Mad Max on "The President and the Press"

I have a buddy -- he's real -- that, online, I call Mad Max. He embraces the name that was thrust upon him. Just like you and just like me, he's a little mad sometimes. Mad as in angry. Mad as in a little crazy. But, again, we all go a little mad sometimes.

Oh, I just remembered what that quote is from. Hmmm. I probably should have used a different quote. Oh, well.

Seriously, Mad Max a good guy. If you are in need, he'll help you any way he can. I think a lot of Mad Max.

He doesn't get on The Twitter, but he will show up on The Facebook. He'll leave some comments on other people's pages that get right to the heart of the matter, but he won't post much political stuff of his own. He's smart enough to use The Facebook as a stress relief. Cute kitties are his distraction from this crazy world.

He sent me this, because he's trying to keep his pledge to keep his activity on his page on The Facebook nice and light.

I have his permission to share with you.

The President and the Press

A few thoughts on the deterioration of press relations in the present day

These are just impressions of a casual observer of world events and history going back some 100 years. Certainly not scientific or learned – just some thoughts that occurred to me this evening, I'm not even sure why.

Any writing like this can devolve into a partisan thing right quick, a vicious attack on one side or the other. And that is exactly what this about, so I'm going to do my best to remain utterly neutral and objective over this little idea that somehow planted itself in my mind and won't let me go until I write it out and find someone who can get it out to others.

My subject is the relationship of "the Press" – once a few major newspapers, now a wide variety of media including late-night talk shows and Internet blogs – and "the President" – an elected official of the United States of America.

To make one thing perfectly clear: bias in the Press has always existed. We are all human, and have likes and dislikes. To say those perfectly human emotions do not affect our perception – and our relating our perceptions to others – is a lie. On the other hand, there have been many different types of Presidents – liars, scoundrels, corrupt, clean, dishonorable and honorable, good and bad -- and the conundrum for the Press – and for History – is to figure out which is which.

There was a time in my memory where there was a clear separation between the two, and they existed on two different planes of importance. The Press was definitely important – always has been – in reporting the news, investigating corruption, being honest, and thereby building trust, if not with politicians, celebrities, and sports figures, at least with the populace. There was also a time when the President – the highest elected office-holder of the land – was seen to be on a higher plane; you may not like him or her, but you didn't attack him, his character, his family, on a daily basis. Because there were greater dangers out there, and he was, after all, the Commander-in-Chief, and when all Hell breaks loose, God forbid, we need to come together behind our leader. There is no question every President all the way back, maybe even to George Washington, had his detractors in the Press, but overall, when it came down to it, there was at least some measure of decorum.

The country united with Woodrow Wilson, not at all a universally popular leader, a man who ran on the platform "He Kept Us Out Of The War." But when we went into what was then called The Great War, the country united. It happened again most famously with Franklin Delano Roosevelt, on December 7, 1941, and continued until the day he died in office, and carried over to Harry S Truman.

It began to break down with Lyndon Johnson, but let's face it – the Vietnam War was longer than WWI or even WWII. The popular support gradually and then precipitously diminished and the Press criticized his administration, but it did not attack with the utter viciousness we see today. And it did not attack his family.

Nixon again came under attack, for a variety of reasons, many of them justified. Professionally, analytically, with deep research and well-founded / well-sourced information, the Press took him on, and they took him down.

And then, I think, something changed.

The Press realized they could take down someone they didn't like anyway, even while a war was on. They realized their power. And that other subset of the Press that began to emerge – the late-night comedy, Saturday Night Live, had a good few years diminishing the character of a man they didn't like – Gerald Ford – because he tripped a couple of times. Never mind that two lunatics tried to shoot him during his short administration – it was all good comedy – and the late-night "Press" and the established Press had good fun with it throughout.

Four years of Jimmy Carter proved to be enough for just about everyone, and near the end there was great fun made of "askin' Amy about nuclear war" and the dreaded "Killer Rabbit" incident.

And then there was a pause. The Press didn't like Ronald Reagan at all, but he gave them little to make fun of. He reapplied the honor of the Presidency by keeping a significant aloofness from the Press, speaking to the country right over their heads on rare but significant occasions, leaving the Press to quarrel about what he said amongst themselves in the newly-created format of a "talking-head panel."

George H. W. Bush continued the honor of the Presidency but had some significant failings with his base. A weak economy did not help, and he lost to what I consider the major pivotal figure in this amateur analysis – Bill Clinton.

There can be no doubt the Press loved Bill Clinton. But why? Certainly his policies might attract their personal feelings, but the same could be said for Lyndon Johnson, and near the end of Johnson's last year the Press was ready to throw him out.

My answer is that he seemed to love them. What other President of the United States had appeared on a late-night show playing the saxophone? That in itself remains a famous image. And in my mind, a vast diminishment of the importance of the office of the President. He wasn't "Up There," he wasn't "The Commander in Chief" – he became our buddy. Our best friend. And who likes to lose a best friend?

So the Press lost a best friend – twice – in the 2000 election – Bill had to leave office, and their new best friend, Al Gore, lost in a squeaker that came down to a few butterfly ballots in Florida. This was a bitter pill, and one that still sticks in their throat. For 8 years, George W. Bush – but not so much his wife and children – was vilified in the worst possible ways. This marked a clear departure from past practice.

And then along came Barack Obama – young, handsome, telegenic, great speaker. AND – what else did he do? He went on all manner of late-night talk / comedy shows, gave interviews to all manner of friendly Press, even appeared with internet blog posters that would otherwise have remained unknown to everyone. He was our best friend – We had a best friend again!

But best friends don't last, and he had to go away, so the Press picked a new best friend.

But she lost.

This, I believe snapped something in their minds. I also believe, to return to the point of this essay, that the Press no longer see the President of the United States as a person of great responsibility, a responsibility that would crush most of us, but as a person who should be someone they like. And if he's not the best friend they wanted, they'll revert to a Lord of the Flies bullying and eventual murder, if they can get away with it.

There, in a nutshell, is the problem between the Press and the President of the United States. One is an office established in the Constitution of the United States of America. The other are a pack of wild and dangerous children feeling lost.

Mad Max may be a little mad. But he's not crazy.

Lulu

Georgia is a pretty special and wonderful place to live. We have mountains and seashores, wide open spaces and Atlanta. If you live in Georgia, you sometimes hear the term "The Two Georgias." That's referring to Atlanta and then the rest of Georgia. I live in "the rest of Georgia." Rural South Georgia to be precise.

Agriculture is pretty important here. If you go out for a Sunday drive, you'll see cows, goats, chicken houses, and lots of immigrants working in the fields. You'll have to watch the roads carefully, though, because you have to share the roads with large trucks such as the ones hauling logs or wood chips to the mills. Early in the morning, you're likely to see a truck hauling live chickens to Stillmore or Claxton. If you don't live in a rural area, you don't know about the chicken trucks; they transport lots and lots of white feathered chickens to the poultry plant where they will be "made ready" to sell at your local grocery store.

A few months back during late summer, my mother-in-law and her neighbor had struck up a morning conversation when they went to the mail box to retrieve the Savannah Morning News to read while sipping a morning cup of coffee. As they were talking, a Claxton Poultry truck roared past and lost a chicken. It fell off the truck right smack dab in the middle of the road in front of my mother-in-law and her neighbor.

Well, my mother-in-law has a soft spot for animals... even the ones that are supposed to end up on your Sunday dinner plate... so she raced out into the highway to rescue the dazed chicken before it got run over. The neighbor (who is from Canada and has only been in the US for about a year) had never before seen a live chicken, so needless to say she became quite animated over the whole thing.

The two ladies decided they needed to see if the chicken was ok, so my MIL took the chicken inside and checked her out. She seemed to be only dazed and a little scared to be out of a pen, so my MIL put her in a laundry basket. There the chicken stayed for the rest of the day and the night...only she was banished to the storehouse so she wouldn't stink up the house.

Over the next few days and weeks, the neighbor visited and became quite attached to the chicken, so she took it home with her and made it her pet. The chicken's name is Lulu. Lulu eats the cat food that's left out on the back stoop, and she really loves birdseed. She'll come up to you and make those "brrrrrraaaaawwwwwk' chicken noises, poop, and wait to be petted. I haven't petted Lulu yet. There was talk of bringing Lulu to my house for Christmas...as a pet...not as supper. I said noooooo.

Lulu was headed to the poultry plant to become someone's main course. Most chickens I buy to fix for supper are around 2 or 3 pounds. The neighbor's been taking exceptionally good care of Lulu since the summer. Lulu is headed on towards 15 pounds now. I told my neighbor about Lulu. My neighbor had a pet chicken...it lived to be 13 years old. It makes me wonder how big Lulu is going to get.

I sometimes wish I lived near Atlanta so I could go to the theatre and museums and such, but if I lived there, I don't think my life would be near as exciting...or at least not near as unique..as living in south Georgia where neighbors have pet chickens.

I can just hear Jeff Foxworthy saying, "If you've ever rescued a chicken from the middle of the highway..." or "If you've ever rescued a chicken that fell off a truck..." or "If you've ever taken to raising a chicken for a pet...you might be a redneck."

sigh...

Here's Lulu's picture...taken this past weekend.

Lines

The other day I was listening to a radio program call-in show and the subject was “Things you have stood in line for.”

I thought the topic was rather appropriate, as the Day after Thanksgiving madness is fast approaching and the infamous Play Station 3 has been in the headlines recently because of the massive lines of people waiting hours and hours to procure it.

I thought of all the things that I have heard people standing in line for, taking up hours and many times days: video game systems, Care Bears, Cabbage Patch Kids, Tickle-me Elmos, cheap TVs and DVD players, Star Wars movie tickets, concert tickets, to get their picture taken with Sponge Bob Square Pants in the mall ….the list could go on for about as long as the PS3 line.

This in turn got me thinking about how the items in this list might be different if this same topic was broached in, say, Burundi for example: clean water, food, vaccines….

This Thanksgiving, let’s be thankful that we live in a country where, for most of us, our biggest worry is whether our children will be the first on the block with a PS3 or whatever this year’s hot holiday item happens to be.

We don’t stand in line for food for our children – we just stand in line to pay for it.

To forgive, or not to forgive… that is the question!

There's a very interesting thread over at Hot Air which deserves thoughtful consideration. I wish I could comment, but their registration is closed, so I'll have to settle for sending a trackback.

In reference to the murderer of the Amish schoolchildren, Allahpundit is asking:

My Christian friends tell me it’s perfectly okay to get righteously angry; witness Jesus’s behavior in the temple vis-a-vis the moneychangers, etc. It’s good sense, too: an evildoer worried about an angry reaction might be deterred, even if he knows he’d be forgiven later.

Of course, Jesus said “turn the other cheek,” not “hit back, then forgive.” But we needn’t rehash that.

The question is, should we (and by “we” I of course mean our religious readers) emulate the Amish or not? Do they forgive too readily?

Why The Big Sister Likes Star Trek

Basil's post of a similar title brought back fond memories of TV space shows. Basil and I watched lots of TV together, and we did tend to gravitate towards space shows and science fiction programs. For some reason, I recall Star Trek coming on at 5 PM on Fridays. That's not when it was on the schedule, but that's when I remember watching it.

I loved the fact that it was a space show, but I also loved the fact that seemingly insurmountable problems could be solved mostly through logic and rational thought rather than with irrational, emotional outbursts. Since I was a child, and typically didn't pay attention to details, I didn't notice the assorted races on the program. They were just "people". Years later, when I did notice that not everyone was the same race or nationality, and they all got along, I liked Star Trek even more. Yeah, I guess I liked Star Trek because of its vision.

I also liked Star Trek because the Star Trek universe was filled with wondrous gadgets and gizmos galore. I especially liked the typewriter that would type whatever you spoke in the episode, "Assignment: Earth." Forty years ago, I'd have never believed we would actually have many of those gadgets today, and I am grateful that Star Trek stirred the imaginations of kids who made much of the fantasy a reality.

However, the real reason I still love Star Trek today is because of my son.

In 1987 Star Trek: The Next Generation debuted. I liked having a new space show to watch every week. I had sorely missed the original series, and I was skeptical of TNG. I was not prepared to like it, but as the rocky first year went by, the show began to grow on me, and I became especially fond of two characters, Riker and Data. Watching TNG every Saturday evening at 7 PM became a ritual for me, and my son, who was a toddler, would play quietly on the den floor while I watched the show.

Early fall in 1988, my son was about 21 months old. He seldom spoke. Oh, he'd say a word or two every so often, but basically, he just would not talk. I'd taken him to the pediatrician who assured me his delayed speech was not due to an impairment. My husband and I are very verbal, and the doctor surmised that our son was simply listening to us, and he would speak when he was ready. "Yeah, right..." I thought. I knew his hearing was fine. He would come running to the den as soon as he heard the opening audience chant "Wheel of Fortune", and then he'd stand transfixed listening to the opening ritual. So, like I said, I knew he could hear just fine. But he still did not talk.

One morning as I was taking my son to the babysitter's, I pulled up to the stop sign and looked left, right, and left again. My son was sitting in the front passenger seat in the carrier. (That's where babies sat back then.) As I looked again towards the right before pulling out onto the highway, he looked over at me and said, "Payce... de pynall punteer. Deez de boize de starship intepyze." (Space...the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise.)

This. .. the opening monologue from Star Trek ... from the child who, to my knowledge, had never spoken a full sentence.

I fell in love all over again with Star Trek.

Happy Birthday, basil! (And Happy Anniversary, too!)

I just thought I'd let y'all know that basil has completed another trip around the sun.

Please join me in wishing basil a "Happy Birthday."

Happy Birthday, Basil!

Update:

I have been reminded by basil several times that it is basil and Mrs. basil's anniversary.  I didn't forget. I just wished him a Happy Birthday first...since that happened several decades before the wedding! Hee, hee!

Happy Anniversary!

Redneck birth announcement

You have to see this.

Ground Beef is a good start to lots of things

Ground Beef Starter

1 to 1 ½ pound of ground beef
1 tsp. Lawry's Seasoned Salt (or to taste)
½ tsp. ground black pepper (or to taste)
1 large onion, chopped (Vidalia is best)
1 bell pepper, chopped (green pepper)
4 oz. fresh mushrooms, sliced (or more)

Combine the above ingredients in a nonstick skillet (which I call a frying pan) and cook on medium high, stirring often, until the meat is brown. Drain all the grease off.

This meat mixture can be used for spaghetti, chili, pizza, assorted hamburger casseroles, etc. I actually just like eating this mixture by itself. You can even eat this mixture on a slice of folded bread or a bun. Just add condiments to the bread like you would to a hamburger patty. It will just be a little messier, but that's fun.

This is a good recipe to play around with. You can leave out any of the vegetables if you don't like them. I always add lots of Vidalia onion, but I add a little less onion if it's a yellow onion.

Also, I tend to not add a whole bell pepper ... maybe 3/4 ... it depends on the size. I don't know if they are called bell pepper or green pepper, but I am talking about the pepper that kind of looks like an apple ... not the long skinny things.

Also, you can use lean meat such as ground round. It just doesn't taste as good as hamburger does with all that fat to flavor it, so I'd rather cook hamburger and drain it. I drain the meat in a colander and run a little water over it to make sure all the grease is gone. If the colander has big holes, put a paper towel in it. Be sure to put a bowl under the colander to catch the grease. When the grease gets hard, throw it away. You don't ever want to put grease or rice down a sink; they gunk up the plumbing. I learned that from a plumber.

Sigh ... I don't know what folks who aren't from Georgia call the ingredients. While I was typing, I realized folks might not be familiar with Vidalia onions. But if you are not, FIND one. They are sweet and tasty, and they don't make you cry like regular yellow onions.

We live in a county next to Vidalia, so we can easily get them. I think that Bland Farms markets them all over; I have seen frozen chopped Vidalia onions in the freezer section of the grocery store. With the climate controlled storage buildings the onion farmers have these days, the onions are available more of the year. But they are fresh right now, so find some and make this recipe.

I hope I gave you some ideas of how to take a basic recipe and do some creative things with it. So, get up ... get the ingredients ... cook ... enjoy!

Self preservation

With graduation time rolling around I've been thinking quite a bit about the good ole days. Fresh out of high school, young, dumb and full of, um, self assurance. I was ready to take on the world. One thing I didn't realize was just how lacking I was in the self preservation department. Heck, I didn't realize it until earlier this week, as I was riding past the local university.

What came to mind was a recent article, that I'm too lazy to find, that said there is an alarming number of college kids that don't know how to balance a check book, change a spare tire, pay bills on time, etc... Pretty much your typical run of the mill, acting like a grown up type stuff. Most of it was stuff that you had to learn, or be shown by somebody, what I didn't realize was that several of the kids running around on campus must have failed (or skipped) Kindergarten.

As I was riding past campus, driving down a four line road, several of these kids just walked out in front of traffic. Had it not been for me and several other drivers being semi-alert they'd have been pancakes. When one of the drivers hit the horn, expressing their displeasure, the kids flipped her the bird. Now maybe he was letting her know that she was number one in his book, but I don't think so.

The bad part is it wasn't just one kid, that we could chalk up to Darwin not kicking in yet, nope it happened on three separate occasions. There on one of the busiest streets in town these kids are just stepping out into traffic without a care in the world.

Now I'm not sure about y'all, but this doesn't do a whole heckuva lot to instill faith in our future generations, not to mention one of the kids, probably an art major, had a purple and blue mohawk. At least his mohawk matched his tattoos. Of course he may be a communications major, lets just hope he likes saying "Would you like to biggie size your order".

As a new parent, I'm wondering what these kids parents are thinking, if they're thinking at all. Even at the ripe old age of thirty I couldn't imagine walking into my parents home with a purple & blue mohawk and matching tats. Of course I may be odd, or maybe I'm getting old, who knows.

Seeing these kids brings back the line from Bill Cosby's act, where he tells his kid: "I brought you into this work, I can take you out".

Profanity laden tirades

After the Big Sister's (who's 5'4") two posts about profanity I felt compelled to share and seeing how basil slipped away and forgot to take my keys, well I'll just use his blog as a confessional.

At my previous job I worked with folks from all over the country. I started the job while I was still in college and a tad bit on the naive side of things when it comes to how the world operates, come to think of the phrase "Hayseed" was used to describe me more than once. Of course those doing the describing were Yankees.

One of the things I learned during my time on the job is that Yankees talk different (and don't know how to fix tea, but that's another post). Now when I say they talk different, it's not just their accents, it's their vocabulary, or as the Big Sister (who's 5'4") said, their lack thereof. See one of the things I had to adjust to was their fondness of stringing together four letter words that you wouldn't use around your mom, or at least I wouldn't use around mine, and at first I took them to be fightin' words.

Well not so much fightin' in the physical sense, but they sure managed to get me on edge and ruffle the ole feathers. Now I had a pretty simple way to handle these folks. They'd start cussing at me and I'd hang up. Plain and simple when they quit their fussing all they'd hear would be the dial-tone. Some of them learned pretty quick, some, well lets just say they were a bit dense and it took a talkin' too for them to get the point.

Well as the years went by I ended up adjusting my vocabulary a bit when I was dealing with guys who had potty mouth, but I never directed my obesities at anyone. I just wasn't, and probably won't ever be, comfortable cussin' somebody, 'less I was using fightin' words and well I realized a long time ago that there's quite a few folks out there a whole lot bigger and a whole lot meaner than I am, okay, maybe not meaner, but you get the point, so I've adjusted my language accordingly.

The biggest change though came with the hatching of the phinlet, my first child. The missus and my father have both warned me that chirrens are going to pickup on words said with emphasis. All it took was watching Meet the Fockers for a second time to realize that I'd best clean up my language just a bit more. This dear readers, is where y'all come in to play, I need some valid substitutes and well the lack of sleep is cutting into my creativity. So gimmie' your bestest not profanity profanities.

Brunch. Mmmmmm . . . Brunch!

Dan Riehl weighs in on the Scott Peterson flirtation nastiness. A Concerned Fan reports some bizarre activity coming from the lingering aura of Kurt Cobain. Annika is just lending a hand to her friends. Really. Daisy Cutter delivers a review on United 93. The Dashman gives Susan Estrich a little credit and gets serious on the topic of political hatred. The LLamas found a picture of Al Gore, who is looking pretty rough these days. Can I just say that V-Logging really gives me the creeps? Of course I can say that!

An Afternoon Adventure

If you haven't been keeping up with the latest blog novella in the creative ends of the blogodihexiweb, this is your chance to catch up on a riveting plot:

Chapter One: The Reluctant Assassin by Phoenix

Chapter Two: The Cleaner by Nugget

Chapter Three: House of Cards by Theresa

Chapter Four: Beautiful Death by Silk

Chrissy has Chapter Five, and she'll be delivering said finale next Friday!

Morning Walk Of Shame

The illustrious Hatemonger's Quarterly is dealing out idiocy awards for qualifying definitions of patriotism.

One of my blogcrushes, Ghost Of A Flea, reviews the David Beckham scent cologne perfume, Eau De Metrosexual.

Ace O' Freaking Spades must be on his period again.

Steve H. is still killing me with his blah blah blogging sucks blah blah diatribes. Obviously, he lurves it.

Chasing Vincenzo attempts to challenge the recent announcement of sexiest vegetarian awards.

Straight White Guy remains the master of words when it comes to channelling Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Kevin at Wizbang just announced that a certain design crew will be rolling out a hot new look for his bloggy conglomerate. Who are those poorly masked designers?

Don't Repeat Bad Words

One of my favorite classroom anecdotes about using (er...um...NOT using) bad language was when a student made a comment that I didn't understand, but the inhale of student breath nearly created a vacuum in the room. I asked a nearby student (I'll call him Jerry) what was said.

Jerry said, "Uh, you don't want to know."

I said, "Yes, I do."

Jerry said, "Well, he called her... well, he was talking about ..." 

Jerry paused for many seconds. I think he was trying to think how to repeat the comment without "repeating" the comment. I waited patiently.

Jerry took a deep breath and said, "He was talking about her kittycat and he called her a garden implement."

That's a story I have been meaning to send in to Reader's Digest for years, but I've never gotten around to it.

Morning Coffee & Kahlua

Someone should take away access to Photoshop from The LLama Butchers. Do it for the kids.

Poor Velociman is sniffing his fingers after having a bad reaction to antibiotics.

On the techie side of things, Akismet has released an updated version of their anti-spam plugin.

Silk goes wild about sexy men with cute little smiles.

Tilesey tells us what a guy's night consists of on his side of the pond.

This Mom Blogs speaks of luxurious bath bombs and soooo much more.

Venomous Kate dishes her personal tips on how to conceive a baby.

BEULLAH MAE!!! is sooper mad at someone.

Meanwhile, the object of their collective affection is running away to Ayn Rand Nude Volleball Camp.

Smallholder is still corrupting the yoots of America.

How does basil do these posts three times per day? This is harder than it looks, folks. Time for the Kahlua!

A Lack of Vocabulary

I hear and I see profanity. Often. (That was a functional fragment, not a grammatical error.) I've been teaching for twenty nine years, and I spent twenty five of those years teaching middle school students. But I did not often see or hear profanity in my middle school classroom. Why? Because I helped my students to understand that using profanity is most often the result of a lack of adequate vocabulary to express oneself. During normal daily conversation, you should have the ability to tell others what's on your mind without having to resort to "cussing." How did I help them understand that? Well, first of all, I had to get their attention.

(I think I'll change tenses now.)

It's easy to get the attention of a middle schooler; all you have to do is say, "I really need to talk to you about using dirty words." All talking stops, ears perk up, and all eyes bore holes through me. Mission accomplished! Now is the time to talk with these impressionable young minds about why people like to cuss. Oh, we don't repeat dirty words, nor do we curse during the class discussion. We just talk about why bad words come out.

"For instance, there are times when a 'dirty word' might slip out during physical or emotional distress, like stumping your toe when you run into a chair in the dark on the way to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get a glass of water."

A student asks me if I ever cussed when I stumped my toe. I say, "Yes." I didn't want to admit that, but you have to be "real" with middle school students. I tell them that I have been practicing, very successfully I might say, to replace profanity with more acceptable words. Instead of saying a "cuss word" I say, "DIRTY WORD!" (I got that idea from a preacher's daughter.)

Well, that sounds ridiculous to eighth graders... laughable, in fact. When the laughter dies down, I can hear, "dirty word!" being whispered and muttered all over the classroom. sigh... But I still have their attention.

Now, I have to do or say something to convince my students to use acceptable language instead of profanity. It's now time to analyze and reason with them. That's really not so difficult to do with middle school students. They really do want someone to talk to them as if they have a working brain. Here's a paraphrase of some of the things I have said to my students:

"If you do resort to cussing, it is probably out of habit or out of a feeling of inadequacy. I'll talk about the feelings of inadequacy in a minute. Let's talk about habits. Habits can be broken, but it takes deliberate effort...and an alternate behavior should replace the bad habit." (Now you see why saying, "DIRTY WORD!" proved to be successful for me.) We can all hope that your tendency to curse is out of habit, because it is the easier of the two reasons to "fix." Why shouldn't you use profanity? After all, you hear profanity all around you. Why shouldn't you use it, too? Why? Well, perhaps you wouldn't like your grandmother to hear those words coming from your mouth. Do you "cuss" your grandma? No? Why? Because you respect her? Why do you not respect YOURSELF? Why do you continue to have a 'habit' that is controlling you? Are you admitting that you can't break the habit?"

(Dear readers: This goes on and on, but you get the idea....)

"Now let's talk about the second reason for "cussing." You may notice that your classmates who use profanity often are the same folks who like to draw attention to themselves with bad behavior in the classroom. This is because of feelings of inadequacy. People who have such feelings like to draw our attention to their bad behavior and bad language because it diverts our attention from problems they want to hide from us, perhaps even from themselves. People who feel inferior must resort to extreme behavior to feel in control, and one thing that such people have in common is a filthy mouth. So, if you resort to using profanity in my classroom, I will wonder, and now the rest of the class will, too, why you feel inferior to the rest of us."

Well, by now, students are wanting NOT to use profanity because if they do say bad words during the course of normal conversation, they are admitting they are not able to break a bad habit OR they are admitting they have feelings of inadequacy.

Now the students are willing to learn to express themselves without using profanity. We go on about our business, learning the intricacies of the English language and how better to communicate with others. We practice expressing emotions such as anger and frustration with language that is acceptable in the classroom. We learn new words, and we practice using those new words in writing and in conversation. We create pictures in the minds of our readers and listeners. We no longer suffer from a lack of vocabulary. We've become smarter. We smile more. At least we do in the classroom of The Big Sister (who's 5'4").

Now, if only I could convince my husband, a former sailor who's now in law enforcement, of the need to refrain from using cuss words. I hear and I see profanity. Often.

DIRTY WORD!

Finger-Lickin' Good

Since Cousin Red appears to not be able to make bail this week, Basil asked if I could help out today. Although why he thought I would have something to say for White Trash Wednesday bothered me at first. Then I remembered this story I told him ... and knew why.

British Rob is fascinated with America. He travels to the U.S. for business often and can spend hours talking about the political and cultural differences between the U.S. and England. In fact, he has even come to the astounding conclusion – drum roll please – that George W. Bush is not in fact, stupid, but merely a poor public speaker.

Rob is married to my friend Lesley, who I met when she was spending her year abroad at my college. They were dating at the time, and he came over a couple of times that year to visit. They now have a 10 month old baby, Marianne. We try to get together every couple of years and they have just arrived for a two week stay. They will be driving to Tennessee to visit some friends and then accompanying me to North Carolina.

Whenever we are together, he tries to talk with an American accent. Unfortunately, he either ends up sounding like Shaft or like an 89 year old woman. He does a spot on Prince Charles, though.

We often engage in friendly debates over which culture is superior - but we do agree on one thing: All Canadians are smug and the only thing worse than a smug Canadian is an even smugger French Canadian.

On Saturday, I met them at the airport (sign in hand) and drove them to their hotel where they are staying the night before going to Tennessee. Lesley and I then went in search of fast food – something “Southern” that you wouldn’t normally find in England. Now, if you are familiar with the Atlanta airport, you probably know that the surrounding area is quite rough, and as we were driving, we felt conspicuously out of place.

We decided to go to Popeye’s and (as usual) we were the only white people in the store. We came back to the hotel, sat in the foyer with our chicken spread out and began chowing away. We had forgotten to get utensils, so we used one of Baby Mari’s spoons to eat our rice and beans. Lesley and I were telling Rob about our “adventures” in the ghetto and Rob, sounding like Granny Klump, says “you two are sitting here having a go at black people and we’re the ones on the floor eating chicken.” How about them apples!

Bitches

You might remember me from a few days ago when Basil posted a picture of me. Or of part of me. So, we have met, after all.

I told Basil about something that happened, and he said if I wrote it up, he'd post it. So, I did. So now I'm blogging and didn't mean to. But here's my little story to share.

Sunday, I had the pleasure of taking my 4 month old Rhodesian Ridgeback, Scout, to a dog show in Newnan.

For those of you who have seen the movie Best in Show take note: dog shows are nothing like that – they are even stranger! My apologies to the dog show fanatics out there, but I am not one, though I do like watching them on TV sometimes. I know every sport or hobby has fanatics, but I personally find this particular counter culture fascinating. I have only been to two dog shows, however, so my point of view is that of a novice.

Well, in the dog world, my bitch (snicker, snicker) is defective – she has a kink in her tail and therefore, even though she is of champion bloodline, she cannot be shown. Even if she could, I could never truly enter the world of serious dog showing as I cannot help but snicker every time I hear a female dog referred to as a bitch – and yes, I know that is what the technical definition of a bitch is. It is just the offhand way they throw the word around that really throws me off. If you had a drinking game based around that, you would be passed out before the first show category.

I was talking to a lady there who said she took her mother to a show last month and suddenly her mother turned to her and said “honey, I really wish they wouldn’t use that word so much. It isn’t very nice.”

When the category of Open Bitch was announced, I almost ran into the ring myself, thinking I would be a sure winner. I mean, when you are just strolling around minding your own business and you suddenly hear, “that bitch is spectacular” you can’t help but strut your stuff a little more.

While the dogs are beautiful to look at, even more fascinating are the owners and handlers. I think the local Wal-mart must run out of suntan panty hose before every dog show. And you thought they only cared about how the dogs look.

And the things they bring with them into the ring besides the dogs. I saw handlers take real liver out of their pockets, put it in their mouths and bite off dog size pieces as “bait” to keep their dogs in prime position. Hannibal Lecter look out!

Last year, as I walked in to my first dog show in Montgomery, I saw a lady with two ziplock bags full of dead birds – I am not lying! I don’t even want to think about what they were used for. I guess I should have already told you why I went to my first dog show.

My friend heather was showing her ridgeback, Savannah. She however, came in last, as she lay down in the show ring and refused to get up. Obviously, she was smarter than the rest of us. Even with all the quirks, a good time was had by all.

A lady even took a picture of Scout because she said she had never seen a dog with such a perfect ridge. I was so proud of my bitch that I was nearly in tears and couldn’t wait to share the joyous news with my family – oh wait, maybe I am ready to enter the puppy show matrix.

Look out world, here we come!

Home Hint For Blogspot

Ever eager to emulate Basil, I noticed when he Biggy Sized his typeface. How could I -- cheap@$$ Blogspotter that I am -- do that? 

Easy. Went to Template. Found "Typography :: Main entry" and added a line "          font-size:120%;"

Now I can read the type. As my eyes worsen, I can up it. 1200% is possible!

Blogger Creed

I hope Basil does not mind a guest blog. This is ripped off my Don Surber blog:

All posts on this blog are written by me. Not by my publicist. Not by Huffington Post's staff. Not taken from interviews of me or speeches I have given to the Motion Pictures Arts Academy. All typos are mine and will not be blamed on some poor schmuck who took down my dictation.

As some fellow named Lincoln once said, the world will little note nor long remember what is said here today. That is something bloggers and celebrities alike should bear in mind. He actually did something with his life.