in the house, sing showtunes, and watch Bravo Channel. He couldn't care less about chasing rabbits. I can't think of much he enjoyed, other than sleep, dog treats, and being splayed out on his eiderdown pod in front of the fire. Before he started downhill, he also loved rawhide chews. I'd issue each dog a chew, and somehow Virgil managed to selfishly nick the other dogs' chews away, and then he'd hide them for later. Not a sharer. Got that trait from me too. Dogs become us, and we them. He got ME started watching Bravo Channel, but I don't do showtunes.

My dogs never played because I didn't play. They never learned. Jennifer and Buddy used to buy them toys. I recall Jennifer tossed the ball at Virgil once, and it hit him in the nose and bounced off onto the floor. Then Virgil looked at the ball, and then back at Jennifer, as if to say, "how come you to hit me with that ball?" Puzzled, Jennifer asked, "don't you ever play with these dogs? What kind of dog isn't interested in a ball?" Virgil was changing the channel. I'd never played ball with the dogs, and they couldn't ever grasp the concept. They all became neurotic.

But I digress.

The vet made sure Virgil was comfortable, and after about seven hours he was finally able to find a frail, pitiful dog vein in his skinny leg. I thought it would be more of a "Sarah Bernhardt" scene. That time would pass, and there'd be drama and gasps and sighing and whatnot. Virgil's breathing would be more labored. He'd struggle, whimper, or cry out. We'd listen to each other breathing, and Virgil breathing, kick imaginary stones around the room, wait, and we'd make awkward, stupid, waste-of-air comments.

There was no time for any of that. It was over almost as soon as the injection began. My little dog went limp immediately. It was less than ten seconds. And then... he simply died. His eyes, which hadn't seen anything in a long time, were really lifeless now. They stayed open like in the movies. So we closed them for him. He would have wanted us to do that.

I forgot to bring a dog coffin, as this was my first time. I didn't want to carry him out through the patient waiting area, as that would have been...well, a whole bunch of uncomfortable things, that's what.

The vet gently and tenderly wrapped him in a fresh towel, and then he taped it together. My little Virgil was now a dog cocoon. I was glad I wouldn't have to look at him. I didn't know what to say, really, and I was afraid I might get weepy. It was starting to effect me now. I wanted to pay and get out of there.

To make matters worse, since this IS all about me, I'd taken a massive overdose of decongestant before leaving the house, so my nose was running all over the place. Try to explain that. "I'm not crying; it's allergies." Naturally, I had no kleenex. So I looked like the snot nosed kid in second grade who always carried around a dead dog in a towel cocoon. Not really, but almost.

We took him out to the Land of Dogs, placed him lovingly in the Good Earth, and then covered him to sleep.

That was just the used up body of Virgil. The real Virgil is some other place. I'm one who believes we have our beloved pets with us in the afterlife. If Heaven is so swell, then why can't we have our pets? Of course we can. God is a detail sort of Deity. He'd fix it that way. Right now, Virgil is either at rest/sleep, or he is in better place -- like a warm, glowy scene in a cheesy Thomas Kinkade print.

I don't think there is a Dog Hell.

Or, Virgil's little spirit was carried away to the Gray Havens, where he boarded the ship with the elves. Together they sailed into the West, toward White Shores and a Far Green Country.




©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

Why We Stab People

Years ago, when everyone was stealing music by way of Napster, Genitalia, and all the other online file sharing services, I was PAYING for the tracks I wanted. Why? Because as an attorney, I am ethically charged with being ethical. Also, too many friends had picked up awful viruses by downloading music and porn. I didn't really know how to do it anyway.



I discovered it was possible to download tracks of my favorite music through the MSN website. It was so easy even I could do it. It only cost a buck a song, and I didn't have to buy the whole album, which is usually loaded with about 12 dumb tracks.

Recently I moved all my files from 10-year old desk top computers over to my laptop. Included were many weinerbytes of music I'd paid for, and which used to work just fine when I tried to play them on the old computers. They won't play now on the laptop. Apparently the "license" did not transfer with the music. I keep getting an annoying error message that advises me my Windows Player (which sucks anyway) is "acquiring rights" from the website. Eventually, and this can take thirty minutes or more, the rights are "acquired."

What do you think happened? The music still won't play. The sign says, "rights acquired. Press Play now." Ain't nuthin' "acquired." I'm told I must sign in. I do that, and the music won't play. I press Play, and it won't play.

I spent hours obsessively searching for he CDs I'd burned of the music in question. What do you think happened? The music still won't play. The CDs will play in a DVD player, but not on my computer.

MSN no longer peddles music. It has a new partnership with Napster. MSN is completely out of the bidness of helping former customers, but it moves heaven and earth to protect the rights of artists. Good, I guess.

I complained,and eventually I received instructions to do what I'd already done about 90 times. Sign in, acquire the rights, and enjoy the fine music.

It's all effed up. I can't do anything about it. I hate all the music I downloaded anyway.

Deep inside, though, there is a part of me that will always wish I could listen to 98˚, the Back Street Boys and Nsync, especially since I paid for it.







All the smart people who stole tracks from that awful Metallica (who ruined music stealing for the masses anyway) and other bands will continue to enjoy their music, even unto the ending of the world. Thank you, Lars and other unattractive members of Metallica.



But I digress.

My point is I am really annoyed with MSN, and there isn't anything I can do about it. So I will accept it and be grateful I can listen to the CDs on my DVD player. And I have plenty of NKOTB, son.



EXCEPT NOT ON MY COMPUTER, WHICH IS WHY I DOWNLOADED THEM IN THE FIRST PLACE.

And that's why we stab people.

Just FYI.
©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

The Mystery of Dog Prayers

A good friend of mine came home and found the front door standing open. Before checking to see if valuables had been lifted by crack heads, he noticed his beloved dog was missing. He checked the house and yard, and then expanded his search to the neighborhood. In a near panic, he told me he threw up a couple of quick prayers that the Almighty would drop what He was doing and aid in the search for the lawst dawg.

My friend’s dog had indeed gotten out, but he hadn’t gone far. He was merely partying with his peeps in the neighbor’s yard. He couldn't figure out how to get back to his own yard.

Dogs don’t often ponder these matters before setting them in motion. “Now, if I seize this opportunity to run away, I’m going to get to sniff and look around and hike my leg and generally gomm around until my daddy (or mommy) finds me.” With dogs the thought process ends there. There is no thought about getting back into the yard, much less the house. No worries about food, water, shelter, or getting in trouble. Just ask my Jack Russell Terrier, Micky. She’ll disobey me and not care, because she’d rather do what she is doing – sniffing new stuff - even if she knows I will taser her when I catch her.

(Cats don’t bother pondering anything that involves their people. Cats hate us, and wish we’d die, provided there is a cat food tree nearby.)

My friend wondered if it was goofy to interrupt God with a Dog Prayer. I guess not, because God stepped in and helped, didn’t He? Would the dog have been found had my friend not tapped God on the shoulder and asked for help? Probably not, but who can say. I know many people have been touched by the story, and maybe it will cause them to pray for help in time of need. It can't hurt, especially if one finds himself in a foxhole.

I’ve had similar experiences. Usually when my dogs get out, I’d neglected to put the collar back on the dog after a bath. There aren’t many situations more helpless than when a dog runs away, and he has no I.D. People who are that negligent should be stabbed.

Deaf and blind Virgil got out last summer when the moron lawn guys didn’t latch the gate. I didn’t know how to write “please close the effing gate (for the 700th time)” in Spanish, so they left it wide open. The hapless Virgil stumbled outside and down the street. Lost.

His moron daddy hadn’t put his collar back on because it irritated his emaciated neck, and because his daddy assumed Virgil was too old and blind to WANT to get out and party. Wrong. Virgil is wont to wander. He can no longer find his way back to the pet door. He could and has ended up over by Del City. Virgil has always been a Northside Dog. He usually tells people he lives in Heritage Hills, rather than ghetto Gatewood.

Can you imagine what it must be like to be blind and deaf, and then wander outside your yard? It would suck. After I called the lawn people and chewed them out, yet again, I began searching for Virgil, all the while believing it to be a hopeless cause. Yet I threw up my own private dog prayer. One of the lodgers helped me look, and he approached some neighborhood kids. Had they seen a dog that looked like he belonged in a Tim Burton movie, or had pulled the sleigh for the Grinch who stole Christmas? Amazingly, and this is where God must have stepped in, the kids reported they saw Virgil wandering around bumping into things. They noted he could not hear, and they called the Nazis at animal control to come get him. The kids meant well, but they are now with Michael Jackson. Just sayin'.

The poor thing was hauled off to the Dogcentration Camp, where he was slated to be gassed if not claimed. I rushed down to get him, and all was well, other than he smelled like common street dogs, and he’d picked up African Killer Fleas. I was still annoyed with the lawn people. However, I was much more focused on the virtual miracle of finding my pitiful dog under these circumstances. Odds are he should have been assassinated by someone in a car. But he wasn’t.

Why? I think God likes dogs. He loves us, so he invented dogs for us to enjoy. He likes to help us get them back.

I’ve had lost dogs and sick dogs. Yet they have been found, or they have lived. Each time I had the sense (and enough fear) to ask for Divine Intervention, and each time it worked. Will it always? Probably not. We don't always get what we want, because God isn't Santa Claus.

Now why would God be so quick to help with a lost or sick dog, but not give me an A on an exam in law school when I asked Him? Why doesn’t God always save our job that is in peril? Why don’t people who have cancer get well, even when super righteous people are sending up People Prayers?

I have no idea, and I’m not the first person to ponder this. Maybe when God helps us with our Dog Problems, it is less likely to interfere with the major plans He has for us. We love our dogs, but if something happens, and God steps in to fix it, it doesn’t effect that much, does it? We're going to get over it either way. Well, I suppose if we are nutty and goofy enough to run amok over a dog, then we might get nekkid and rub feces on ourselves or something. But I digress.

It has been my experience that God answers all prayers, but not necessarily the way we want, or when we want. He doesn’t have to because He is GOD, I suppose, and he is Big. Besides, He knows what we need, as well as what we want – before we ask. He gives us a lot of what we want (but don’t even need). If we ask him for something, and it doesn’t happen the way we want, our prayers help us adapt to the reality. Unless we choose to pout. Or, oftentimes we receive something even better than what we’d been begging for in the first place. I like it when that happens.

When Lyn was close to death with that awful sucky cancer, I shared with him that I was beginning to question the whole concept of prayer. Lyn shared with me that God Almighty didn’t really need my approval anyway, and that His Plan would prevail, and that it would be best. The reason we pray is to help us become a part of God’s Plan – whether we like the plan or not. In time everything is revealed to us. If not, I suppose we can ask someone in Heaven. No, God didn't cure Lyn, as we'd prayed and hoped, but He gave him more time than expected. When his time came, he was at peace, and as far as I know he was unafraid. What God did in this case was help all of us celebrate his life. God infused our minds with wonderful memories of a terrific guy. We moved on. We still miss him. God helped us cope. As always. It sucks to die, but when one can have a cigar in the end, it is a little easier to handle.



C.S. Lewis said and wrote a bunch of cool stuff. One of my favorite quotes is this one:

"I pray because I can't help myself. I pray because I'm helpless; I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn't change God; it changes me."

A friend of mine was asked, "why do you pray on your knees?" he answered, "because God likes it."

These cheesy dog stories make me feel all warm and fuzzy, but I am still mildly annoyed over some of my grades in law school. I prayed and I studied, and the grades sucked. Yet I passed the bar exam, which was much more difficult. So much more was at stake then too.

Why’d I pass the bar exam? How?

My dogs were praying for me.

© Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

Virgil the Tim Burton Movie Dog

“I’ve seen this before. It happens to old people.” --Chauncey Gardener, in “Being There,” 1979



Virgil is a Rat Terrier. He will be 18 years old next month. If he were a human, he would be 126, which is, as Gomer Pyle would say, “old on the water.” I’ve had him since 1991. He has seen and heard a lot of things. For this reason, I am glad he can’t talk.

He can’t do much a nuthin’ these days, and his condition provides unwelcome opportunities for me to practice patience and service. After a few weeks, I’m tired of both. Several months ago, he lost virtually all of his sight and hearing, and I don’t believe he has too much of a sense of smell. I must literally bob his head into the food, or he can’t find it. He is no longer housebroken. This is good, considering the cold fronts we’ve had so far this winter. If he managed to get outside through the pet door, it would not be good for him with temperatures in the 20’s. He’d never find his way back inside.

I don’t want him to die. I want him to be like the young, personable Virgil – before living with me made him neurotic. But I also want the Baby Jesus to take him home, as I hate to watch his life suck so much. Not to be selfish, but I’m tired of cleaning up after him about 90 times a day. This morning I laundered all of his bedding. He has stuffed pods that are more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever had. As a service to the dog community, I usually warm the pod or blanket in the dryer before I plop him down on it. Why? Because he likes it, he doesn’t feel well and a toasty warm pod has to be nice after one has wet himself repeatedly and often, and Virgil would do it for me if our roles were reversed. Come to think of it, our roles have been reversed in the past.

By this evening, he’d peed on every dry object in the house, so I washed them all again.

Sometimes his sleep is so heavy and labored I wonder if I’m going to see him take his last breath. I doubt it, as that only happens in the movies, or in stories people tell when they’re over-dramatizing someone’s death. It will be merciful if the Angel of Dogs comes for him.

A couple of months ago I took him to the vet to see if there was anything obviously wrong that could be treated, say, by just giving him a pill. They have a pill for everything else, after all. No, nothing to do for a dog that is simply old, stove up, and give out – not unlike his father. He drinks tons of water. I always suspected he was part camel. He has a voracious appetite, yet he looks like a little Auschwitz dog. He has never been one to put on weight. He probably needs a kidney transplant, hip replacement, steroids, hormones, insulin injections 10 times a day, and analysis.

The vet assured me Virgil is old and, practically speaking, he is dying. Yeah, well thanks for that. Give him a pill or something. Or give it to ME.

Virgil has always been a bit of a snob. One would think from the manner in which he carries himself

(or did before he got old on me)

that he was tutored n the Palace of Versailles, or that his dogcestors came over on the Mayflower. Hardly. Virgil was born in the Meth Capital of the World, Pink, Oklahoma. His father’s name was Pierre. I think his mother was Fe Fe, or something French. Virgil doesn’t remember those early days, but I’m here to tell you I bought him from clients who lived about as far away as one can go out into the woods. They were not French aristocrats either, but they were nice. Virgil has been nice too. I named him after another client.

Never had a dog with so much personality. He used to playfully growl if I petted him. What in the world kind of dog growls if you pet him? I'd get in his face and pretend to snap at him. He'd "snap" right back at me. That is intelligent playing. Course once he bit off the tip of my nose.

He could not stand to get his hands and feet wet. If it was raining or wet outside, Virgil suddenly forgot he was housebroken. That was just something I had to accept, and it didn’t happen often. He didn’t like baths, and he rarely got one, as he didn’t need one. I don’t know why, but he never smelled like a dog. He also brushed his teeth and used my mouthwash. Clean, hygienic dog he was.

I don’t know if he’ll make it to his 18th Birthday. I don't even know if I will. I’m not sure what I’ll do when he does sail off with the elves for the Gray Havens. (Virgil is a big fan of “Lord of the Rings.”) I think it will be profoundly sad.

What a nice, long life he has had, though, and what a joy it has been to have him as my friend. He was rarely any trouble. He had few vices. He has been loyal and devoted. He was always a handsome dog. Alas, the past year has not been so good to him. He is hunched over and, as one friend put it, he looks like a “dog from a Tim Burton movie.”

Werd.

I’ll let you know about Virgil. His quality of life isn’t so good. I’ll need to make a decision, just as someone will have to make a decision about me one of these days. I’d rather, as I said, let him pass on peacefully in his sleep, preferably before depositing, yet again, a half gallon of warm dog pee on his pod. Presently, he knows it is me when I pick him up. He remembers something about me, I suppose.

Here is a picture of Micky (1995 -), Rocky (1990-2006), and Virgil on their respective pods.



Sorry I haven’t written since I returned from North Dakota. I still miss it up there, and I wish I could go back. I wanted to know what 25 below zero feels like.

Twenty five degrees below zero is, as Gomer Pyle might say, “cold on the water.”

I’m much busier now. It is hard to find time to write. Certainly a lot to complain (and write) about here. But more for which to be grateful.

And on Thursday we celebrate the Birth of the Word made Flesh.

©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

This is happening in OUR Time.

Check out this scary link to a video of indoctrinated children singing about THE ONE.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cdPSqL9_mfM

Today, No bad jokes. No exaggerations.

Wait. One bad joke. If Obama wins, he will send all of us back to Europe, with the exception of the caterwauling kids in this video, all of whom should be shipped to Michael Jackson.

Today, No over-dramatization. No internet fibs.

Wait. One. If you vote for the muzlim Obama, you will lose your soul in the voting booth. I am serious.

How did it ever come to this?

Obama is the promised son of perdition and whatnot.

He will raise the eff word out of our taxes and then give the money away to people who have never even paid taxes.

He will take genocide to a ho nutha level with his pro-death abortion policies. Forced sterilization will be common. After 2011, no more white babies.

His foreign policies will practice to deceive. Obama's policies will weaken Israel to insignificance. They will promote islam.

Christianity will fade during his rule.

White people will have to wear a white spot on their clothing.

It is going to suck.

Frrrl.

Maybe the elves will rally and save us.

Or not.

But seriously, check out that video on Youtube.

After that, watch some "H.R. Pufnstuff."

Farewell to a Far Green Country

After five months in the beautiful Aryan State of North Dakota, it is time to go home. Our work here is finished. We found and leased about five hundred billion barrels of oil. All that remains is pumping it out of the ground, and using it up as fast as possible – in my lifetime, preferably. I predict gas will be 32¢ a gallon in a year. Then you can thank my colleague and me for doing what our idiot government failed to do since the damned arabs invented the energy crisis in 1973.



The first thing we should do after we get all the oil, is send Hugo Chavez of Venezuela a box of turds, with a note advising him it is time to suck it. Disappearing him would be kyna coo too. And we should stab all the journalists who pronounce his name “Ugo.” It’s HUEgo.

I’m going to miss my adopted Fatherland. The small towns that haven’t been ruined by Wal-Mart.





The friendly people who still wave, speak, and don’t pull out in front of you on the highway. The manicured lawns with stealable things in the yard that no one steals. Unlocked cars. No seat belts (because there are no wrecks in North Dakota). The wildlife. I actually saw a herd of antelope the other day on the way to Williston. The spectacular sunsets.

I tried to take pictures of the friendly local people, but they threw stones at me for not being a Lutheran.



This is one of the few states I’ve ever visited that I could move to without a problem. It is a state I would not have likely visited, if I hadn’t had the opportunity to work here. It is one of those experiences for which I had low expectations, and it turned out to exceed my wildest notion of what it would be like. I also won the lottery, but here it is only $7. What a thrill it was to meet the governor.

The highways are in perfect condition. There are no pot holes. The roads are perfect, but they repave them anyway. In Oklahoma, one must stop at roadside shops and have new shocks installed. The turnpikes are touted as autobahn-like roadways that quicken one’s way to any destination. Alas, the road construction projects in Oklahoma, both state and local, are ETERNAL. The turnpikes are always slower, and it costs about $300 in tolls to go anywhere.

I will miss the coal trains. I’ve heard it stops in Stanton for lunch, but I think that was a fib. But the train stops for some reason, every day. I never knew there was coal here, but there is – lots.



In Stanton there is an elderly gentleman, a veteran of World War II. Every morning he walks down to the café for breakfast. He lost his wife a couple of years ago. He has a collie mix he named S.O.B. He and the dog walk down every morning. He wears over-alls. He ties the dog to a pole outside the café, and S.O.B. waits patiently for the man to finish his breakfast. Then it is time to do whatever else they do each day. Routines are cool. This guy goes to the animal shelter for stray dogs, particularly those that have been abused. He has to go all the way to Bismarck to find an abused dog at the shelter. But he finds cool ones, and then loves them until they are less neurotic. His dog is a bit skittish, because some asshead probably beat him at one time. But S.O.B. will let you pet him if you ask him nicely.

Thanks to Obama and Wal-Mart, these kinds of things are disappearing from America. In North Dakota, though, it is common to see a sappy scene out of Norman Rockwell or Reader’s Digest. I hope the man and his dog live to be about 175, if that is what they want.

I hate to leave because it is fun living in a hotel. Someone makes my bed and cleans up the peanut shells that I drop on the floor.

I wanted to experience a real winter. Imagine a place that is so cold most vehicles have an engine block heater installed. One plugs in the heater when the vehicle is parked. There are plugs at most public buildings.

I will get used to living at home again. Hopefully I’ll get an opportunity to travel to another place, preferably one settled and populated by Germans, like this area of North Dakota.

I will have to buy some fat suits, as it is likely I will be in court practicing oil & gas law. I think I need a little more training on the road, but that is not up to me. I’d like to remain fat for awhile. I bought a pedometer, but the thing doesn’t work. It hasn’t made me want to walk or run or anything. I set it so my average step is like six feet, so it seems I’ve walked much further than I did. I wore it about today, until it got too heavy, and I logged 178.49 miles.

I will have liposuction, if I don’t have to get up.

When I get home I’m going to eat at Ted’s, a good steak place, and a good pizza place – Nomad perhaps – all on the same day.

I’m going to watch a lot of my favorite DVDs, piled up with fat Micky, my Jack Russell Terrier. I’ll have dog hair all over me, but that will be nice.

I’m going to complain about the weather being too hot and humid down there. I’m going to observe and experience and take fussiness to a whole. Nutha Level.

I’ll get used to a new schedule. I’ll learn new things that will interest me. I’ll make lots of money and get back the elusive Rolex that some assface stole. This experience has taught me that I can catch on to just about anything if I am surrounded by attractive, well-dressed people with German names who wave and smile and don’t want anything from me.

And lastly, I’m not saying anything else about that awful obama.



Until I get home and think of something trippy.

Thanks to my best friend and mentor, David Kelly ("Jesus hates you"), and my whigger Randy Eisworth("Let Excel help you") for teaching me a new trade up here. I am forever grateful.

Hey to you and yours. Gott mit uns.

Randall P. Hodge, Esq.

©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, LLC