What incentive does the “rebate” company have to give your money back to you in a timely fashion, if at all? The terms for recovering your money, euphemistically referred to as a “rebate”, are set by the third party. And therein lies the problem. The original vendor doesn’t care; they already have their money. You can’t turn to a competitor that doesn’t rely on this scheme, because all of these supposedly reputable companies have entered an unholy alliance with these modern-day usurers. And your collection costs are never factored into the equation. To have any hope of collecting your money, you had better send your claim certified mail (add $5.00) or be prepared to produce copies of everything you sent in for the inevitable “We can’t seem to find it, could you send us another copy of your claim form and your receipt?” ploy. Then be ready for the “We’re sorry but your claim was received past the deadline” gambit.

I have looked for products that do not have this inconvenience attached. I’ve even tried to buy software directly from the vendor online, but to no avail. The marketing geniuses have grown too cleaver by half with this scheme. I guess to borrow a phrase from Lewis Black, “They must think we’re just meat with eyes!” How is it possible for consumers to overlook this obvious fraud and continue to go along with it? How is it possible for companies to willfully add this added layer of complication between themselves and their customers and suffer no ill effect in the marketplace?

Why is everyone worried about Muslims being offended for receiving extra scrutiny at airports?  Presumably they want to live, too; and if they don’t, haven’t we identified the problem at that point?

How do the proponents of Marxist philosophy do so with a straight face given that every time it has been tried it has been an utter failure?  This wonderful ideology didn’t work in the Soviet Union despite consuming over 20 million lives while it was being fine-tuned to the inevitable dictatorship it became.  Ignorance is one thing, but willful blindness is quite another.

When someone refers to “Religious Fundamentalists”, why don’t Buddhist Monks or the Amish spring to mind?  Why is it considered impossible to be devout without being dangerous?  Does anyone really fear the Jehovah’s Witnesses?  Aren’t there Secular Fundamentalists, and aren’t they at least as extreme as those they seek to vilify?

Why does Hollywood rail against “Corporate Interests” when everyone in Hollywood is incorporated?  If corporations are evil, why are actors, producers, agents, film companies, special effects companies and every other segment of the film industry incorporated?

Why do they ask you for your ethnicity and sex on a job application “for EEOC Purposes” while simultaneously claiming it makes no difference?  If it makes no difference, why ask the question in the first place?  If it makes no difference, why not ask people after they are hired?  Then the answers couldn’t possibly effect the decision.

How does a physician, schooled in anatomy, reassemble the tissue removed from a woman during an abortion and then reconcile their Hippocratic oath to do no harm with the reassembly of what is obviously a dismembered human?

My intended dug up an old love letter I sent to her when we were both still besotted with one another way back when. I think we all remember those precious times in our lives when love was new, and all things possible. On the eve of my wedding, I thought I would share that letter with you, my readers.

My Dearest Tish,

I usually have no problem expressing myself, but I am overwhelmed at the moment. I pinch myself; is this really happening at last? I am experiencing feelings that I haven’t felt for many, many years. My heart is full of hope for a long awaited new beginning and for now I am content to let it run free and unencumbered. I need some time for my mind to grasp what my heart is so unwaveringly demanding. Be assured that what you are feeling is mutual. I dabbled most of the night last night, unable to sleep. It seems my muse was about and I was moved to compose what follows. I hope this trifle will soothe you during our short but necessary separation.

The Wizard’s Contemplation

The Wizard sits with eastward gaze
And silently peers through the haze
And contemplates the princess there
The one that caught him unaware
So many questions does this raise.

Is he the one that she requires
To kindle in her soul a fire
To worship him as he will her?
Emotions churn and slowly stir
Perhaps she’s all that he desires

He casts once more a patience spell
To stem his need to know her well
So many questions yet unspoken
Silence only barely broken
These yearnings difficult to quell

Anon he’ll be within her sphere
Her presence soon perchance makes clear
The many mysteries she presents
The hours in her company spent
Will fly, he knows, like frightened deer

Befuddled and excited he
Ponders deep the mystery
Then cradles palm about his chin
As presently it comes to him
The answer is to wait and see!

I agree with the Missus. "You're a good guy, Scottie.! Now, explain why you call her Missus if she wants to marry you - which means you are not married yet. That would make her the "Missus in waiting." – Sandra Wise

It’s a fair point worthy of a proper response.  I wanted to pop off a short answer, but as I sat to compose it, I was struck by the complexity of the real answer.  So some history is in order.  When I came along, Tish had been a single parent to two boys for quite some time.  Without a strong masculine role model, the boys were basically out of control and operating without a clue as to what proper male behavior was.  Her authority was non-existent, and the house was in chaos.  She asked me to take the boys under my wing, realizing that something had to be done, and I agreed.

Notwithstanding the inevitable friction this caused initially, I undertook to bring order to the household.  The first thing that had to stop was the boys were not allowed to call their mother by her first name.  I insisted they call her Mom, or Mother, or Ma’am.  In order to reinforce the importance of recognizing that they were not peers with their mother, I took to addressing her as Mrs. Miller in a formal fashion to reinforce her superiority and referring to her as The Missus to the boys.  I also made it clear that she was in charge of the household and her orders were to be followed not only by the boys, but also by me as well.

This clear delineation of authority, and my uncompromising support for it soon changed the tone in the household.  By seeing my respectful treatment of their mother, and my insistence that they do the same, the boys came to appreciate their mother’s inherent authority.  It took a while, but by consistently reinforcing good and correcting inappropriate behavior, the house slowly settled into an orderly place that was a sanctuary for The Missus rather than a second battle front in her life.  Her boys came to appreciate the order in their lives. 

Now the boys are gone out into the world.  But my respect for The Missus hasn’t diminished, and her title has become second nature to me whenever I am in front of others.  So I see no inconsistency in referring to her as such when I present her to the world in my blog.  She was Mrs. Miller; she will soon be Mrs. Scott.  But she is The Missus in this household, and the boys and I are better men for it.

Scottie

As for the second cat critter, I guess I’m just getting soft in my old age.  A couple of months ago a little cat slipped into the house unnoticed when the Missus stepped out to check the mail.  Of course the resident cat was delighted with his new smaller playmate.  I discovered the intruder as the two played a rollicking game of tag throughout the house the following morning.  The new cat looked healthy, but had no collar.  Later that day, she whined to be let out and I obliged, thinking that was the last of it.  She stopped by a couple of times a week and played with our cat for a while, ate her fill from his bowl, and then returned to the great outdoors to continue her routine.  As time went on, we noticed that the little vagabond was losing weight, and dropping by more frequently.  We’ve kept an eye on the lost and found section of the newspaper, but no one seems to be looking for her.

Well, the last couple of weeks have been bitterly cold with daytime temps in the single digits.  Our prodigal houseguest showed up looking the worse for missing a few meals and obviously freezing outdoors.  When I went to get the morning paper, her plaintive cries were more than this old hardass could bear, so I let her in despite the agreement I had with the Missus that we shouldn’t let this intruder in anymore.  She was awful thin, and not likely to make it through the rest of the week in this ungodly cold weather.  So now I have two cats I never wanted.  I just ignore them for the most part, feed them in the morning with enough to get them through the day, clean the cat box, and go about my business.  I haven’t seen much of my lap buddy lately, but I expect he will return after the novelty wears off.  And the little one seems to be making tentative overtures to the Missus, which prompts gushes of maternal doting from her.  I grumble occasionally about having not one but two cats I never asked for and the Missus just kisses me on the bald spot on the top of my head and tells me, “You’re a good man, Scottie.”   Maybe that’s part of why she wants to marry me.

Scottie

Apparently, I’ve been tagged. According to my friend Celtic Dragon, I am obliged to disclose the rules here. I am required to write a blog article disclosing six things about myself that aren’t known and could be considered somewhat idiosyncratic. I am also supposed to “tag” six other people. I am going to willfully violate the rules in that respect as the exponential growth at a factor of six is just way too much to keep up with, and Celtic Dragon has taken many of my preferred targets already. However, I will tag a few of my fellow bloggers that have posted at my previous articles, and hold the rest in reserve. Live in fear!

1. I tear up when I watch Ghost and when I hear Enya singing.

2. I’m a frustrated Norm Abram wannabe. I just hope to one day have an adequate shop space. (I’m thinking 100’ X 200’ should be enough)

3. While I am a voracious reader of serious non-fiction works, South Park is my favorite brain candy.

4. I am a spreadsheet guru. If it can be done in Excel, I can do it, or I know how to find out how.

5. I love Pachebel’s Cannon in D Major, and collect various arrangements of it. My favorite is by the guitarist Jose Miguel Coo from Brazil.

6. Kids see right through me; I’m one of them. I’m always up for a little roughhousing with them, and they seem to know it instinctively. At 6’2” and 290 pounds, I don’t intimidate them at all.

So there you have it; six things about me that you probably didn’t know. Now to pass this little nugget of joy to some unsuspecting friends . . . Hmmmmmm.

Well I think I will pass this proverbial hot potato to:

Sandra Wise from Word to the Wise

And

Peppermint from Peppermints Place

And

Dawncy from Dawn's Early Light

Three other bloggers posting comments on my blog will very likely get tagged in the future.   

Scottie

In our house, none of the clocks tell the same time as any other clock in the house. My beloved seems to require a certain ambiguity that depends largely upon where she is when the issue of time becomes important. In the bedroom, the clock is deliberately set fifteen or even twenty minutes fast in order to spur her into action in the morning by creating the illusion that it is later than it actually is. In the kitchen the stove, microwave and clock radio cannot reach consensus due to the inevitable “creep” inherent in all things when given a mind of their own. The cable box for the television, my computer and my cell phone, receiving their time from a central collective, fare much better.

Certainly there is an objective actual time, but as I’ve grown older I find that I no longer seek it with the precision I did in the corporate world. My days are now governed more by what I intend to accomplish and my stamina than what the hands on my watch indicate. My watch, by the way, is set to match my cell phone whenever it becomes necessary to change the date. If I must be somewhere at an exact time, I usually opt to arrive early, in deference to those as slavishly clock bound as I once was. For them, the quantity of time is of far greater import than its quality. Now if I concede there is a quantity factor with respect to time, I must also concede there is a quality aspect to it as well.

I once scoffed at the idea of spending “quality time” with my children. I can distill the most amazing moments with my children to a few precious hours over the course of many, many years. Those moments would have happened whether I was there to witness them or not. That I was there was more a function of my always being there, and a modicum of luck. Those moments could not be scheduled to happen in the evenings between five and seven o’clock any more than any of the other flashes of insight that happen spontaneously in our lives. When an epiphany happens, it happens of its own accord. To witness this in our children is a gift, but it will happen when it will without regard to our presence.

I have come to reevaluate my position on “quality time” lately. A friend of mine, a cancer survivor, has the good fortune to have his daughter home for a few months between graduating from medical school and starting her residency requirements. It is unlikely that any grand thing will happen during this period; but he is savoring every minute of the precious time he has to spend with her. He realizes that time with this child will be very rare after her career takes off. It was only after reflecting on this that I realized something. Those amazing moments with my kids were exceptional, but the reality was that every interaction I had with my kids was and continues to be “quality time”. I just couldn’t see the quality for the quantity.

I guess I’ll have to factor in the quality of the time I spend as my years drift toward their inevitable end. Whatever my remaining time, I hope it will be spent on things I value, with people I love, doing things that have a meaning beyond myself, as I strive to be worthy of the mercy of the Living God. I pray all of my remaining time will be quality time.

“I went down to the crossroads, got down on my knees . . .”  My how those Clapton lyrics resonate with me these days. I think everyone inevitably finds themselves here at life's crossroads many times in a lifetime. I was here when I was in my mid-twenties at the crossroads of a sustained adolescence and true adulthood. I was here again in my early thirties, when I realized that my life wasn’t what I wanted it to be and that the fault was entirely my own. I find myself here at yet another of life’s crossroads, at the cusp of being old and near the end of my better physical years. I have aches and pains now that for years I could simply shrug off. My eyesight is waning and I need glasses to read now. I don’t heal like I used to. The recovery process, like everything else about me, is slowing down.

I’ve greeted this loss of vigor with outrage and rancor. How on earth could the meager sum of my days lightly lived add to such a grand toll of years? Am I really going to be Fifty in a couple of months? Has it truly come down to this; am I truly at the crossroads again? There’s no escaping it; Yes! It is time to reflect again, to reevaluate things in light of what I’ve learned. Time to clean up my life and set a new course.

I’ve lost a lot and I’m sure to lose more. I just don’t have the stamina I used to have. I have to pace myself now. I have to learn to quit biting off more than I can actually do and do well. I can’t just stuff whatever I want into my mouth anymore; the doc says it’s time to watch these things. I’ll have to learn to savor a little instead of indulging at will. What was once effortless begins now to require effort. I’ll have to decide what exertions are worthy and learn to live with the loss of the things I can no longer do.

But in the losing there is always more to be gained. I lost my adolescence at the crossroads to adulthood. At the time I was saddened by the losses and utterly blinded to the benefits I would receive in exchange. In hindsight, the gains were monumentally greater than the loss. I had two wonderful children in those years. I learned a trade that I loved with the newfound discipline I received. The second time I left the crossroads, I was sure at the time that the cost was more than I could bear. I lost a wife to divorce and my father to the great beyond. I lost a job that had taken all I had and no longer had much to offer in return. In exchange, I received an education and a new profession worthy of my talents. I found a new hobby in close-up magic and was a fixture in the basement at the Magic Castle in Hollywood performing every weekend I could go. I got a fresh start and I made the most of it. In hindsight, I definitely got the better of the exchange.

Now I’m here again, at the crossroads, saying goodbye to many things I’ve long taken for granted. And while I’m sad to lose them, this time I’m as excited as a child on Christmas Eve. I’ve got new challenges ahead, new friends to make, and a fresh sheet of paper on which to draw a meaningful future for myself, and for my bride to be. This time I’m thankful to be here. This time I will not bemoan the loss; rather I will look forward to the new blessings I have yet to realize. I will be thankful for all that has brought me here, to the crossroads of life, once again.

Can you imagine the cost of auto insurance if it had to cover our vehicles as comprehensively as our health insurance covers our bodies? It would have to cover routine maintenance, fuel costs, minor repairs, all normal wear and tear, on top of any catastrophic damage. And how well would we care for our cars if insurance paid for all of these things? What would happen to the cost of an oil change if we were all free to demand synthetic oil and super premium filters for a mere $15 out-of-pocket co-pay?

I’ll bet you could never sell such a stupid idea to your employer. Only the government could push such an economically ignorant plan. Of course this was a logical response at its inception to another stupid government plan, Wage & Price controls. Since employers couldn’t raise wages to attract talented people, when the IRS ruled that employer provided health care insurance was tax deductible, employers turned to this form of Other Compensation. Now they’re stuck with it and face the prospect of being forced farther down this road with plans like Mitt Romney’s, requiring them to provide it whether they want to or not.

I have been without health insurance for some time. What strikes me as particularly surreal is my doctor’s inability to determine what amount I owe him for his services in cash on the day of service. He has no idea what the drugs he prescribes, the procedures he recommends, or the tests he requests, will cost me. He can’t even price his own services. He is utterly clueless about the cost structure of his industry, and has little incentive to find out. The consumer can’t shop around, because the system is so dysfunctional.

I'd also like to touch on the “right” to health care. I know several newly minted physicians. One of my best friend’s kids is getting ready to start her residency requirements. I’ve met her roommates and classmates, aspiring doctors all. They are all superlative people. I’ve never met a better group of people. By what “right” do we propose to take the fruits of their long years of sacrifice and dedication to education? Don’t they have a right to the well deserved benefits accruing to their astronomical investment of time, effort and money? Do we really think these intelligent people will not respond to having their services hijacked in the name of manufactured “Rights” by those unwilling and unable to do what they do? Anyone capable of becoming a doctor is capable of becoming just about anything else they might choose. Creating a powerful disincentive can only be counterproductive in the long run.

The latest wrinkle in this long sad tale is the “New” idea of socialized medicine. The same people that have screwed health care up now use its being screwed up as justification to further screw it up. You know, because the government is just so efficient at running things like education, mail delivery, issuing licenses, and all the other many wonderful things they do. To paraphrase Dr. Thomas Sowell, “Why do those that think health care is expensive now think it will somehow be cheaper after we add a layer of government bureaucracy to it?”

Give individuals the money and access to health insurance. Then they are the paying customers. If an insurance company gives poor service, consumers can take their business to another insurance company. If a doctor charges too much, they can shop around. If the consumer demand existed for up front pricing, it would be available. Suddenly a $5,000 deductible doesn’t sound out of line, does it? Maybe if we had to shell out the $1,000 for a MRI, we’d be more amenable to the $300 CT Scan instead. If we all had to pay for our own insurance, the incentives would straighten things out in pretty short order. If health insurance worked like home owner’s insurance or car insurance, everything else would start making sense, too. The answer isn’t more government. The answer isn’t forcing employers to absorb the costs. The answer isn’t to confiscate the services of doctors. The answer is to return the costs and responsibilities to the consumer and let the magic of the invisible hand make things right again.

Scottie

Two of my children are missing! I don’t recall when they arrived, and I’ve never actually seen them; but they seem to have simply vanished. Their names are “Not Me!” and “I Don’t Know!” Be careful if you run into them as they tend to be quite destructive. Every time something was broken or missing around the house, the other children assured me it was one of these two phantom siblings. I’m not surprised or sad to be rid of these little masters of entropy, but I am surprised by their impact on the world since they’ve left home.

My wife says she hears about them all the time at her insurance office. It seems they are responsible for an alarming portion of the auto accidents here in town. Their handiwork invariably shows up sooner or later in the door panels of many new cars within a week or two of purchase. So I know they‘re driving a vehicle of some sort.

The grocer finds the damaged goods that they break and hide in the back of the shelves, and the refrigerated stock that is left to spoil in various inappropriate places. Their paths through department stores are strewn with damaged merchandise. Every time I go to Home Depot, there are one or two items that do not match in every bin. I can’t just grab ten items, I have to check each one to be sure they are all the same and not seven of what I want and three that I don’t. So I know they’ve been shopping.

They like visiting the local park, too. Their trash is all over the ground, their fires still smoldering in the communal grills. They seem to think that restroom walls cry out for their graffitic witticisms. I think they might have considered painting, but they appear to have ADHD. Maybe they were trying to do some kind of advertising, but someone failed to tell them that a message had to be intelligible to be effective. At least I know they are getting out to play.

It’s strange that we never actually see these two miscreants, only their handiwork. I’m sorry for inflicting these kids upon the rest of you. I would have strangled them myself if I’d ever actually encountered them. Please feel free to do so if you ever do. I’d consider it a personal favor.

I’ve spent a great deal of my adult life avoiding the abortion issue. “Choice” seemed like the moderate course; then I spent some time seriously reflecting on the matter. No matter how I approach this issue, I can no longer side with “Choice” with any intellectual honesty. The choice isn’t about a woman’s right to control her own body; it’s about her “right” to decide the fate of another’s, her baby’s. I cannot escape this conclusion, nor can anyone else once the situation is faced squarely and honestly.

As an analogy, let’s consider a shoplifter that is caught. At that point, I’m sure they are willing to return the stolen merchandise. But the act of shoplifting has already been committed; the bell cannot be un-rung. Similarly, once a woman has conceived, the bell has rung, however unintentionally. An abortion is comparable to requesting a return to the status quo ante, and just like the shoplifter, the relevant act has already been committed and cannot be undone.

While the shopkeeper may accept or decline this request as the injury is to him/her, in the case of the pregnant woman, the party to be spared or injured is the unborn baby. This baby is in no position to permit or forgive the consequence of the decision. In fact, this baby’s right to its destiny and its humanity must be denied for abortion to even be considered.

And it is a baby, make no mistake about that. It looks exactly like every other human baby at that stage of development; it develops just like any other human baby; and if unhindered in its development becomes a fully developed human baby. It is not “a clump of undifferentiated cells”, or a “potential” human being, or any other euphemism put forth to mask the gravity of the situation; it is in fact a human baby under development and nothing less.

The time for a woman to “control her own body” is forfeit once she has conceived. It is no longer her body that suffers the injury, but that of her developing child. While the exceptions for rape and incest are valid in the sense that the culpable party is not the woman but the man - who bears the responsibility for injury to both the woman and the child - this is not the case in more than a small portion of babies conceived. A pregnancy that genuinely threatens the life of the mother is also morally defensible, but again these make up a small portion of cases. Stretch marks, weight gain and all the other “injuries” a woman will rightly claim to suffer from carrying a child to term are more than outweighed by the injury of premature death suffered by an innocent child.

Finally, this developing human being is absolutely innocent. I cannot imagine an act committed before one’s first breath is drawn so grievous as to warrant the death penalty. Is the developing human a citizen? No. Does the law recognize the developing baby as a human being? No. But is it right to kill what we know to be an innocent human being? The only intellectually honest answer here is: No! At its essence, abortion is a question of right and wrong and the rights of the most vulnerable and innocent, not one of women’s rights to control their bodies.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m tremendously proud of her. She’s ready to take her place in the world; she’s earned it. This is the payoff for all the hard work she’s done. All the juggling of schedules, work at the restaurant, tests, work at the mall, student teaching, work at the bank, have all finally come to an end for her. Now she will enjoy the same grind everybody else in the workaday world does. I have no doubt she’ll do just fine out there. Did I mention how proud of her I am?

For the last quarter century, I’ve been her coach, mentor, support staff, financial aid department, driving instructor, teacher, protector, and cheerleader. It’s been a good job; one that I wouldn’t have traded for anything. I took pride in always being there for her. From her first night home from the hospital, I’ve doted and worried over her. It truly was the toughest job I ever loved.

I’ve been retired, let go, laid off, dismissed, terminated, fired; pick the term. In my mind I understand the necessity of this separation. This is the way of the world. Kids grow up and leave home to make their own mark on the world. And I’m not fretting about any unfinished business on my part. The job is done; well done. And we will see each other occasionally, and share e-mails, and the occasional phone call, just like I do with my brothers. But it’s never going to be the same again, and I’m just so sad.

Scottie

If you Google Jessica Lynch, you will find the word heroine or hero prominent in the description of the top ten results. Could someone explain to me why Jessica Lynch is a hero(ine)? How exactly is answering the call of duty now the standard of Heroism? Isn’t there some element of willful disregard for one’s own safety involved? Isn’t it odd that Jessica is the hero for doing her job, but the anonymous soldiers that voluntarily risked their lives to rescue her (the real heroes) are largely unknown? Heroism just isn’t what it used to be. So many words in our language have been so watered down and usurped; it’s hard to take many concepts seriously. Words have meaning; but when they are casually misapplied or watered down, they cease to retain their original gravitas. I’ve noticed several words that just ain’t what they used to be.

Bigot and Racist used to mean people that harbored an irrational hated of other people because of the color of their skin or their ethnicity. These were truly despicable people. Today however, it generally means you don’t agree with someone of another race. You’re against affirmative action? Yep, you’re a racist. What is especially egregious is that apparently only white people are racists and bigots. The hateful language of Louis Farrakhan is perfectly acceptable; since he’s black, he can’t be racist or bigoted.

Gay used to mean happy, lively and merry. But this word too has been twisted; so twisted in fact, that if you try to use the thesaurus in Microsoft Word, it has no synonyms to offer. In fact it now denotes homosexuality. My point is not to argue about homosexuality, but to point out the twisting of the language. Even the geniuses in Seattle can’t find a way to deal with the unbelievable versatility of the word gay.

Rape used to have a meaning. It was the heinous act of taking a woman without her consent, usually by force or with the threat of violence. Most women used to know immediately when they were raped. Now consensual marital relations are argued to be a form of rape. Some young women now discover they’ve been raped only after being informed by counselors weeks after the fact. Talk about a word trying to hit a moving concept.

Child abuse used to mean the cruel mistreatment of children without regard to their welfare. Now it can be smoking in their presence or giving them a paddling. In fact, its current meaning has become so elastic that no two state agencies can agree on the definition. Kind of like pornography, “the bureaucrat knows it when she sees it.” It just depends on which bureaucrat you draw in the crapshoot of government largess.

Poverty used to mean you couldn’t earn enough to sustain yourself. Poor people didn’t have enough food, or phones, or cable TV. They couldn’t afford to go to a doctor. Their homes were cold in the winter and hot in the summer. Today poverty has become, thanks to LBJ’s “War on Poverty”, largely a group of people with cable TV, microwaves, cars, housing, phones, medical care, day care, job training, AFDC, central air and heat, and food stamps. Just doesn’t seem as onerous as it once did, now does it?

And if poor isn’t what it used to be, rich sure has changed somewhere along the way. Rich used to mean your money worked for you, instead of you working for your money. Today it’s a nice loose term to mean “people that make more money than you.” I made a good living in Los Angeles, but I guess the government thought I was rich, because between state and federal income taxes and social security, more than half of my paycheck was confiscated every payday; and that’s before I contributed to my 401K and health insurance. Go figure; I was rich but I couldn’t scrape up enough money to leave town.

Nazis used to be a pretty foul group of fascists bent on annihilating the Jews and conquering the European continent. Now it’s anyone that doesn’t agree with you, especially if you’re a Republican. Any time you propose projecting military power, no matter the reason (i.e. self-defense), you’re being a Nazi. If war’s too strenuous for you, just run for President as a Republican and wait for it. With no effort at all, you will become a Nazi to some group of malcontents almost every week no matter what you do.

Respect used to be something you earned by your projection of integrity. It wasn’t something you could demand of anybody; you had to work for it. Today, if you don’t afford some punk without a job, an education, or a clue the courtesy normally reserved for heads of state, you’re dis(respect)ing them. Bizzarro World twists another perfectly meaningful word that was just minding its own business.

Tolerance once meant putting up with something, especially if you found it unpleasant or annoying, but not worth fighting about. You tolerated Uncle Herb’s flatulence. Now, tolerance means you accept, embrace, and sanctify anything no matter how offensive it is. If you don’t, you’re being intolerant. Apparently those redefining the term never had to sit next to Uncle Herb at Thanksgiving dinner.

Lie used to connote saying something you knew to be false. Now it means that if you ever have to make a decision, no matter how grave the situation, if you get a single word, idea or item wrong, you are a total liar and everything you ever said was a lie, and you can’t be trusted again, not ever, ever, ever. In fact you’re such a liar, you actually personally killed people! But what if you’re a Democratic President that gets caught lying about getting a hummer in the Oval Office? Fugetaboutit, that’s not a lie. That oath you took in court didn’t really mean anything. Perjury? Nahhh, that’s not lying. This word has become verbal silly putty.

Misogynist used to involve hating or mistreating women; kind of like the Muslims do to their women today. But now it means disagreeing with any disagreeable strident feminist. If you believe homemaking is an honorable pursuit and you’re male, you’re a misogynist. If you’re a woman, you’re just a misguided self-loathing sellout.

The phobic triad has pretty well gummed up the lexicon. Phobic once meant to have an irrational fear of something. But these modern phobias have transformed to denote opposition to various causes. Xenophobia = against illegal immigration; homophobia = against any part of the radical gay agenda; Islamophobia = having a rational fear of Islamists, Any term with the suffix of phobia or phobe is now suspect. It’s really a verbal two-fer. I’m better than you and my words are bigger.

I’m sure there are some things I’ve overlooked here, but the thrust is clear. We’ve carelessly used hyperbolic words to get some impact, and now they have no power anymore. Like the boy who cried “Wolf!”, we now get no response when one is called for. It’s sad that when a woman is raped, really raped, we all pause and wait for the inevitable shading we’ve come to expect. If there really is a racist, like David Duke, the term racist just doesn’t have the sting it once did. Our language has become so diluted that eating chickens is being compared to the holocaust (thanks PETA). I fear that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men cannot put our language in order again.

Scottie