Amon Bundy Domestic Terrorist

Bundy 1

Brought to you by your friends in Pahrump, NV.

I came across this sign today, on my way to one of my favorite local haunts, Building 160. Affectionately known as “Rosie’s” to the residents, of which I am one.

So I turned to my husband to ask what this was all about … he tells me that Ammon Bundy is currently being housed in the C.C.A. of Southern Nevada Prison. I decided to take a picture on the way back from Rosie’s and I made sure I got the “WTF in the photo too, because you just can’t make this stuff up.

I turned to my husband and said “the sign they posted seems appropriate. He is after all, a Domestic Terrorist.”

Dear Ann & Nancy Wilson … You Truly Are Outstanding !!!

I woke up at 5:45 a.m and while my husband was still sleeping, I was coding away for our GrassrootsInternetRadio.com webpage. I don’t change it too much however, it’s there and I needed something to do.
My husband got up about an hour after I did, and proceeded to head to his computer to play Mafia Wars etc. Then he called to me from our office and he linked me to a photograph of an article you both signed. I was over come with pure joy, as he read it to me.
Now I want to share this with the world.
You are my heroes!

Tax The Testes

It has come to my attention, that several states across this great nation of ours, are doing their level best to impede Woman’s Civil Rights. I have an answer for that! In as much as men (for the most part), are behind these actions, to take our nation back to pre 16th century standards of  living, it occurred to me that the easiest way to bring about some form of fairness, would be to tax their testes.
Women come with a predetermined amount of ovum, wherein which to produce progeny. Easily counted with the types of invasive technology we have today. Women could set up a payment plan for taxation of the “eggs” and have it paid off in no time at all. Men however, are the gift that just keeps on giving. These types of men want to, tax and audit women in the doctor’s office, invade their privacy, subject them to psychological testing and spiritual battery. Therefore in my opinion,  turnabout is fair-play.

Imagine the possibilities!

It would take a small government stipend to equip every wife, sister, daughter, mother and grandmother, with a small black-light for body scanning and an infrared camera to photograph the evidence for cataloging. Black-lights to illuminate the “Spillage”, photographs for inspection. At the end of every month, tally up the total and send it to the I.R.S. for proper taxation, at the end of every fiscal year. It wouldn’t even involve a doctor’s office or extra I.R.S. agents. Unless something happened at those offices.

A lot less privacy invasive too, since women that are central to men’s lives, would be in charge of counting for taxation. We as women, could come up with a Nationallly Standardized packet, which would include a psychological profile checklist for men, who are over zealous about their emissions and recommendations such as, churches that are local to the area, to remind them that God frowns on “Spilling Your Seed”.  Then refer those men to psychologists and psychiatrists that specialize in the “Spilling of the Seed” wantonly.  Followed up by a visit to the I.R.S. office to report on their “progress”.

For the really egregious  offenders, non-profit, public speaking engagements, which would feature power-point presentations that included, apologies, the King James version of the evils of wasting one’s “Seed”, a list from Hammurabi’s Code of consequences, should the matter have to be taken up more than 3 times, and of course, pictures where the crimes were committed, confessions, closing with a recrimination segment, by the public at large, in attendance . All to be recorded and documented, kept in an online, publicly accessible file.

Information Please … courtesy of Ellen

When I was a young boy, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood.. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was “Information Please” and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone’s number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.

I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.

“Information, please” I said into the
mouthpiece just above my head.

A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

“Information.”

“I hurt my finger…” I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough
now that I had an audience.

“Isn’t your mother home?” came the question

“Nobody’s home but me,” I blubbered.

“Are you bleeding?” the voice asked.

“No,”
I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”

“Can you open the icebox?” she asked.

I said I could.

“Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger,” said the voice..

After that, I called “Information Please” for everything.. I asked her for
help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math.

She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called,

Information Please,” and told her the sad story.. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, ” Wayne , always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”

Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, “Information Please.”

“Information,” said in the now familiar voice. “How do I spell fix?”

I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest . When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston . I missed my friend very much.
“Information Please” belonged in that old wooden box back home and I
somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me..

Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle .. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “Information Please.”

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.

“Information.”

I hadn’t planned this, but I heard myself saying,

“Could you please tell me how to spell fix?”

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.”

I laughed, “So it’s really you,” I said. “I wonder if you have any
idea how much you meant to me during that time?”

I wonder,” she said, “if you know how much your call meant to me.

I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls.”

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

“Please do”, she said. “Just ask for Sally.”

Three months later I was back in Seattle . A different voice answered,

“Information.”
I asked for Sally.

“Are you a friend?” she said.

“Yes, a very old friend,” I answered.

” I’m sorry to have to tell you this,”She said. “Sally had been working part time the last few yearsbecause she was sick. She died five weeks ago.”

Before I could hang up, she said, ”

Wait a minute, did you say your name was Wayne ?” ”

Yes.” I answered.

“Well, Sally left a message for you.

She wrote it down in case you called.

Let me read it to you.”

The note said,

“Tell him there are other worlds to sing in.

He’ll know what I mean.”

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others..

Whose life have you touched today?

Why not pass this on? I just did….

Lifting you on eagle’s wings.

May you find the joy and peace you long for.

Life is a journey… NOT a guided tour.

Miss TSA 2012 Calendar (Courtesy of Wakien)

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