Song of the Day: Awesome young woman busts up some Goppers.

Awwww, yeah. (more here)

Funny how she was such a threat that it took FOUR deputies to get her out of there.

Fark republicans.

"Awe" and "Heroes" tags for the young lady who busted 'em up, all the other tags for the scumbags.

London Olympics can Bite My Shiny Metal Ass.

Not a fan of the Olympic$ a$ it i$, e$pecially $ince I reali$ed it wa$ all about corporate money and not about excellence in $port$.


I hadn't paid attention to previou$ citie$' behavior in their attempt$ to attract the Olympic$ to their town--tax break$, $pecial new building$ being con$tructed, inconvenient local people being bru$hed out of view, but the $tupid $tuff London ha$ pulled thi$ time around ju$t pi$$e$ me off.

Fir$t there wa$ the announcement of criminal $anction$ to protect the corporate $pon$or$ from competition. Thi$ would allow "brand police" to roam the area and $hake down pub$ adverti$ing the wrong beer (take the $ign down or cover it up, Citizen) or other non-$pon$ored product$ and order YouTube and Facebook to take down video$ and picture$ po$ted by attendee$. You're re$i$tricted in how you may u$e combination$ of certain word$, like London and 2012 and probably LOCOG WANKER$. Then ju$t a few day$ ago, I learned that McDonald'$ ha$ a pretty cu$hy gig at the Olympic$, with a huge-a$$ exclu$ive re$taurant planted like a fat American right in the middle of everything--and a monopoly on french fry $ale$. A$ long a$ you call them "chip$" and $ell them with fi$h, you're okay, but Olympu$ help you if you're $elling burger$.

Then we learned that Team U$A'$ going to be wearing Ralph Lauren'$ reimagining of Mitt Romney'$ family uniform (which they $tole from Thur$ton Howell III)--and al$o borrowing from hi$ bu$ine$$ model of out$ourcing the work to China. Wait, didn't use the word "London" in this paragraph. Took care of that. So anyway, $2,000 per Romney $uit and American labor wa$ $till too expen$ive. $hould have charged $2012 each.

Now, tho$e $niffy corporate a$$-ki$$er$ at the London Organi$ing Committee of the Olympic and Paralympic Game$ don't want anyone linking to them unle$$ they're $aying nice thing$:

"a. Links to the Site. You may create your own link to the Site, provided that your link is in a text-only format. You may not use any link to the Site as a method of creating an unauthorised association between an organisation, business, goods or services and London 2012, and agree that no such link shall portray us or any other official London 2012 organisations (or our or their activities, products or services) in a false, misleading, derogatory or otherwise objectionable manner."

 (no dollar $ign$ in their copy).

Don't mind me, just $tirring the pot.


Update: Bonu$ Commentary from a Corporate Wea$el: Donald Trump weighed in via Twitter, opining that Team U$A'$ Chine$e-made uniform$ $hould be burned. Hi$ outrage ha$ obviou$ly made him forget that hi$ own clothing line i$...made in China. Becau$e it's cheaper.

George Tierney, meet the Internet...

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Can't condone this preacher's lifestyle.

Brain-dead wingnut preacher preaches that parents should "punch" their "gay-acting" kids and break their limp wrists. When the Internet rises up in wrath and tells him to STFU, the cowardly knee-crawler whines that he was only kidding.

Right.

I'd rather have my kid grow up gay (and happy) than grow up a stupid wingnut. I'd really think I'd failed as a parent if one of mine voted *spit* Republican, let alone chose the preacher lifestyle.

Most of the tags are for preacher-boy.

Song of the Day: Rush to Limbaugh: Get off, eh?

I knew the Vulgar Pigboy was using my favorite band's music on his show.

Not anymore.

Bob Cesca broke the story: "The Spirit of Radio" was playing while Pigboy was demanding Sandra Fluke's sex tapes. Cesca contacted Anthem Entertainment and the band to ask about his use of their music. Their attorney sent out a cease and desist (full text posted on Cesca's blog).

In your face, Pigboy.

Here's a Rush song he should have used, since the lyrics are about him and his fellow travelers:



Good tags are for the band, bad ones for Pigboy.

Theme Songs for Politicians!

I'd never given any thought to the into music a band plays for a late-night show guest's "walk-on" until this past week, when the story broke that Jimmy Fallon's house band--The Roots--played a few bars of Fishbone's "Lyin' Ass Bitch" for Michele "Crazy Eyes" Bachmann as she oozed onto the stage.

I know, I'm supposed to be appalled at such disrespectful behavior toward such an important...

No, screw that. She's a lyin'-ass bitch (it has been proven!), and there should be no apologies from the band or Fallon (though he's already done so). SHE should apologize for her chronic dishonesty.

I've been thinking of other theme songs, though, for the rest of the wingnut brigade seeking the presidency.

Jon Huntsman? "Mr. Cellophane" from "Chicago."

Herman Cain? "Magic Man" by Heart (he's got magic hands!). Or "Gimme All Your Lovin'" by ZZ Top. Or "Ice Cream Man" by Van Halen. "Shaft."

Mitt Romney? "Dust in the Wind" by Kansas. Not many songs about perfectly-lubed weathervanes, but plenty like "Any Way the Wind Blows" by Doris Day.

Rick Perry? What do you play for a stupid hick? "The Beverly Hillbillies" theme? The "Gomer Pyle" theme? Nah, he's not a LOVABLE stupid hick. He's more like the predatory banker Drysdale than like one of the Clampetts. Gonna have to think on it.

Rick "Frothy" Santorum? What do you play for a disgusting piece of crap? Anything by GG Allin would do.

Ron Paul? Maybe Edgar Winter's "Free Ride" for his freeloading libertarianism? A funeral dirge for those "Let him die!!!" teabaggers who adore this wasted stick of jerky?

Newt Gingrich? "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch." Grinch is in his NAME, it's a natural! Besides, this idiot wants to get rid of child labor laws. Or--given his divorce record--"50 Ways to Leave Your Lover."


No one should apologize to these thin-skinned morons after snarking on them. That's all they exist for.

Beating, Spraying Cops Out of Line

I've watched the Occupy protests growing from a handful of people on a September weekend to hundreds of thousands or millions of people across the world.

I think it's the best thing ever--and long past the time when such protests should have happened.

The big snag is that in the face of mainly peaceful protests, cops and governments have done the wrong thing, spraying, shooting and beating in an attempt to suppress the protests.

They didn't bat an eye at teabaggers showing up to Town Hall meetings with guns, or toting violent messages ("We came unarmed--this time!"), speaking of "taking their country back." They didn't blink when teabaggers assaulted black members of Congress. They didn't go after Sharon Angle when she threatened "Second Amendment remedies" if she lost her bid for election.

But let a college kid or an elderly woman or a retired cop sit on a public sidewalk (paid for and maintained by their own taxes), though, and the unconstitutional beatings and sprayings and arrests begin!

Unconstitutional? Absolutely. What the cops are doing amounts to punishment without due process--an assumption of criminality and an on-the-spot conviction. So much for "innocent until proven guilty." There's also the First Amendment's assurance not just of free speech, freedom of religion, and a free press, but also the right of peaceable assembly and the right to petition our government for a redress of grievance. Thanks to the 14th Amendment's "due process" clause, this applies to all levels of government, from the Feds to every city. Then there's the Fourth Amendment's protection against excessive force.

Back in my National Guard days, we got some of that same beat-on-people, spray-the-shit-out-of-people training. We learned how to club and poke with batons, how to subdue our fellow humans if some politician thought they were getting out of line. I never got called out to use it--and I would have refused to do so on people just sitting peaceably. It's simply not right. I took an oath to protect the Constitution--and, by extension, the People--from all enemies, foreign and domestic. How is an 80-something woman a threat to the country?

As long as they continue their violent assaults on peaceful protesters, they're nothing more than mercenaries for the scumbag elites. Those cops should be using their batons and pepper spray and rubber bullets on the bankers and politicians and predatory foreclosure executives and others--the real enemies of the state--who have screwed this country's citizens for so long.


Ray Pensador has an excellent writeup on the culture of brutality, "Take Your Hands Off Me" over at Kos.

There's an excellent write-up about pepper spray at Speakeasy Science--and some excellent comments there, as well; Leo says:

There seems to be a mentality of “I have pepper spray, so y0u’d better do what I say,” even if the order from the cop is unlawful. Does might make right? I thought we’d progressed beyond that caveman mentality. There’s a reason people employ peaceful protests and sit-ins. They’re not SUPPOSED to be convenient. If they were convenient, people could ignore them. Instead, they’re inconvenient… but also NON-violent. When the police use violence against nonviolent protesters (fire hoses against civil rights marchers, for example), all it does is make even clearer who is right and who is wrong.

And even more on the evolution of police attitudes toward demonstrators can be found here.

He Has a Right to Speak!

...said the cop to the banker.

In a post at Daily Kos, marvinborg relays his experience in passing out fliers in front of Chase and Bank of America branches in San Francisco.

The banksters tried to intimidate him, right up to calling the cops on him when their own private rent-a-goons didn't scare him off.

The sweet, sweet moment:

"He has the right to speak and the right to hand out flyers. Unless he blocks you or causes a disturbance, he has the right to be here - please don't call the police again if he is not bothering you. If you don't like free speech you should move to another country"

Awesome. In your FACE, banker boy.

Teabaggers are Scum.

At last night's Teabagapalooza in Tampa, the Teapublicans had a "debate." Don't know who won, given that they're all losers, but Ron Paul and his cheerleaders in the audience showed their true scumbag colors:



Can't afford health insurance? Dying because of it? The doddering geriatric coot Paul and his insane, sociopathic "pro-life" teabaggers say you should die--"screw you, I've got mine"--and they applaud themselves for saying so. Imagine their orgasmic joy if they'd been able to watch this man's house burn for lack of $75! Even better if he was trapped inside, right? Screw him, he didn't pay!

Assholes. Assholes and hypocrites.

The Nefarious Mister S (part 4)

Took a few days off to build tension.

So where was I?

First, some jackass of a coworker was throwing his trash in my car.

I put together a motion detector and camera and set it to catch him in the act.

When that didn't work, I put in a camcorder and VCR.

On October 12, 2007, my little eye spied this:



I. GOT. HIM. *bahahahahahahaaaaaaaa!*

The Nefarious Mister S (part 3)

After a few weeks of designing, testing, and building a camera rig to catch an idiot co-worker in the act of tossing trash in my car...I had nothing.

That's not quite right. I had a bag of cracker wrappers--oh, and Mister S went to Taco Bell one time, so I got that dumped in my car, too.

I went back to thinking of how I could get a camera into the Tracker. A camcorder would do the trick, but mine would only tape for 90 minutes. A VCR could go for 6 hours...and I had an inverter for making AC power, a car battery to run it. All I needed was a monitor: a cheapie black & white TV from the corner drugstore. Since I'm an Apollo Program geek, I started calling this the Block II and the still camera/motion sensor the Block I (Block I command/service modules were used for all the unmanned flights and Apollo 1; the Block II CSMs were the complete moon-rated item).

The Block II Project came together pretty quickly. I spent several lunch breaks tinkering with the layout. The battery went in back, the inverter sat on the back seat under a hat, and the VCR and TV would be in a tool bag on the floor. Turns out it's hard to hide an old VHS-C camcorder. That didn't matter so much, because the camera kept shutting off.

Another wait for another paycheck, and by October 11, I had a replacement camcorder and a revised name: Block IIb. On October 12, 2007, I set the camera up on a tripod, wedged it between the back seat and side wall, set the VCR running, and left it when my lunch break ended.

Mister S took his lunch as soon as I was back on the clock. I made a few runs, checked the VCR (still running), looked for trash.

There was a cracker wrapper right where previous ones had always landed.

The Nefarious Mister S (part 2)

So how do you nail someone who's been throwing trash in your car? Over the next few weeks I thought it out. It would have to be something reasonably cheap (minimum wage) and easy to set up and hide, since a Tracker's not exactly secure. The rear window hasn't zipped up since I unzipped it--the day I bought the car. All that's holding it up is a bungee cord sewn to the "glass" panel and de-barbed fish hooks sewn in several places around the opening. Mister S was dropping his trash through the gap on the left.

I don't remember what triggered the Big Idea, but in mid August of '07 it hit me: a small camera with a motion sensor. I found several online, but nothing affordable...so I'd have to build it myself...but first I had to wait for payday.

RadioShack had exactly what I was after: a cheap digital camera and a motion sensor. As soon as I got home from work, I went over each of them and made notes. Camera's battery powered...one "AAA"...turns itself off after 1 minute of inactivity...can't be set to stop doing that...two buttons (Power/Mode, Shutter)...motion sensor takes 9 volts...alarm can be silenced...no output that could trigger the camera.

Ponder, ponder, think, think...need a circuit that will "listen" for a signal from the motion sensor and trigger the camera shutter AND a circuit that just pushes the camera's Power/Mode button a few times a minute to keep it awake. Okay, dig out some electronics books...find something close to what I need...throw a prototype together...modify the camera and sensor...test, fix, test, fix, test, fix...build the board...by September 10th it was all together, part of the camera and the sensor painted yellow to match the Tracker. Everything was powered by a block of "D"-cell batteries: 9 volts' worth for the sensor and circuit, a single for the camera. I was pretty proud of myself.

The plan was to hang the camera where it could see the Tracker's rear window. The sensor would be mounted so that it could pick up Mister S's hand entering the car. Click! I got a few test pictures, set the rig up, and left it to itself.

Didn't catch a thing. There was new trash in the car, but no new shots in the camera. I tried for more test pictures and realized pretty quickly that the infrared sensor was getting washed out by sunlight. Unless Mister S was kind enough to put his hand within an inch of the sensor (or wait until dark), it would never trigger the camera.

Well, crap. I had to think up something else.

The Nefarious Mister S (part 1)

This all started back in early June of '07. I was a delivery driver; in the shop there was a big dry-erase board where we wrote our stops and time out. I came back from a run and noticed that someone had rubbed the top off the "O" in my name, so now I was up there as "Judy."

Really?

For cryin' out loud, can't this person come up with something better than this? What, am I working in a freakin' KINDERGARTEN?! What's next--"Circle, circle, dot, dot, now you got your cootie shot!"?

Instead of bitching about it, I did a little detective work. I was still the New Guy, only there for 3 months and change, so I didn't really know anyone all that well. I wrote down everyone's name, then over two or three weeks I eliminated people who were out or unlikely, and ended up with one name.

Mister S.

He seemed like an okay sort at first, just a lonely, grouchy old man. He spent a good bit of time and energy being worked up over one of the other drivers--she couldn't do anything right, he didn't like her, and he was always talking crap behind her back. I was starting to realize that this guy was so uptight, you couldn't pull a needle out of his ass with a Mack truck.

She quit in July, I think. That left Mister S without a playmate, so he latched on to me.

Since I didn't rise to the bait with the name thing, Mister S changed tactics. I found that out in late July, on my way home from work. I reached to the back seat for something and found a pile of something else, which I brought up to look at.

Cracker wrappers. Over the next few months, I would find several wrappers a week behind the back seat of my Tracker.

But whose?

Connecting the dots was easy--it was obviously Mister S--but I wanted to catch him in the act.

Pic of the Day: Palin's Targets, only bigger.

Thanks to PZ Myers' Pharyngula blog, I learned that there's an even bigger version of Clampett Spice's hit-map, with her name all over it.

I can hardly wait to see what Clampett Spice Tweets about the shootings.

----------------------------------------------------------

Update (Jan. 11, 2011): The silence from Caribou Barbie has been telling...and deafening. I bet it's causing near-physical pain for her to avoid public attention, but since her Facebook post expressing her condolences after the shootings, she hasn't so much as Tweeted.

Instead, the coward has been tough-talk emailing one of the few people as crazy as she is (Glenn Beck) and hiding behind her conservative Big Brothers, hoping they'll fight for her.

Some moron named Mansour denies that those little crosshairs are crosshairs--they're surveyor's marks!

Her sorry ass is trying to play the victim, here, making it About Sarah Palin. The attempted assassination of a U.S. Congresswoman, the assassination of a Federal Judge, the murders of five more including a nine-year-old girl, and the wounding of a dozen more bystanders, and Palin's a martyr, the victim--the same role she's been playing for two years.

Still, there's a very bright side to all this: her star is falling. Her second book's sales are so bad the distributors are sending them back in droves. Her first book's out in paperback now, and sales are nothing like the first round.

Her TLC show--Clampett Spice's Alaska or somesuch--hasn't been picked up for a second season. Her Fox Noise show apparently disappointed even the faithful.

One can hope that all this means that she'll fade away.

Pic of the Day: Palin's Targets.

Yeah, it's probably tacky to post this, but appropriate in the wake of the shootings in Tuscon, Arizona this morning. Democratic Representative Giffords was shot and wounded and a Federal judge was killed by some Glock-waving prick.

So it's appropriate that Sara "Don't retreat--reload!" Palin's "hit list" map be posted on any available surface. This same picture ran for months on behalf of various right-wing tea-bagging scumbags, most notably on http://www.takebackthe20.com/, where "the 20" referred to the 20 crosshaired Congressional districts seen on the map. Those are all Democrats who voted for Health Care Reform. The site has been pulled down, so at least there's someone with some sense--or at least someone trying to cover their asses.

Stay classy, Snowbillies and "Second Amendment Remedy" assholes: one of the people killed was a child. Fark all of you.

Karate, Exercise, and Me

I've been thinking about my karate days, 'way back in the early 1990's, and how that missing grandfather of mine might have made a difference in the outcome.

I've never been into the regular athletic stuff. What I remember of the softball, soccer and touch football games of middle school in the early '80s is being the last kid picked. I was typically passed off to the other team--"Eh, you can have him." I was used to being the kid no one wanted; I didn't want to be there, either. PE was more punishment than pleasure.

I'd stand way out in left field, ignoring the game, wishing I had a book, wishing the class would END already. Every now and then a batter would lob the ball out into my real estate and I'd mosey over to its general area, pick it up, and throw it toward whomever was waving the hardest, not really caring whether the ball got that far or not. Payback for picking me last. Should have been nicer to me.

Once I got up to bat, though, I put everything I had into hitting the ball--but not to help the team. I just wanted to hit something.

Soccer was fun that way, too. Last one picked, put with the other outcaste kids at the goal, ignoring the game and just hanging out. Every now and again, the ball comes our way and I run all-out to intercept it. Then I'd kick it as hard as I could downfield, not bothering to aim for any of the arm-waving jerks. It was fun to watch both teams suddenly reverse course and go barreling after the ball. Payback for picking me last, etc. Soccer for the passive-aggressive!

Fast-forward to college in the early '90s. I fell in love with Shotokan karate from the first class in 1990. It was exercise that didn't feel like exercise, wasn't boring even for being repetitive, and was individual instead of a team thing. I kept my enthusiasm going for years, never in a hurry to get that black belt, because I was having so much fun in the moment.

I wasn't a prodigy, some reborn Bruce Lee. There were plenty of techniques to learn and some of them came easily. There were some--especially roundhouse and spinning rear kicks--that I couldn't seem to "get" no matter how hard I worked at them and it aggravated the hell out of me. I'm a perfectionist about the damndest things.

Apparently some of the higher-rank folks misinterpreted my enjoyment as arrogance. I didn't know it at the time, but they thought I had an attitude, that I was acting above my rank, wouldn't listen, and stuff like that. That's not how it really was, but I can see how people would think that of a socially-inept kid (25 is still a kid). I tried to explain that I was frustrated with those kicks, or that my left ankle didn't have quite the same range of motion as my right.

It all came to a head--and an end--in 1992. It was a good class and we were working on spinning rear thrust kicks. I was utterly failing, spinning too far or not getting my kicking leg up, juggling a thousand little things in my mind, trying to get it right this time and getting more and more aggravated.

Sensei stopped the class and called for a circle so he could demonstrate the kick with one of the black-belts. I must have muttered something, because the guy I was partnered with (both of us green-belts) asked what was wrong. I told him I was frustrated. No big conversation. But across the circle, one of the black belts--Farmboy-san--saw me talking. A breach of etiquette. After the class was over, Farmboy-san pulled me aside, stood me at "attention," and bitched me out: "If you ever do that again I'll kick your ass!"

All in that moment, it wasn't fun anymore. I gradually stopped going. Within 3 weeks, I was done with it.

I've looked at my journal for that month. I can't relate to the 20-something kid I was then, furious and scared, freaking out over being yelled at by someone with no real authority. It looks like I was back in middle school, ranting about one of the bullies.

I wish I'd at least given him some of his own--a simple, calm "You can try" in reply, or maybe just one of those Looks Clint Eastwood used to be known for. I don't doubt that my grandfather would have grinned his shit-eating-grin and fed Farmboy-san his belt.

I don't particularly believe in karma, but I learned that within a year of all that crap, Farmboy-san slipped on a ladder while doing some roof work and damaged his knee. No karate for him, at least for a few years.

Every once in a while I'll pull out my karate notebook and folders to see how much I still remember, what I can still do. I've got a few books on Japanese language, some on the culture, a crapload of martial-arts movies and anime. But right now, I can't do most of the karate stuff: ever since that aortic dissection hit me, I've been warned to avoid any stress or strain, or anything that might raise my blood pressure, which has stayed in the 160 to 180 range while the doc tinkers with my meds. I finally got it down to 141 over something in the last week. In the four months since I left the hospital, I've regained only a little of the muscle tone I lost in both legs; a short walk or shorter bike ride is about the most I can do, but it occurs to me that I can work on the basic karate stances as low-impact therapy, if I can get my knees to handle it.

All I have left is two sets of karate pajamas and my green belt that are more than slightly smallish, fading memories of the things I learned, and a slogan I thought up back when it was fun: "Two years of karate, and all I can do is get my ass kicked in Japanese!" The karate class didn't make fighters out of anyone. We weren't learning self-defense. It was Art Karate, or Tournament Karate, aerobics, exercise, form over function.

Even so, it was fun. I miss that most of all.

Bullies...and the Old Man

Still thinking about the Old Man, and my own troubles.

I was afraid of him for most of my childhood...disliked or hated him for that into my 20's...angry with myself into my 30's for not standing up to him, all because of those whippings that seemed all out of proportion to whatever I'd done, the threats of taking an ax handle to me...I wasn't a great kid, no, but I wasn't that bad or all that different from any other kid my age. Maybe it was his own upbringing; for the few years I was around his father (he died in the late '70s), most of the memories I have of Grafton were of a stern stranger. I don't remember him as a loving grandfather figure or much of anything else. And I don't know whether he whipped the tar out of his own kids.

I see other people, their closeness to family, and I wonder what it feels like. In my forties, the old fear is gone, the anger still there: I never stood up to him, or to anybody else. The closest I ever came to fighting back against bullies amounted to peeing on one. Would have been more satifying to knock him down and beat him unconscious, to make sure that was the last time he bullied anyone.

There was a teacher who was worse than that, in some ways. I was in her marketing class. One day, on the way across campus to her "portable" classroom, I found a pair of aluminum push-pins in the dirt. I like shiny things and metal, so of course I grabbed them. I had them on my desk during class (no book bag? Can't remember--but I had enough sense to not sit down with those things in a pocket).

One of the bullies got assigned to pick up trash in the room: the teacher's notion of punishment for talking. He walked up and down the rows, smirking, collecting paper or whatever and putting it in the trash can he was toting. When he got to my desk, he swept my pins into the can. I told him to put them back--and the teacher got involved.

She looked at the pins and told me I'd stolen them from her bulletin board. Wouldn't listen to my side of things. Go sit down.

As I walked away, I muttered, "you f*cking bitch."

This got me sent to the dean's office, got my mother called in for a conference with the three of them...and got me suspended for a few days. No one bothered to ask me my side. All they cared about was the disruption, not right or wrong. To this day, I stand by what I did--but I wish I'd been better at it, my own defense attorney, able to use words as weapons, with the conviction of being in the right--the pins weren't stolen, and she was a farking bitch.

Funny thing is that she was supposed to be psychic. It was years later that I thought that I could have used that--"You're psychic, right? Why don't you use your mystical powers to find the truth?"

Nah. I never had the backbone to stand up to any of them, the Old Man, his son, the bullies at school, the teachers who didn't care anymore about teaching and just wanted to get through another day of dealing with us teenaged terrorists. Then there were various management types, both in civilian and military employ, where pushing back would bring worse than schoolboy suspension...well, a boss can only fire you. Military people can throw your ass in jail whether they're wrong or not.

So many authoritarians and incompetents. Teachers fail upward and become administrators. Sergeants collect more rockers on their sleeves. Crappy team leaders become managers become district managers. Brown belts become black belts--and there's always someone who thinks his new rank should be used as a bludgeon. The new administrator wants to clean up the school, get rid of things he found offensive and could do nothing about. The new sergeant tries to shape up his platoon by becoming a shouting drill instructor. The new district manager has to be consulted for every decision, demanding that payroll be kept unrealistically low--but those sales have to go up, whether there are enough people to do the job or not. The new blackbelt looks upon simple mistakes as infractions to be punished.

They're all the same. But the stepfather, the stepbrother...where do they fit into this? An administrator or manager can be shuffled sideways, a sergeant reassigned, a black belt put through a "guantlet" where he must face the other high-ranks, to be shown how little he knows.

What the hell do you do with family?

What the hell do you do three decades later, when you're not that scared little kid--just an adult looking at new things to be afraid of--your own failing health and that of your surviving parent, looking for a new job.

What the hell do you do when that giant with a belt is just an old man?

School wasn't this bad...

...but I don't blame this guy at all for not going to his 25th high school reunion. He says, "I don't think that my experience was particularly unusual. I know a lot of people who had it worse."

But what he faced was:
--a guy broke his fingers just because he wanted to know what it sounded like. School admin tried to shrug it off.
--a different guy poured a swastika in gasoline on the street in front of Mark's house, then lit it.

Holy crap! I never had troubles like that. I was a standard sort of nerd kid, got my share of bullies, but never anything like that.

The worst bullying I got was from a punk into intimidation. Let's call him "Darren." I'm pretty sure that was it, and not "Bill" or "Billy" or "Mac" or "Buddy"--and he was plain ugly to me. There's only one encounter I even remember, and even then it's only because of my own reaction.

See, Darren the tough guy came into the restroom while I was standing at a urinal. It was just before the bell, Health class, pretty cool teacher. Darren took up the second urinal to my left and started his business. He opened his pie-hole and said something in Bullyish, the rough equivalent of "How's your day, pal?" or "Such exemplary weather, I should think, eh what?" but it comes out more like, "I'm gonna kick your farking ass after school."

I replied to him in his own language with, "Indeed, the sky is quite the shade of blue, my good man." which roughly translates to English as "Go fark yourself."

He reached out right-handed and punched me upside the face.

I repeated myself, in case he'd misconstrued.

He reached out right-handed and punched me upside the face.

At this point I did the only thing I could do: I peed on him.

Now, I'd love to play this off the way a cat would--"I meant to to that."

I wish it had been a cool, calculated slow-motion maneuver like a gangster tearing the ribbon off the long roses box, then reaching in and throwing the box aside while bringing his Thompson machine gun up and spraying the other guy from hat-brim to shoe-leather, emptying the magazine and remorselessly watching the guy twitch in his final throes, dead long before he hits the pavement.

Yeah, it'd have been VERY satisfying to have beaten the crap out of him, but I was never a fighter. In my mind's-eye view of the aftermath, I see a soggy Darren trying to explain how his shirt and jeans got soaked.

I don't know if he had to do a wardrobe change that morning. All I know is that he never bothered me again.