to kill us patriots. They want to worship as they choose. Hate mongers spread this misinformation because they want everybody to live in fear, to get stirred up and to see a terrorist behind every tree. Live and let live. Worship as you like. Get out of the way so others can do the same. I love these bozos who preach First Amendment rights except when it interferes with their bully pulpit.
Why is it that when there is a disaster like Katrina, or Haiti or Pakistan, that everybody rallies around, never blinking an eye when the U.S. sends billions of greenbacks to help those in need? Everybody gets behind humanitarian causes. Disasters bring out the best in Democrats and Republicans, Christians, Catholics and Jews. But you let the president of the 50 states pass health care reform so that the poorest can get medical attention, or mention raising taxes to pay for better education across the board and the political demagogues want to impeach him. Go figure. From this four-legged point of view, somebody needs to get Judge Judy stirred up. I love it when she says, “I’m smarter than you on my dumbest day.” When Daddy uses her line on his clients, the Great Unwashed make a shift, as do the defendants in Judge Judy’s TV courtroom. From my view closer to the floor, there are a lot of mean and nasty people who think it is all about them and their almighty dollar. Soon all of this will change. Soon the other shoe will drop and then let’s see who does what when there is greater parity, or as some would say, a redistribution of wealth.
On a lighter note, Scott and Alison and mon père went to the theater to see The Return of Nanny McPhee. Daddy kept repeating, “I’m Nanny McPhee. Little `c,’ big `P.’” I was trying to get their attention by vibing, “I’m Mr. Darby. Big `M,’ big ‘D,’” but nobody was paying me any mind.
And as always, we get back to poo. Mon père was having fits of joy and ecstasy when I made a big poo in the parking lot that same day. God, if I had known how Dada would get off on my poo I would strain to do it more often. No matter how much Scott tells him to quit getting mad at me if I don’t go to the bathroom on a walk, Daddy still gets his underpants in a wad if I don’t “go.” Scott reprimands him, “How would you like it if someone was always saying, `When are you going to the bathroom?’ `Why haven’t you eliminated this morning, il principe?’” He is very anal but he is getting better.
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