 | Current mood: It is official now. A letter from the State Capitol in Bismarck advised me that I am now the 4th fattest human in North Dakota. Decided to go to a doctor. All I wanted was a pill like I heard about on an episode of "Absolutely Fabulous," back in the slim 90's, before the dumb President Bush ruined the world. In that episode, Edina Monsoon (who always struggled with her weight on the show, even though she is svelte and beautiful in real life) urged her doctor to give her a pill so she could "just pee it all out in the morning." The "all," being her fat. The doctor told her no, as the patient might have a heart attack, he warned. Edina didn't care about that, and she pleaded. The doctor refused, and Edina remained fat.  The doctor I went to was not, tragically for me, a "pill doctor." He was one of those who believe in such bizarre notions as exercise and change of diet. For example, he urged me to get out of bed an hour earlier each morning and walk. WALK! To where? He suggested the treadmill at the hotel. "I can't use it, because it is locked up in the exercise room. One must get the key from the front desk, and that is at least 20 feet away. Plus, someone else might come in and want to use the other equipment, and I hate most people." "Can't you swim?" he asked me. "Yes, I could," I explained, "but I am allergic to human urine and particles of feces. Pools are known recipients and receptacles of both. Haven't you seen the 'Southpark' episode where Eric Cartman was horrified by all the six year olds peeing up the pool?" "Lift weights, then," the doctor suggested. "I would but they are too heavy." "Run?" "No, it's too far. I get enough exercise drying off after I get out of the shower. I just need a little something to…take the edge off." Then he got off on the diet thing. I explained that I am living in a place where they put gravy on everything, including fresh fruit, and the only green vegetable I've seen is a pickle. Saw an olive in one place, but it was a fake. He went on and on about carbs. He lost me when he told me one of the Subway® sandwiches that Fat Jared recommends would basically KILL me because of all the carbs. I felt like saying, "nigga pleez (even though he was white like everyone else here). If Fat Jared's sandwich recommendations won't help me lose weight, then you're just going to have to do liposuction or something."  He laughed; "you're not that fat," he assured me. Yet. But it is coming. "You need to eat fresh fruit. Eat whole grain, unprocessed cereals with fat free milk. No meat. Absolutely NO PIZZA. No bread. No soup. Certainly no Dairy Queen, either. Eat at least six light meals a day." This doctor was fat himself, but I was forced to endure all of this. What made it all worse, was he let me know right away that he wasn't a believer in "quick fixes." (which I hoped did not mean he didn't give magic diet pills). That is precisely what he meant. So all is lost. I've lost. I must be fat. I must endure the unendurable. Being grotesquely fat, and facing an Obama Presidency, and the end of all things. Not to be overly dramatic. *** I'll tell you what. I watched McCain and that awful infanticidic Obama on Rick Warren's program the other night. I was pleasantly surprised by McCain. I don't care for him, particularly, because he is a closet moderate, he cheated on his first wife, and I don't like his positions on such issues as campaign finance. I don't trust him NOT to appoint a gaggle of hideous judges that we will have to endure for a generation or more. All we need is another Souter. In spite of my misgivings, I'd still vote for him, because the other choice is unthinkable. McCain stuck to his guns on drilling for oil, so we can better use it all up in MY lifetime. He stuck up for poor Georgia, which the Russians are going to ravage prior to seizing and ravaging Ukraine. He stuck up for the Baby Jesus. He stuck up for babies. McCain is pro life. Obama is adamantly and radically pro death. McCain affirmed his commitment to exterminating our enemies. I don't think McCain would get us into another war without cause, but he is just nutty enough to keep our potential enemies wondering. He might just nuke mecca, which would be lovely. Reagan was masterful at this. The Commies were scared to death of him. McCain spoke out strongly against the Russian invasion of Georgia (which I thought was kyna coo, as it reminded me of Poland in 1939, and it has been years since we had a good European War, with tanks and planes and whatnot). You know what I'm sayin'. But I digress. When all of this broke almost two weeks ago, McCain was right out front, telling it like it is. Obama sent a fruit basket and a mix tape to the warring factions, and suggested we all get together at the World Court in The Hague, and let the French and Dutch sort it all out. Bush was, presumably, drunk, not unlike when he stated he'd looked into Tsar Putin's eyes and saw his soul. Putin, in contrast, allowed that when he looked into Bush's eyes, he spied a moron. Hence, we were caught off guard by the New Cold War, and we cain't do nuthin' about it. America is a country blessed with a number of highly educated and brilliant managers. Masterful politicians and communicators. Yet our choices, sadly, sucketh. I don't care about all that. I'm fat, and I want my Rolex back.  *** Haven't the Olympics been swell? We're all justly proud of our national dolphin, Michael Phelps, the swimmers, the gymnastics team, the three black dudes who won all three medals jumping over stuff, and one of my favorites, Stephanie Brown-Trafton, who won the gold medal for throwing the discus. Nobody thought she could do it. She has no website. She is not famous. Probably no huge contracts to peddle Speedos®, which I myself cannot wear. And Girlfriend threw a DISCUS, for heaven's sake, and they are heavy. I guess they are heavy; I don't lift things. Anyway, I am proud of her, and I'm her new biggest creepy stalker fan. If I weren't fat, and old enough to be her father, I'd ask her to be my next babymama.  And, I was impressed and entertained by all the little 16-year old Chinese gymnast girls, who still have their baby teeth. If that awful, cruel, selfish, Joseph Mengele Doctor I went to had given me some diet pills, I'd have a swimmer's build just like Michael Phelps; all I'd have to do is take one before bed and then pee it out in the morning. Might have to endure such side effects as anal leakage and erections that last more than 48 hours, but is there anything more important than being thin? No. *** Here's hoping Obama's pick for VP has some dreadful skeleton in his closet that will sink both of them. Here's hoping McCain picks Romney or Meg Whitman, former CEO of Ebay.  Congratulations to my Babymama, Niki, and her husband, Eric, who helped, I should add, on their new baby boy. From the beautiful, Aryan State of North Dakota, Randall P. Hodge, Esq. ©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd. |
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
4th Fattest Human in North Dakota
quixotic 
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Chinese Food for the Weiner
Saturday, August 09, 2008
|
I knew it was safe to watch the opening of the Olympic™ Games, because it happened yesterday. If there had been any terrorist trouble in Beijing, the news just might have interrupted the non-stop coverage of Caylee Anthony. This is the unfolding story of the little girl who has been missing for several weeks. It doesn't look good. Sounds like her kooky, hideous and truth-challenged mother (Casey) had something to do with it. I'm troubled by her theft of gas cans, as well as the inconsistencies that are exposed every single time she speaks. One can almost find sympathy for Casey, the presumed "disappearer," when one is exposed to innumerable "press conferences" by her media addicted mother. She is the one who smelled a dead body, later opined to be rancid pizza, in the trunk of Casey's car. I want some of whatever those dreadful people are on. They niggas is high on something, son. Furrrl. I thought the goofy dad was going to gut somebody right there in the yard today. Don't these people have jobs? But baby mama, and baby grandmamma. Please. Shut up. Self. Please. Stop watching the sh*t on Fox (my baby mama Greta Van Susteren), Headline News (my "Boo" Nancy Grace), and CourtTV (now TruTV, I guess). Why do we always have to have an O.J. story going? Reminds me of that "last summer of yesterday," in 2001. All of the world was transfixed with the silly story of the disappearance of Chandra Levy, yet another intern caught in, on or with a congressman's weiner. Yes, poor Chandra's disappearance was THE story, up until 9/11. August is notorious for notorious stories. They almost always involve someone's weiner. We learned today that John Edwards also have a "baby mamma," as the gangstahs phrase it. What a vomity phony. Alas, THE MAN is always going to bring you down if you're pretty and rich like John Edwards. Why he would cheat on his awesome wife, all to party with that tart, is beyond me. I don't know why Larry Craig chose an airport bathroom. I don't know why Bill Clinton chose the Oval Office. It's always about weiners, though. The whole world is on fire over some "breakaway" province in Georgia and Russia. Maybe the Germans will invade Poland. This potentially escalating conflict is right out of one of Tom Clancy's books. Remember "Sum of all Fears?" So we have this cool European war brewing over there, and all the media want to talk about is poor little Caylee Anthony and her putrid family, all of whom I'd like to set on fire, not unlike what they suspect the mother did to her little girl. Geez, I hope not. But I digress. Back to the Olympics. I've never seen anything more spectacular than tonight's opening ceremony. Maybe Kevin Federline's videos. What a magnificent combination of lights, pageantry, choreography, and foreigners. I will never forget the drums, the gnomes prancing around in the yellow union suits with blinking lights, or the menacing (and so very Communist China) goose stepping soldiers. I think Bush was drunk, by the way. 
It was fun watching all the countries on parade, particularly my favorites, the Police States. The Peoples Republic of Red Communist China marched in, proudly carrying the flag of Wal-Mart. I paused to reflect on the symbolism, and it hit me: every damn thing I was touching, using and looking at in my hotel room was made in China. On a serious note, it was particularly moving to see the very tall Yao Ming, who was actually reverse engineered, or something, from the parts of three different people. Yes. Chinese medical nerds managed to join them together, and voila! A tall Chinese basketball star who gets laid a lot here in America.  Wait. That wasn't the moving part. It was the little boy walking with him. Seems the kid was a survivor of the earthquake last spring in Szechwan. I cannot believe I knew how to spell that word, Szechwan. Got lucky. The whole ceremony was incredible (other than drunk Bush taking off his jacket, and urinating over near a post). I'm jus' sayin'. I suppose 1.3 billion people, to whom we've sent several trillion dollars of our wealth, thanks to Wal-Mart, can throw a nice party. I hope the Chinese hosts have the best Olympic Games to date, but that Germany wins the most medals. I guess I'm lying about Bush taking off his jacket. He wouldn't do something that tacky in public.China just needs to free Tibet, so Richard Gere will shut up. And nuke North Korea and Iran, too. Did anyone notice the arab countries had very few women athletes? The only arab women allowed to participate were pretty much wrapped up like mummies. Not as bad as the taliban, who only permit little eye slits through the shroud, but bad, nonetheless. Way to be part of the 21st Century. It is a good day whenever the citizens of the world can come together without the muslims blowing it all up. I mean that in a nice way. ©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, LLC |
amused 
Monday, August 4, 2008
Them Cows is Frins
Monday, August 04, 2008
| I am gratified by friends who ask me when I'm going to post another entry. Thank you. I am busy here, and the more I learn, the more I enjoy the work. When I finish at the courthouse I usually work more at home. Why not – there isn't much else I want to do. If I want to experience the outdoors, I look out the window. We have a thirty mile drive to and from the courthouse in Stanton, the county seat of Mercer County. The population of Stanton is around 300. It is a charming little town with a railroad stop, a post office, a café, fire station, sheriff, water tower, and a small convenience store. I was struck the other day when I gassed up the car. I did not have to pay in advance. How's that? The clerk thought I was some kind of a nut when I asked her about it. As I've said before, in this state, I suspect if you needed the gas, they'd give it to you. All of the homes and yards in little Stanton are well kept. Outside the post office, which is downtown, there is a loud speaker with music playing for everyone to enjoy. We eat lunch every day in the same café, and it is always good. If you like gravy on fruit, that is a plus up here. These are gravy people, and I am a gravy person. Because it is such a lovely and scenic drive, we all enjoy it. It never gets tiresome. The farmers here don't waste anything. They bale the hay several times during the summer season. They even mow and bale the hay in the areas between the fence and the road. Something is planted on every square foot of every field. Wheat, sunflower, canola, corn, and what I guess is some kind of antelope food. We see the same group of antelope every morning in the same field. They don't seem to mind our intrusion. I have come to believe they own the property, or at least they have an interest in the minerals. It never gets old seeing the wildlife. We see deer so often it is boring. Not really. I never believed a deer could actually jump a fence, but they can. In every field, there is always a large area fenced and set aside for the state animal, the cow. I've been around cattle all my life, and they are cool animals. I wish we didn't eat them, but they shouldn't taste so good. I am amazed at some of the things cows do. For example, they bunch together. It's like a big group cow hug or something. They move and graze en masse. I am not kidding. I need to get a picture of this before they stop doing it. WHY do cows wander about as a group? As a confirmed isolationist, I just don't get it. I've obsessed on this question. I've asked and asked about it, and more than once I've embarrassed a colleague when I asked a store clerk about this cow phenomenon. The clerk looks at me like I'm an idiot, but she does it in a friendly way. One of my friends opined, "in winter, when it is forty below here, the cows bunch together so they won't freeze to death; perhaps it is a habit." I looked at my friend, and then back at the cows we were passing, and it hit me. "Them cows is frins," I said. Once in awhile we pass cows that are spread out across the pasture. Those cows are clearly not speaking to each other. And then there is the horse we pass each day. Without fail, this horse is standing in roughly the same place every morning. It is kind of creepy. He does not move. "Maybe he is stuck," someone said. I don't know, but that horse reminds me of myself. Only I don't stand around; I lie around. I enjoy the drive to Bismarck. On the way, off in the distance, is Mt. Cow. I'm not sure that is the legal name, but there is a hill with a large statue of a cow. In North Dakota, one doesn't often see what we always called "whole" milk. All they have here is 2% or skim. I'm not sure why this is the case. The store clerks don't know either, and they give me the same puzzled look when I ask them. Maybe there is some kind of secret deal with the cows here, and outsiders aren't in on it. Maybe the cows get to keep the whole milk for their own use. In exchange, the cows don't protest when we harvest their milk. We humans agreed that when we milk the cows, we would only take milk from the 2% and skim milk weiners. I don't know. It is entirely possible I am thinking about this too much. I only know there is something special about a lush field ripe for harvest that has ample space set aside for the cattle to graze. There is something special about baling hay all the way up to the roadside so the cows will have enough to eat when it is forty below. And, there is something special about a herd of cows that would rather bunch up together than spread out. Those cows are friends. If I were a cow, I'd haul off to some isolated area of the field and eat all the good grass myself. Real men don't share nuthin'. I look to the west, and sure enough, there is a small herd of cattle bunched together, but it is too far away to make a good picture. Someone forgot to tell them winter is over. Happy Birthday to my dear friend Cindy. Auf Wiedersehen! RPH, Esq. ©2008 Randall P. Hodge, Esquire and Morningwood Enterprises |
grateful Monday, July 14, 2008
Inside an Enegro
Monday, July 14, 2008
| Inside an Enegro Gotta love the folks at the New Yorker; it brought out the inner whiner in Obama. What a punk a** b*tch, as his rapper friends would say. Naturally, I was delighted to hear about this "controversy," and I was even more amused when I saw the cover of the magazine. I used to subscribe, but stopped because I never got around to reading it. I subscribe to about 600 publications, and I read only one: Vanity Fair. This is one of many reasons why I am so shallow and superficial and only hang out with folks who are pretty, and want to discuss fashion and programming on the Bravo Channel. Not really, but almost really. Have you seen some of the stuff they have on Bravo? I forget which comedienne once said that someone or something was TOO gay, but the comment was funny. Might have been Kathy Griffin; she gets off a good one now and then. The Bravo program on hair stylists…what is it called? Anyway, it is one of those shows that is so goofy I'm embarrassed I surfed through it. I am even more embarrassed I watched it. Oh, and I'll sit there and watch it all, and hope there's another episode to come. I want to watch John Wayne movies and eat red meat after watching that program. I'm just sayin'. Same situation with a show on CMT, "Can You Duet." What's worse is I watched "Duet" every Friday night until it was over. Even set my cell phone to remind me. I'm ashamed of some things I've done. I'm not ashamed that I am one of only 12 people on planet earth who has not seen a single episode of "American Idol." Not one. I'd be hooked if I did. Never been on a golf course either, but that is only because no one has ever invited me and, to quote Groucho Marx, "I wouldn't join a (country) club that would accept me." I wouldn't go home from a bar with the hapless (and most assuredly drunk) woman who would consent to go home with ME. All parties are better off. Frrrl. But I digress. This Obama Flap with the New Yorker. The courageous senator will whine about it until the brilliant magazine apologizes and withdraws the issue from circulation. (then I'll spend a small fortune buying it on Ebay) That's how it works in the Land of the Woos. As Shakespeare wrote, "Cry Havoc! Let slip the Dogs of (Charges of Racism)!" One has to admire the machine that is his campaign. They know what it is they are trying to do: WIN. Many have written and said that the Republicans don't know what to do with or against this guy. Senator Clinton tried everything but calling him an N-word, which would have made my entire life worth living, but …she didn't. Republicans are presently trying the tiresome "flip flop" thing, but it won't work against a muslim with satanic power from the bowels of hell. You know what I'm sayin'. Obama is a big phony and a liar, and a muslim extremist, but we can't say that because it would be racist. Politics should be funny. It seldom is anymore because of political correctness.  I recall in the 1980 campaign a reporter questioned Lyn Nofziger about rumors about then-Governor Reagan. Lyn said, "I have a better rumor for you: I hear Carter has the clap." Priceless. Mini scandal, though, and can you imagine the uproar if Lyn were around to say such a thing today? He'd get into more trouble that that awful and fat Jesse Jackson got into for saying he wanted to castrate poor Obama. I could watch that over and over again. He sounded like "Mr. T" threatening to "slit tha b*tch 'thoat'." It is difficult to spell ghetto words. Did Carter have the clap? Yes. Rosalyn caught it from one of the lawn guys, gave it to Arafat, and HE gave it to Carter. It was a mess. We cain't laugh at nuthin' nowadays without offending someone. Well I laugh, but I have to be careful in front of whom I choose to laugh at, or say, inappropriate things. There are some, I have found, who were born sans humor – or common sense. The other day I made a joke about a mutual friend stabbing me, and I even allowed that it had hurt. This knucklehead thought I was serious and sent out a flurry of emails on the issue, impugning my character and hurting my feelings. He questioned my sanity (as have countless people and various nervous hospitals). It is probable this fellow had his sense of humor removed at the same time he joined the chorus castrati, and had those removed. It is definite I won't be sending him any more "humorous" emails. It did hurt when Cage Fighter Ryan stabbed me, by the way. Stabbing hurts. Just ask Sharon Tate.   So I went to the New Yorker Magazine and captured and borrowed the cover art for my page at MySpace for High School Girls. I noted many other morons at the New Yorker site were posting comments at the site. There is nothing dumber or more useless than posting comments (other than writing a posting a "blog") at a website. No one reads them, except for fat nerds like me who never leave the computer or stop working except to read comments and post blogs. I posted a comment, and they added it. Since no one will read it, you can read it now: >>I think the cover is hilarious. Obama, like so many of his ilk, cannot take a joke, much less any form of criticism, without crying racism. I'm one who happens to believe the cover isn't that far from the truth. We won't find out for certain until after this inexperienced junior senator is elected. Maybe his own thin skin will bring him down; the only problem is the alternative isn't a whole lot better. Still, McCain isn't the muslim anti-Christ. To paraphrase Churchill, (Obama) is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enegro.<< Posted by Randall Hodge July 14, 08 04:17 PM Like Kathy Griffin, I get off a good one now and then. It is strange to be home for a few days. I am ready to go back home to the Aryan State of North Dakota. I want to hear English spoken again. Remind me to tell you about this chick ATT stuck me with today. I punched the wrong option button and landed with the Mexican language helper. I got off a good one or two with her, but she didn't think I was funny. Happy 24th to my best friend, David Kelly. Gottgläubig, RPH, Esq., N.V. ©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, LLC |
focused Friday, July 4, 2008
A Far Green Country
Friday, July 04, 2008
| A Far Green Country In which I saw an antelope. On the way to Bismarck yesterday, we saw some kind of varmint off in the distance. It was an antelope. I had never seen one before. Like the friendly badger, the industrious beaver, and the suicidal pheasant, the antelope is common here in North Dakota. There are lots of other walking, creeping, and flying things that man hasn't yet exterminated. I can't imagine what it must have been like here a hundred years ago. Probably the same way it was in Oklahoma, before the state got hooked on meth and whatnot. North Dakota is a clean, beautiful state. It was settled primarily by Germans and Scandinavians. The settlers came here looking for a better life, and they did it the old fashioned way: legally. They learned the language and culture of a new land, but they also preserved their own distinct cultural identity. Garrison Keillor noted these people came from Scandinavia, seeking to escape the harsh and bitter winters, and the poor and rocky soil. They settled in a place in the New World that almost perfectly replicated the land from which they fled. They did not watch much television. The vast majority became farmers. They planted whatever they thought they could sell, and they hoped that Providence would bless them with rain and sunshine in proper quantities. Providence often blessed them with neither. Many prospered, though, and they bought up acres and acres of land. It isn't uncommon, even today, for families to own thousands of acres. Good for them. Good for me if I find some rich old widder woman to marry me. Even better for them today, is the prospect of untold riches in oil revenues. Geologists and oil companies have known for a long time there was oil in this region. The only problem was that good old Providence stored the oil in formations that made it difficult to reach and harvest. Thanks to oil industry pioneers and innovators like J.R. Ewing, technology has made it possible and profitable to get to that oil. Whereas the damn arabs can get to their inferior, albeit plentiful oil with a scimitar, we Americans have to work for ours. Never mind WE taught the ingrates how to get it and refine it. I suppose American capitalists also taught them to employ price gouging – in direct violation of the sacred teachings of the koran, as made up by mohammed. I'd have to ask noted muslim scholar, Barack Obama, about the koran. But I digress. I don't know much about the oil in North Dakota, other than what I read at the world's information source, Wikipedia. Estimates of reserves here in the Bakken Field range from 4-5 billion barrels to 200-400 billion barrels. How I hope the latter estimate is closer to the truth. If we can get to it, and there is that much down there, we can do what I've been dreaming of since the first "energy crisis" in 1973: tell the arabs and their wretched ilk to suck it. You know I mean that in a nice way. We'll return to those halcyon days of driving aircraft carriers, and paying twenty nine cents a gallon for gasoline. Here's hoping that the wonderful families who built and preserved this terrific state, who farmed during times of challenge and adversity, who endured what I am told are Stalingrad-like winters, and who had the smarts to buy up all the land they could… Wonderful, industrious Aryan folk settled, built, and live in this clean state. They are friendly, thoughtful and helpful. They conduct themselves as Americans used to conduct themselves, as if all of us had COMMON SENSE. I've observed they mostly act as if their neighbors, or anyone else they encounter, will do the next right thing, rather than the next dumb or inexplicable thing. People don't bother to lock their cars. People don't worry someone is going to come along and steal their stuff. Why should they? No one would. They'd give it to you if you needed it. Unlike Oklahoma City, one man didn't buy up all the McDonald's restaurants and then employ only – ONLY – people who cannot and will not speak English. Those of you who live in Oklahoma City know exactly what I am talking about. In this wonderful state, one does not encounter people who cannot or will not speak English. Other than a few Canadians, but that is okay. Traffic is a good example of the great life here. There is no traffic to speak of. Yesterday, I had the interesting fortune to end up behind an elderly gentleman in a pickup truck. I'll bet he was a World War I veteran. He looked like a typical, though aged farmer. I did not realize a vehicle could actually be driven THAT SLOWLY without being stopped. The speed of his (and my) vehicle would not register on the speedometer. It didn't bother me, because I was in a good mood, and I, like everyone else up here, was in no particular hurry to get anywhere. So I followed this old man, who wasn't about to cause an accident. People could push a stalled car faster than we were going, believe me. We turned a corner, our little procession, and I spied a young man, likely a high school student, in another car. He noticed how slowly this man (and the rest of us) was driving. It was amusing. He smiled at me. I read a lot in his expression, "isn't it funny how slowly that guy is driving, and ain't it cool this old guy is still around, and that he is still brave enough to drive to the store? Let's all give him a break, because life up here is slower and better." And cleaner. With antelopes. And oil. We were going slowly enough for me to read quite a bit from a smile. In some places, such a young man would have yelled some unnecessary obscenity, or honked, or flipped off the old guy, or done something rude or stupid that didn't help matters one bit. Or shot him. But in Beulah, North Dakota, atop 200 billion barrels of oil, a young guy summed up the potentially annoying situation with a smile. Still, we desperately need a Starbuck's. And they need to learn how to make a decent glass of iced tea. Then we'd have Valhalla, and I'd make a good Valkyrie. I'm jus' sayin'. "And of the Independence of the United States of America, the two hundred and thirty second." Don't be so hard on France. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. If it hadn't been for French aid during the Revolutionary War, we'd all be speaking English today, instead of Spanish. "We have it within our power to being the world over again. Don't muck it up." --Thomas Paine and RPH. RPH, Esq., N.V. |
contemplative Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Return of the Native
Sunday, June 22, 2008
| The Return of the Native I am back in North Dakota for three weeks. It isn't as hot here, and it isn't that humid either. Course I can't use my cell phone up here, because stupid ATT won't build a tower because they are racist or something. No one to text. Nothingness. Desolation. The end of all things. In my room, I have my western view again. I stand there for hours and watch the grass grow and the waters flow, comforted by the knowledge that growing grass and flowing water mean the United States government will never break its promises to the Indians. The Native Americans, not the people to whom we are routed and outsourced, who "help" us when we call an 800 number. When I called the XM help line the other day, I was assigned to an associate whose accent was so thick she made that 7-11 character on "The Simpsons," (Apu) sound like Sir Laurence Olivier. I had to ask her to repeat herself two or three times. She kept saying, "sir? Sir? Will you?" "Will I what," I'd answer. Then I'd explain I didn't know what she said, but I'd do it if only she'd get my XM to work. She didn't. Then I suggested they use their nukes on Iran, but she advised that wasn't her department. Said her name was "Bridgett," though. Yes. Right. Eat more cows then. In five years, no one will speak or read English. Here's some luck. Our luggage didn't make it with us to Bismarck. But -- since I'd wisely upgraded to first class (big wow, these days - gave me a sack of nuts), they brought the luggage to us in Beulah, which is 75 miles from Otto von Bismarck. Economy passengers were advised to suck it. Here's more luck. I was whining about wanting the western view. (The eastern view is asphalt and people gunning the engines of motor cycles). The front desk clerk felt sorry for me, and she gave me the only available room with the view: the honeymoon suite. So here I sit, in a three room suite with a jacuzzi, a sofa, two arm chairs, an actual desk, coffee tables, microwave, refrigerator, two televisions, and an automatic fireplace. The jacuzzi is surrounded by mirrors for some reason. These things happen to me every day. Still, no one will get in the jacuzzi with me. The room isn't costing my company any more than the usual crap room with stains on the bedspread. You know what i'm sayin'. So I'm going to walk around nekkid and urinate on things so people will know I've stayed here in this swell room, son. This is as close as I will ever get to marriage. I already miss all of my imaginary friends in Oklahoma, especially my life affirming, faith promoting sponsor. Until something interesting or annoying happens, I am, RPH, Esq., N.V (c) Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, LLC |
romantic Sunday, June 8, 2008
Lyn Nofziger's 84th Birthday
Sunday, June 08, 2008
| Lyn Nofziger’s 84th Birthday Friday, June 6th, 2008, marked the 64th Anniversary of Allied invasion of Normandy. Today, June 8th, 2008, would have been my friend Lyn Nofziger's 84th birthday. We lost him two years ago to cancer. I hate cancer. A lot.
Lyn was at Omaha Beach on D-Day. He landed in the Dog Red sector. It was not like a Hogan's Heroes episode either. He "celebrated" his 20th birthday somewhere in Normandy. He was someone I trusted with things I wouldn't tell anyone else. He made me feel better. He encouraged me. He advised me. He helped me land some terrific jobs. He helped me get into law school. He made fun of me for buying a Rolex watch, because his $10 Timex did the same thing. He corrected my grammar. He wrote poems for me on my birthdays. He loved Ted Williams and baseball. He read the comics before the bad news. He was the coolest guy I've ever met. His sense of humor was unique and priceless. He'd let me work his crossword puzzle when I visited. He flew out for my law school graduation. He always took my Mother and me to a super expensive and fancy restaurant when she visited me in Washington.
We stand on a lonely, windswept point on the northern shore of France. The air is soft, but 40 years ago at this moment, the air was dense with smoke and the cries of men, and the air was filled with the crack of rifle fire and the roar of cannon. At dawn, on the morning of the 6th of June, 1944, 225 Rangers jumped off the British landing craft and ran to the bottom of these cliffs. Their mission was one of the most difficult and daring of the invasion: to climb these sheer and desolate cliffs and take out the enemy guns. The Allies had been told that some of the mightiest of these guns were here and they would be trained on the beaches to stop the Allied advance. The Rangers looked up and saw the enemy soldiers--the edge of the cliffs shooting down at them with machine guns and throwing grenades. And the American Rangers began to climb. They shot rope ladders over the face of these cliffs and began to pull themselves up. When one Ranger fell, another would take his place. When one rope was cut, a Ranger would grab another and begin his climb again. They climbed, shot back, and held their footing. Soon, one by one, the Rangers pulled themselves over the top, and in seizing the firm land at the top of these cliffs, they began to seize back the continent of Europe. Two hundred and twenty-five came here. After two days of fighting, only 90 could still bear arms. Behind me is a memorial that symbolizes the Ranger daggers that were thrust into the top of these cliffs. And before me are the men who put them there. These are the boys of Pointe du Hoc. These are the men who took the cliffs. These are the champions who helped free a continent. These are the heroes who helped end a war. Gentlemen, I look at you and I think of the words of Stephen Spender's poem. You are men who in your "lives fought for life . . . and left the vivid air signed with your honor.'' I think I know what you may be thinking right now--thinking, "We were just part of a bigger effort; everyone was brave that day.'' Well, everyone was. Do you remember the story of Bill Millin of the 51st Highlanders? Forty years ago today, British troops were pinned down near a bridge, waiting desperately for help. Suddenly, they heard the sound of bagpipes, and some thought they were dreaming. Well, they weren't. They looked up and saw Bill Millin with his bagpipes, leading the reinforcements and ignoring the smack of the bullets into the ground around him. Lord Lovat was with him--Lord Lovat of Scotland, who calmly announced when he got to the bridge, "Sorry I'm a few minutes late,'' as if he'd been delayed by a traffic jam, when in truth he'd just come from the bloody fighting on Sword Beach, which he and his men had just taken. There was the impossible valor of the Poles who threw themselves between the enemy and the rest of Europe as the invasion took hold, and the unsurpassed courage of the Canadians who had already seen the horrors of war on this coast. They knew what awaited them there, but they would not be deterred. And once they hit Juno Beach, they never looked back. All of these men were part of a rollcall of honor with names that spoke of a pride as bright as the colors they bore: the Royal Winnipeg Rifles, Poland's 24th Lancers, the Royal Scots Fusiliers, the Screaming Eagles, the Yeomen of England's armored divisions, the forces of Free France, the Coast Guard's "Matchbox Fleet'' and you, the American Rangers. Forty summers have passed since the battle that you fought here. You were young the day you took these cliffs; some of you were hardly more than boys, with the deepest joys of life before you. Yet, you risked everything here. Why? Why did you do it? What impelled you to put aside the instinct for self-preservation and risk your lives to take these cliffs? What inspired all the men of the armies that met here? We look at you, and somehow we know the answer. It was faith and belief; it was loyalty and love. The men of Normandy had faith that what they were doing was right, faith that they fought for all humanity, faith that a just God would grant them mercy on this beachhead or on the next. It was the deep knowledge--and pray God we have not lost it--that there is a profound, moral difference between the use of force for liberation and the use of force for conquest. You were here to liberate, not to conquer, and so you and those others did not doubt your cause. And you were right not to doubt. You all knew that some things are worth dying for. One's country is worth dying for, and democracy is worth dying for, because it's the most deeply honorable form of government ever devised by man. All of you loved liberty. All of you were willing to fight tyranny, and you knew the people of your countries were behind you. The Americans who fought here that morning knew word of the invasion was spreading through the darkness back home. They thought--or felt in their hearts, though they couldn't know in fact, that in Georgia they were filling the churches at 4 a.m., in Kansas they were kneeling on their porches and praying, and in Philadelphia they were ringing the Liberty Bell. Something else helped the men of D-Day: their rock-hard belief that Providence would have a great hand in the events that would unfold here; that God was an ally in this great cause. And so, the night before the invasion, when Colonel Wolverton asked his parachute troops to kneel with him in prayer he told them: Do not bow your heads, but look up so you can see God and ask His blessing in what we're about to do. Also that night, General Matthew Ridgway on his cot, listening in the darkness for the promise God made to Joshua: "I will not fail thee nor forsake thee.'' These are the things that impelled them; these are the things that shaped the unity of the Allies. When the war was over, there were lives to be rebuilt and governments to be returned to the people. There were nations to be reborn. Above all, there was a new peace to be assured. These were huge and daunting tasks. But the Allies summoned strength from the faith, belief, loyalty, and love of those who fell here. They rebuilt a new Europe together. There was first a great reconciliation among those who had been enemies, all of whom had suffered so greatly. The United States did its part, creating the Marshall Plan to help rebuild our allies and our former enemies. The Marshall Plan led to the Atlantic alliance--a great alliance that serves to this day as our shield for freedom, for prosperity, and for peace. In spite of our great efforts and successes, not all that followed the end of the war was happy or planned. Some liberated countries were lost. The great sadness of this loss echoes down to our own time in the streets of Warsaw, Prague, and East Berlin. Soviet troops that came to the center of this continent did not leave when peace came. They're still there, uninvited, unwanted, unyielding, almost 40 years after the war. Because of this, Allied forces still stand on this continent. Today, as 40 years ago, our armies are here for only one purpose--to protect and defend democracy. The only territories we hold are memorials like this one and graveyards where our heroes rest. We in America have learned bitter lessons from two World Wars: It is better to be here ready to protect the peace than to take blind shelter across the sea, rushing to respond only after freedom is lost. We've learned that isolationism never was and never will be an acceptable response to tyrannical governments with an expansionist intent. But we try always to be prepared for peace; prepared to deter aggression; prepared to negotiate the reduction of arms; and, yes, prepared to reach out again in the spirit of reconciliation. In truth, there is no reconciliation we would welcome more than a reconciliation with the Soviet Union, so, together, we can lessen the risks of war, now and forever. It's fitting to remember here the great losses also suffered by the Russian people during World War II: 20 million perished, a terrible price that testifies to all the world the necessity of ending war. I tell you from my heart that we in the United States do not want war. We want to wipe from the face of the Earth the terrible weapons that man now has in his hands. And I tell you, we are ready to seize that beachhead. We look for some sign from the Soviet Union that they are willing to move forward, that they share our desire and love for peace, and that they will give up the ways of conquest. There must be a changing there that will allow us to turn our hope into action. We will pray forever that some day that changing will come. But for now, particularly today, it is good and fitting to renew our commitment to each other, to our freedom, and to the alliance that protects it. We are bound today by what bound us 40 years ago, the same loyalties, traditions, and beliefs. We're bound by reality. The strength of America's allies is vital to the United States, and the American security guarantee is essential to the continued freedom of Europe's democracies. We were with you then; we are with you now. Your hopes are our hopes, and your destiny is our destiny. Here, in this place where the West held together, let us make a vow to our dead. Let us show them by our actions that we understand what they died for. Let our actions say to them the words for which Matthew Ridgway listened: "I will not fail thee nor forsake thee.'' Strengthened by their courage, heartened by their value [valor], and borne by their memory, let us continue to stand for the ideals for which they lived and died. Thank you very much, and God bless you all. *** ©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, LLC |
thoughtful 