• Jurassic Park


    I don't belong.

    Not in this brave new world, I don't.

    Guys like me are throwbacks, or better yet, relics of a past so dim in recent memory that most members of modern society look upon us as lumbering dinosaurs, crashing through the modern autocratic forests, fangs bared, bellowing in frustration as we realize that our time has come and gone. It is a brave new world out there, a brave new world that has passed us by, a brave new world that has been crafted by new gods strange and unfamiliar to us, a brave new world that no longer has room for us.

    We dinosaurs, men and women alike, and of varying ages, colors and creeds, were raised on something called personal responsibility; the now-fossilized assumption that if you were hungry you made your own money and provided for yourself, and for your loved ones. The "pursuit of happiness" was and is real to us. We dinosaurs laid our eggs; hatched our eggs, nurtured our young and raised them to become responsible adults, but to our everlasting discredit we dinosaurs, when confronted with a changing world, thrashed and bellowed and filled the landscape with fearsome noises full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The world has passed us by, and I see a future in which we once lords of all the earth will be no more than ossified shadows encased in stone, waiting to be chipped out by curious future generations who will marvel at our great size and strength, our rows of razor-sharp fangs and scimitar-like claws. They will create models that will simulate us and future students will flood museums to hear our faux selves bellow and gnash our teeth and they will tremble at our memory. After the show they will be lectured on how and why we dinosaurs died off, in spite of our size and strength. These wide-eyed children of the future will be taught, accurately, that we dinosaurs were inflexible creatures who could not and would not, conform. We clung to a prehistoric values system, consumed meat on a tofu planet, attempted to keep the blood line strong to ensure the future of the species. Life passed us by while we lived in a world of our own creation, a world that slowly shrunk around us, tightening like a noose until we were strangled by our inability to change with the times.

    Case in point? Waukegan, IL schools have decided to now feed all children in the system. Not hungry children. Not disadvantaged children. Not some children, but all children:

    The logic behind this is that so many children are now "poor" that it is cheaper just to set out breakfast and lunch for everyone than to engage in cost-prohibitive means testing. We Jurassics read this and bellow. The public schools have long been a concern of ours, especially their propensity to more and more become the nation's parents. We feel it is our duty as parents to teach our progeny to hunt and provide for themselves, so we roar and claw at the air and grind our teeth; but no one is listening. While we perform our histrionics the rest of the jungle is lining up for free lunch.

    But we know it is not free. The price for this is enormous. It comes at a cost that cannot be measured in dollars and cents, but rather in soul. I know how ridiculous this sounds to the masses, and that many of you out there who are reading this are laughing to yourselves right now, chuckling at the old Tyrannosaur, the museum piece who belongs locked away in a glass case and stifled, forcibly muted, his old bones frozen in time.

    I agree. So que up for your free breakfast and lunch and free trips to the doctor and free rent and free utilities and free TV and free transportation and freedom from heartache and pain and disappointment. You have taken "pursuit" out of the happiness equation. The government now provides life, liberty and happiness. You no longer have to pursue fulfillment; Congress will do it for you.

    Good for you. Now let this dinosaur and his old bones rest. There is no room for me in your brave new world, and there is no room for you in mine.

    Lenny Palmer 8/30/2011


  • Shut Up & Lift


    I have one truly good friend. He's been my best buddy since high school, and remains so to this day. That we are friends amazes many; he is conservative, slow to move, cautious and reserved in both his manner and his speech. I on the other hand have always been reckless, more than willing to voice my opinions, even when they alienate others and have a "damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead" attitude about everything in life. He likes to spread out risk, move slowly before making a decision. I pick up the dice and roll the whole bundle every time.

    Our common bond comes from our fathers, both Depression-era hard-asses who raised their children with a firm hand. My dad was a combat vet of Europe, his father slogged it through the jungles of the Pacific in deadly combat with the Japanese. His father labored like a sled dog as a milkman, back in the days when you had the affordable convenience of having milk, butter, eggs & cheese delivered to your doorstep at your discretion. My dad was a butcher by trade, and spent long hours at back-breaking work to support his family. Our fathers knew each other and respected each other. They were old school, and unafraid to put a boot up their son's asses if it was called for. And it was called for. A lot.

    They expected their sons to man up and accept responsibility. Like working for a living, and putting bread on the table for their wives and children. And not laying a hand in anger on their wives. And not making excuses for their own bad behavior. This was instilled in their sons at an early age, and we were expected to toe that hard but very simple mark. It wasn't easy living up to them, and it still isn't. Every day when I make what I consider to be a poor decision, I look over my shoulder expecting to see my father, disapproving frown curling his brow. Or worse yet, receiving a cuff up side the head from his muscular hand. No chance of either, though; my father has been in his grave for seven years. The memory of him, and his hard and simple life's lessons, are so strong that they color my own decisions to this day.

    I live with my 18-year-old son, and the difference between his generation and mine are in your face and to an old hard-liner like myself, appalling. He was for all intents and purposes separated from his father for five years, and grew up without a father's influence. I blame myself for this, but whatever the case he is with me now and I am attempting to instill those values upon him that my father drummed into me. It isn't as easy, though. A slap upside the head these days is not only counter productive but can also find a parent on the wrong side of the law. So much parental authority has been usurped by those in charge that a caring mom or dad is hesitant to apply any parental authority, whether a hand to the backside or a trip to the bedroom without supper. The "Usurpers" have also told parents that they are too stupid or too lazy to feed their children properly, or teach them the proper life's lessons, and they have removed these troublesome aspects of parenthood from the parents and transferred them to the public schools. To make it easier we also over diagnose ADD and ADHD and ply our very young with mind-numbing pills to make them more suppliant to those who make the rules. It has all become such a circus of mismanagement that I sometimes wonder why people would even desire to have children these days.

    I've enjoyed the pleasure of my son's company for the past 18 months, and it has been rough. He's coming around, slow but sure. He's working full-time, and I'll have him back in school so he can get his high school diploma and move on to higher education, or perhaps learn a viable trade. That of course will be his decision. That is part of the dad process, too. Expecting your daughters and sons to mature enough to make their own decisions in their adult lives. He is washing his own clothes and learning how to cook his own meals. I'm on him like a bum on a baloney sandwich at all times, and he protests mightily, but he does it in the end. I explain to him when he asks me why I'm so relentless that I'm dad and that's what good dads do. He doesn't quite understand it now, but he will, probably long after I'm gone, or when he has children of his own.

    Back to my buddy. Another of our common bonds has been pumping iron, and we both became incredibly proficient at it; he as a body builder, me as an Olympic-style weightlifter. We were good at the discipline it takes to excel in these demanding endeavors. That discipline is thanks to our upbringing, and we still hammer away at the gym 5-6 days a week, in spite of our advancing years. It's become habit, and a damned good one, I might add. We were pumping iron at the gym and I found myself complaining mightily about my son; whether he would straighten up, man up, understand what it takes to be an adult . . . I was doing so much whining that I didn't realize that I was getting on my pal's nerves. Right in the middle of one of my self-serving polemics he stared me square in the eye and said, "Shut up and lift."

    Shut up and lift. Four words simply delivered and yet so on the mark. I could almost see the ghost of his old man behind him as he spoke, and the spirit of my own father behind him.

    Shut up and lift. I can only hope that my own son experiences that uncomplicated epiphany. It needs no scientific explanation, or high-priced study, or bar chart or pie chart, or draconian piece of legislation or punitive taxation to force you into compliance.

    Shut up and lift. It's called life, and in spite of our bloviated modern protestations, it hasn't changed much since the time of the pharaohs, has it?

    I shut up. And I lifted.

    And so should all of us.

    Lenny Palmer 8/28/2011


  • We Have Met The Enemy And He Is Us


    It is never ceases to amaze me how utterly intellectually bankrupt Americans can be and how so many of us are willing to surrender sacred personal liberties for government oversight. Case in point: There is now a hue and cry over "starving, malnourished" American children. In a study commissioned by ConAgra (surprise!), the world's largest producer of processed foods, they claim that a full 10+% of American children are starving:

    I have always said on my radio show that the most important component of any news story is not what is said, but what is unsaid. The white spaces between the words say much more than the words themselves. Like the interesting coincidence that ConAgra commissions this study just as Congress is contemplating cutting the enormous food entitlements to the "poor." This would mean billions of dollars in lost revenue for the huge food conglomerates, so therefore a study proving that cutting these entitlements would further starve already starving children is good business. Your children are decimal points on their balance sheets; no more, no less. Tugging at your heart-strings and waving "starving" children in front of your face will shame you to support their profit margins. Smart people, and they know you'll wither under any criticism. It's for the children, after all. And increased sales for their nutritous product, Crunch n' Munch, among other healthy ConAgra entrees you see the food-stamp crowd loading in their grocery carts.

    Conversely, another news story breaks, claiming that fully half of us will be unrepentant fat-asses by 2030:

    Again, the main thrust of this story is that the government needs to intervene in your private life, this time via punitive taxes to force you to eat the diet they feel creates a healthy lifestyle. Never mind that this smacks of Nazi Germany, the last government so inclined to get deeply involved in their citizens' personal decisions. You seem to desire the government nipple, the government guiding hand, to suckle on the all-encompassing, monstrous, milk-sodden government mammaries. It was no quirk of fate that in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,"  Ken Kesey gave Nurse Ratched huge breasts. She epitomized the "Big Mother" of big government; that maniacal desire to never let go, to keep Little Susie and Little Johnny connected to the umbilical cord, greedily sucking at the government teat. But I doubt many of you got it; you were more transfixed by the crazy people in the asylum in the movie, not the real message of  the book. Hollywood took an important vision of the future and made it a circus sideshow, replete with drooling freaks and geeks and you bought it. Hook, line and sinker.

    What exactly is a "healthy" lifestyle? Remember a few years back when coffee was billed as the devil's brew? Now it is being hailed as a wonder beverage, capable of offsetting Alzheimer's, sharpening mental faculties and yes, even helping the heart and nervous system. Eggs were bad, but now they're good, especially the oft-maligned yolks. There are even studies that now question the efficacy of non-fat diets and extoll the virtues of the healthy benefits of saturated fats:

    How many of you remember grandparents who ate bacon and eggs every morning, pot roast in the evening, drank hot black coffee and plenty of sweets and lived into their 80s and 90s? How did they do it? The answer is easy: attitude. These were tough old dudes and broads who faced every morning ready to make the best of each and every day. They appreciated life. They appreciated being in a free country that gave them the opportunity to make free decisions about their own lives. They didn't look to the government for a handout or a friendly pat on the head. Or some half-assed elected official's guide posts on what to eat, or whether or not they should smoke, or drink, or nosh a bacon double cheeseburger. The government was there to protect them from enemies, foreign and domestic, and not much else. Why should you expect anything more than that? Why would uneducated working class people know so much more than you about what this great country is actually all about? You have access to infinite amounts of information, infinite largess, infinite freedoms, and yet you are willing to throw it all away? Why? Tell me why?

    Let me leave you with a final thought; a quote from one of my earlier blogs on this web site:

    "Today's prophet is tomorrow's punch line."

    Start learning to think for yourselves again. If you don't you are doomed to the mindless comfort and total dependence of Nurse Ratched's milk-sodden teats. You may want that, but not I, dear friends, not I.

    Lenny Palmer 8/26/11


  • The Dead Man's Chair


    I saw it for the first time early on a Friday morning.

    I was on my way to work and the family down the street was carrying all sorts of stuff down their driveway and setting them out on their lawn for a three day rummage sale. Rocking chairs and rocking horses, lawn chairs and lawn darts, kitchen table and kitchen chairs, bookcases, televisions, radios, clothing and old toys; it looked as if they were cleaning the entire house out in ready for a move across the country. I rubbernecked the stuff with an uninterested glance. Nothing much for a recently single and very non-domestic guy like me.

    Except for the lime green overstuffed chair they set right out in front on their parkway lawn. It had fat rolling arms and thick cushions and one of those off-the-wall colors that identified it as a relic from the 1930s or 1940s. It reminded me of a chair in my grandmother's living room, only hers had been a deep purple with a faint paisley print. I had buried myself in the incredibly soft comfort of that chair as a boy. It was like a magic carpet to me, and I traveled to strange worlds in my imagination while in that chair, as the delicious aromas of Nonna's Italian kitchen wafted through the apartment. I loved that old sitter, and I knew I wanted its near-twin parked on the street side grass. I pulled my car over and parked, got out and hailed down the ruddy cheeked guy who was wheezing as he carried the flotsam and jetsam of his life out of his house and onto his lawn.

    "Nice chair," I said, gesturing to the old seat.

    He stopped and mopped his brow with a checkered handkerchief. "Yup."

    "How much?"  asked him.

    He paused and gave it a long look. "I dunno. A hundred bucks, I guess."

    "It's an antique," he explained as I got back into my car and drove away. One hundred dollars was about 99 dollars too much for me in those days.

    I drove by the house on my way back to work. They were hauling what was left of their items into their garage. It looked like they'd sold about half of it, but the old chair was still there.

    On Saturday morning I drove by and the chair was back in its spot on the parkway drive. This time there was a crudely lettered sign propped up on the seat: "Antique chair. $75." So the price had come down a bit. I would wait and see; savvy shopper, me.

    That evening, I drove by again. They had sold more of their stuff, but the old chair was still there, waiting to be hauled into the garage and back out again in the morning.

    The next morning the chair was back out and the $75 price had been crossed out on the sign and replaced with $50. It was Sunday, the last day of the rummage sale. I would wait and see. I was patient as a fisherman, waiting to hook that lunker trout in the stream. It was a test of wills, and I was going to win. That chair would be mine. I couldn't wait to sink into its overstuffed comfort, dreaming the old dreams I'd had as a child.

    The day seemed to drag as a dilly-dallied with this and that, marking time, waiting to sink the hook and reel in my prize.

    I drove by as the sun was just beginning to set. The lawn was clear of just about everything. Except the chair. There it sat forlornly, like a stray dog in the pound, passed over by all the families looking to adopt a family pet. I pulled up to the curb and parked the car.

    The same ruddy-faced man was in the process of picking up the chair. I knew he didn't relish carrying it back into the house again, only to haul it back out and leave for the garbage man in the next few weeks.

    "Nice chair," I said.

    He didn't recognize me. "It's an antique," he said.

    "I bet. How much?"

    He gave me a quizzical look while closing one eye. "I dunno. 25 bucks?"

    I pulled out the few bills I had in my pocket. "I have $12."

    "Take it," he said. I handed him the twelve and he assisted me in fitting it as best we could into my trunk. It hung out, of course, but not enough to drop out when I took it home. I had done it. I had hooked the lunker and reeled him in. I sighed with tremendous self-satisfaction, feeling pretty damned good about myself.

    He stared at it, hands on his hips. "My father-in-law loved that chair," he said.

    I was climbing into the car, ready to take my hard-won booty home. "Really?" I said. "That's nice."

    "Yup," he said. "He died in that damned chair."

    I paused, key in the ignition, and stared, open-mouthed, back at him.

    "Enjoy it," he said, and walked back up his drive and into his house.

    Dammit, I thought; who had hooked whom?

    I turned the key and drove the dead man's chair home, my lunker trout now hanging out of my trunk like an unwanted, bulbous carp.

    c'est la vie.

    Lenny Palmer 8/24/2011


  • Dad, Did You Ever Kill Someone?


    Years ago I ran a weekly newspaper, the type of community rag that dealt with local issues, carried plenty of "grip and grin" shots and had a substantial advertiser base. So much so that I was able to sell it for a healthy profit after five years of blood, sweat and tears and purchase a stately old 1914 brick home for my wife and family. The back yard of that home was also home to an ancient apple tree, a battered tool shed and a tangle of underbrush. I cleared away the brush and constructed a three-tiered flower garden up against a stockade fence as per my wife's instructions. I cleaned out the old shed, scraped and painted it a bright white. As a finishing touch I built a tree house in the old apple tree for our then three children. It was a spring and summer's full of work, but when my wife and I stood back to admire the fruits of our labor we realized something was missing:

    A tree.

    Now we had the old apple tree but it was close to the house, and it was an expansive back yard (they built them long and narrow in the old days, to avoid city street frontage taxes) and it seemed empty. We thought on it for a few days and then decided we wanted to plant an oak, a tree that would provide us with shade in the summer and a place under which our growing family could picnic, and play. I had written an article a few years earlier about a local man who was in the business of planting trees for free, a sort of local Johnny Appleseed, and I gave him a ring, told him our plans and asked him if he could come over and plant a mighty oak in our back yard. He agreed, and stopped by the next day.

    He was a mangy character, with a pencil-thin goatee and the look of the rebel about him. He carried a plain metal bucket filled with dirt, and in that dirt was an oak sapling, probably no more than a foot high.

    "Where do you want it?" he asked. I pointed to a spot dead center in the yard and he looked around and pronounced it satisfactory. He got down on his hands and knees and with a trowel he had brought with him began to dig a hole in the earth. He sprinkled some fertilizer in the hole, then placed the tiny tree in the hole and covered it with the earth he had dug out of the hole. He patted it down firm, then stood.

    "There," he said. "Now you have your tree. Water it well."

    I stared at the upright spindly stick with its few tattered leaves. He read the disappointment in my face.

    "Something wrong?" he asked.

    "I just thought it would be bigger,"I said. "We were hoping for some shade, something to block the sun."

    He put his hands on his hips and looked straight into my eyes. "Listen," he replied. "You don't plant a tree for you. You plant it for your kids, and your grandkids. And their grandkids."

    "If you want me to take it back," he said. "I will."

    "No," I replied.  I was embarrassed. To him, I sounded like just another selfish American, worried about the moment, all about me before anyone else, and he was probably right. A tree is for future generations. You enjoy the trees planted by those before you as they enjoyed the trees planted by the generations that preceded theirs. That's the way it is, and that's the way it should be. We have to once again understand that simple fact in America: that we are planting seeds for the future, and not just for ourselves.

    I am going through this right now, with my youngest child. He is 18, and slowly coming to grips with being a man. It is not easy thing to do these days. The genders have been blurred, and many of the once-admired male characteristics are now out of fashion. Boys are confused, looking for answers, for support. But he is still growing into manhood, whatever that means today.

    He asked me a question before leaving for work this morning: "Dad, did you ever kill someone?"

    Stunned, I paused from my work at the computer. "Why would you ask such a question?"

    "Because I just think you could have done it. Did you?"

    I had a mighty reputation back in the day as a very violent person, and although I've never regaled my children with the misadventures of my misspent youth he must have heard something somewhere. It was a completely innocuous question, asked without malice and perhaps even a hint of admiration in his voice. It dismayed me that he would have had such a thought about his father. And perhaps believe that murder was something to be admired.

    "No," I replied. "Never." Then I added, "And don't ever think that violent acts make the man. They don't."

    I shook his hand. "See you after work, okay?"

    "Okay, dad."

    Did it sink in? I don't know, but I had planted the seed, and now I was nurturing the tree. I cannot for the life of me remember that long-ago Johnny Appleseed's name, but I've never forgotten his lesson. I only hope the trees I leave behind me will provide shade, and comfort, and ripe fruit in the fall and will in their turn plant trees that offer the same to the generations that follow.

    Saccharine sentiment, perhaps, but there is no more nobler goal in life.

    Lenny Palmer 8/21/11


  • An Old Dog's Words of Wisdom


    One  of the nice things about getting long in the tooth is that little things don't ruffle your feathers any more. You've pretty much seen it all and you know what the outcome will be. It's sort of like the young dog and the old dog sleeping on the porch. It's a beautiful summer day and the two of them are taking advantage of the luxurious shade provided by the porch overhang. The old dog is sleeping peacefully, enjoying his quiet time. The young dog hops up every few minutes, ears perked up at every little murmur of wind in the willows, cough, burp, fart, crunch of feet on gravel, backfiring automobile, screaming kids, and any other sound that is snagged by his sensitive ears. He growls at some, barks at others and every once in a great while goes into an absolute frenzy over some perceived danger. He is never at rest, alternately laying, sitting, up on all four paws, occasionally pacing the porch's weathered floorboards. The old dog cocks his wrinkled head, opens a lazy eye and watches the spastic antics of the adolescent pup and wishes he would just shut the hell up, sit down and watch the world go by.

    That's the way I felt yesterday, watching the young pups on TV bellowing that the stock market plunge indicated the end of the world, affixing blame to the President, the Tea Party, the liberal left, the conservative right, the Europeans, the Chinese, the Russians, solar flares, global warming and shadow organizations like the Illuminati. Hell, I was waiting for one of these clowns to blame the Klingons for S&P's downgrading of the U. S. credit rating. Now, please don't misread me here; I'm not totally blase about our current economic fiasco. I'm just not reacting like a pup to the news. I've been here before, and so have you. 1981-82 comes to mind. I was in the process of starting a new business and every week was a crap shoot. There were times I was damned terrified not only for the future of my family, but for the future of the nation as well. But as always hard work and an eye to the future prevailed, not only for my family and me, but also for the nation. So as the pups on TV and radio play Chicken Little and scare the shit out of every living creature on the planet, please remember this: there are no greater whores on the planet than media whores. They will milk this story for all its worth and when the well has run dry move on to another tale of woe. It's what sells newspapers and draws listeners and viewers to TV and radio. And after you've sifted and winnowed the information and gleaned what we hope is some nubbin of truth from it all, ask yourself a simple question: how am I doing right now? Most of you will say A-okay, and if that's the truth then what in the hell do we have to worry about?

    So join an old dog; enjoy the lazy summer shade, listen to the wind in the trees, the sound of feet crunching on gravel and please do not take these innocuous noises as harbingers of doom. Let the young pups bark, and fidget and pace the floorboards. That's what they do best. We old dogs excel at the reasoned approach to tough problems, and that means keeping our cool. And keeping the youngsters in line. If we old dogs do that we can lift the nation out of its economic woes.

    It's time we accepted that responsibility again.

    Lenny Palmer



  • The Depression Chicken



    My dad was one of 13 children raised in northern Wisconsin, just a few miles south of mighty Lake Superior. Times were tough up there during the halcyon Roaring Twenties, and when the stock market collapsed and brought about the Great Depression, it got really tough. To compound things my grandmother died in 1934, when my father was 12, burned to death in a freak kerosene stove fire along with his beloved older sister, Dorothy. To put it bluntly, the old man was hard as nails because he had to be in order to survive the draconian conditions of his childhood. Yet as bad as it was for him as a boy he held many fond memories of growing up in the wild northwoods, trapping and hunting for food to survive, scrounging for whatever job he and his brothers and sisters could find to help put a couple of extra nickels into the family food budget, and he often regaled us with stories of his youth.

    One of the things he would reminisce about to his own children (for whom he provided very well) was what he called the "Depression Chicken." As post World War Two Baby Boomers his kids had of course not experienced their father's hardships so his stories were not so much stern lessons in life's difficulties but rather pleasant little sojourns into dad's memory bank. It wasn't until years later that we realized exactly what he meant by relating these little tales, and just how difficult life had been for him. "What's a Depression Chicken?" we'd ask him, and he'd stir his spoon reflectively in his coffee, as if attempting to conjure up the past.

    "You take your chicken," he replied after a pause. "You roast it in the oven with plenty of carrots, potatoes, celery and onions (cheap, plentiful veggies), and serve it to the family. After they've finished, you strip the leftover meat from the bones, add the leftover veggies and a lot of pan gravy made with the chicken drippings into a big pie plate, cover it with a flour and water crust and bake it in the oven for the next meal. For the next night's supper, mom boils the bones and adds more potatoes, onions, celery and carrots and makes soup, served with wedges of home-baked bread and butter."

    He took a sip of his coffee, staring each of his own six children in the eye. I still remember that look. He could stare right through you, and it was impossible to meet his gaze and hold it. You had to look away. "That way," he said. "You get three suppers out of one chicken." We were young, and we were stupid, and we giggled at the absurdity of it.

    A man who labored like a sled dog to support his family, he took great pride in his possessions. His tools were always hung in their proper place, and used with care. His automobile was spotless, his white shirts pressed crisply and his shoes always shined. We ate very well at our family table, but he didn't allow us to throw food away, including milk. If a glass of milk was half-finished, it went back into the jug to be served at the next meal. It encouraged we older children to make sure our younger siblings drank every last drop. We didn't want to see their backwash in our glasses at the morning breakfast table. To this day and because of his teachings, I love leftovers more than anything else. Like in his home, nothing goes to waste in mine.

    Unlike today's spoiled, self-indulgent youth who believe a chicken only comes with two boneless, skinless breasts and that the government exists only to provide everything for them, men -- and women -- like my father respected the great opportunity this country had to offer: the freedom to work hard and enjoy the fruits of your labor. Some today believe that no longer exists in America, but I disagree. You can put your nose to the grindstone, roll up your sleeves, burn the midnight oil or whatever time-honored homily floats your boat and make your own way in life. It is the single greatest gift to its citizens provided by this greatest of nations. I believe this with every scintilla of my being. I believe it because my father told me so.

    So when the going gets tough remember the story of the Depression Chicken and life won't seem so bad after all.

    And please remember to save me a bowl of that soup.

    Lenny Palmer 8/6/2011



  • It's Time For Some Singapore-Style Ass-Whippings


    Wisconsin . . .

    Beer and cheese land.

    The Green Bay Packers, cows munching contentedly in green pastures.

    Home of Friday fish fry, Usinger's sausage, Pabst Blue Ribbon . . .

    And getting the crap knocked out of you by gangs of black kids at the state fair. If you're white, that is.

    Here's the story that's been making the rounds around the world today. The Wisconsin Sate Fair, most famous for its cream puffs, has now become famous for something else:

    This story tries to downplay the racial aspect, but try as they may the sad fact is that this terrifying trend has become fairly routine in Milwaukee. I discussed the story of gangs of black youths beating the shit out of white people in Milwaukee's Riverwest Park earlier this year and at the tony Mayfair Mall during the last holiday season on my radio show. The gangstas--and that's just what they are--are connecting on social media like Facebook and gathering in groups of sometimes 100 or more and then running amok, stealing, beating white folks and generally acting like Hitlerite storm troopers. Hitler's Brown Shirts beat people because they were Jews; these new Nazis beat people because they are white.

    There is going to be a lot of hand-wringing and excuse making from the social engineers. They'll anguish over this, ask how we got here and of course demand more taxpayer funds to throw at the problem. They are, and have always been assholes with no concept of how the real world works, but I agree with them on one point: the need for taxpayer dollars to help cure this terrible social disease. They of course want to throw millions into more free breakfasts and lunches, more mood-altering and mind-altering drugs, more social workers and after school programs. I do not. I would prefer instead to throw a few thousands of taxpayer dollars into something much more mundane but a hell of a lot less benign: riot sticks. Large, long and heavy hickory sticks to be placed into the beefy fists of cops on horseback who will ride into the crowd in phalanx fashion and wail away with their sticks on youthful noggins. If somebody gets knocked into next week, tough shit. Don't gather at public places and beat on people of a different color if you don't want your ass kicked by the cops. I wouldn't condone this if it were white kids beating up on black people and I don't condone it in the reverse.

    And if some of these wayward "youths" cost extra trouble? Take them and yank their "pants on the ground" to the ground and give them a good Singapore-style bare ass-whipping right there in public, in front of the people they assaulted.

    That's all they understand.

    Have a better solution? Let's hear it.

    Lenny Palmer 8/5/2011


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