Posted on 12/24/2004 8:51:48 AM PST by Mo1
San Francisco to you... and telling tales about me and Brunhilda, are we? What can I say, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
I agree. Those of us who are now complaining have been asleep at the switch for far too long. And because of the Liberal courts, WE, it would appear, have no recourse!! This is one of the major reasons that the bench warming liberal judges NEED to be outnumbered by Conservatives or better yet, those who are prepared to rule according to the Constitution.
That's gorgeous Westy!! Have a safe and good night. CO
That is Sooooo cute! My deceased siamese kitty, Petra, used to do that when I was packing to go someplace. She'd park herself in my suitcase, on top of my clothes.
I don't think we were asleep .. maybe naive in thinking we could find a common ground with Dems.
Actually .. I think most Dems are asleep .. most Dems are moderate .. but at the same time .. most Dems don't realize their party leaders are really socialists
And no matter how you try to tell these moderate Dems this .. they just won't believe until they are smacked upside their head with the truth
The tide started to turn at the 2000 election ... in the 2002 election republican broke history because normally in an off election, it's the opposite party that picks up seats in Congress ..
That didn't happen
And this year .. we picked up more seats .. plus Bush rec'd 4 MILLION more votes
It's gonna be a slow road to get things back right .. but we will get there one day at a time .. one step at a time
Sweet Dreams Westie and see ya in the morning
Let me correct myself
the tide started to turn with Reagan
But it got side tracked because of a 3rd party canidate named Ross Perot
Check this out
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1310730/posts
Jan Egeland biography (pays no income tax)
UN ^ | Dec. 30, 2004 | JohnCliftn
Posted on 12/30/2004 12:50:28 AM EST by JohnCliftn
Excerpt from Jan Egeland Biography
Mr Egeland holds a Magister Artium in Political Science, University of Oslo. He has been a Fulbright Scholar at the University of California, Berkeley and a fellow at the International Peace Research Institute, Oslo, and the Truman Institute for the Advancement for Peace, Jerusalem. Mr. Egeland has been Chair of Amnesty International, Norway, and Vice Chair of the International Executive Committee of Amnesty International.
Which means he gets a gross salary of UnderSecretaryGeneral|Gross $186,144 but pays no Income Taxes for I quote from the link:
Income taxes: Most member states have granted United Nations staff exemption from national income taxation on their United Nations emoluments. However, a few member States do tax the emoluments of their nationals. In such cases, the organizations reimburse the income tax to the staff member.
which means even if he does pay income taxes the UN reimburses him!
(Excerpt) Read more at unisdr.org ...
Check out what this arrogant fool has to say
Wisconsin Senator Writes About Visit to Alabama [Democratic Senator Russ Feingold]
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1310786/posts
Great find, Mo1!
Howlin - see #909. Most UN officials don't pay income taxes.
Re: Footprints in cement - I only entered the facility, and quickly exited same.
My diversity quotient sux.
Good Thursday morning, everyone.
Pencil-necked little hypocrite.
Most member states have granted United Nations staff exemption from national income taxation on their United Nations emoluments. However, a few member States do tax the emoluments of their nationals. In such cases, the organizations reimburse the income tax to the staff member.
***
What a huge pantload.
What a gold plated A-hole! Trailer parks and used car lots are signs of an economic downturn? People don't buy used cars or live in mobile homes in Wisconsin? BTW, congratulations Rusty on your campaign finance reform that has proved a resounding success! Not.
My sentiments exactly, Loddy..
Warning to Women
This is a "heads up" to those friends who haven't experienced it yet and an explanation to those friends and family who have. Most of you have read the scare-mail about the person whose kidneys were stolen while he was passed out.
Well, read on. While it was an "urban legend," this one is not. It's happening every day.
My thighs were stolen from me during the night of August 3rd a few years ago. It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke up with someone else's thighs. The new ones had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been wholly, if imperfectly, mine for years. Whose thighs were these? What happened to mine?
I spent the entire summer looking for them. I searched, in vain, at pools and beaches, anywhere I might find female limbs exposed. I became obsessed. I had nightmares filled with cellulite and flesh that turns to bumps in the night. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.
Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My butt was next. I knew it was the same gang because they took pains to match my new rear end (although badly attached at least three inches lower than the original) to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. Now my rear
complimented my legs, lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion.
It was 2 years ago when I realized my arms had been switched. One morning while fixing my hair, I watched, horrified but fascinated, as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced, cleverly and fiendishly, one section at a time.
Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age was supposed to creep up unnoticed and intangible, something like maturity. NO, I was being attacked, repeatedly and without warning. In the end, in deepening despair, I gave up my T-shirts. What could they do to me next? My eyes began to remind people that they needed a new pair of Hush Puppies. My poor neck disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now reminded me of.
That's why I've decided to tell my story; I can't take on the medical profession by myself. Women of the World, wake up and smell the coffee! That isn't really "plastic" those surgeons are using. You know where they're getting those replacement parts, don't you? The next time you suspect someone has had a face "lifted," look again! Was it lifted from you? Check out those tummy tucks and buttocks raisings. Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on that movie star? I think I finally may have found my thighs...and I hope that Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them!
This is NOT a hoax! This is happening to women in every town every night.
Warn all your friends.
P.S. I feel much better knowing this is happening, I thought I was just getting old! I must say that last year I thought someone had stolen my breasts. I was lying in bed and they were gone, as I sprang from my bed I was relieved to see that they were just hiding in my pajama bottoms. After reading this, I will keep them hidden in my waistband!
The obit of some friends' son-in-law:
It's Wednesday night, and Lavonte Jackson walks off the basketball court and sees the obituary on the second-floor door.
"I don't believe that," Jackson, 23, says, as he examines the picture. "I played with him. If he were here, he would know me. He would always shake my hand after the game."
Paul Gilgo knew almost every basketball player at the Dowd YMCA and almost every basketball player knew him. Gilgo had been coming to the gym since the 1980s. He was 6-foot-3, ran the court relentlessly and had a sweet shot he didn't have to be talked into taking.
He played for keeps. He called the woman he would marry on their first date to say he'd be late. After taking an elbow through his lower lip, he was in the emergency room.
Kelly Gilgo became accustomed to such calls. Three times Paul went to the ER with a broken nose.
The call she received the evening of Dec. 6 is one to which nobody will become accustomed. Paul, 45, had been killed in an auto accident.
The vice president of sales for Reflex Security, he left for Atlanta that Monday. He was driving down Interstate85 in his maroon 1996 Volvo, the floor likely covered with its usual array of hamburger wrappers, Styrofoam coffee cups and a plastic bag full of dank gym clothes. He had planned to leave early, but snuck in one last lunchtime game at the Y.
At about 8:40 p.m. he crossed the median in Banks County, about 60 miles north of Atlanta. A semi-tractor trailer hit him, and a second tractor-trailer was caught up in the wreck. Neither of the other drivers was hurt.
Kelly had to tell their children, Andrew, 8, Grace, 5, and Evan, 3, about their father's death.
Shane Hummell, who runs the basketball programs at the Y, had to tell Gilgo's friends.
Hummell walked to the middle of Keith Gym. The game stopped and players gathered around him. Then the loud gym turned silent. Some players left. Some sat on the wooden benches. Some played.
"But it was like a game out of the 1940s," says CB. "Nobody was calling any fouls."
Paul is Paul G at the Y because that's what he wrote on the sign-up sheet to distinguish himself from other Pauls. Some men who, for more than a decade, had fought with and against him for rebounds didn't know his last name.
They answer here to John V, Jim B, JD, Bax, Carl, Stu, Shaq, Spider and CB. CB looks through the Plexiglass at the end of the court and expects to see Paul G doing curls while waiting his chance to play.
Paul G was vital. That's why it's so unfathomable that he's gone. He played so hard that Kelly, 36, refused to watch. She saw him play only once. She tried to talk him into playing at the Siskey YMCA, a quick drive from their house.
"But he said no," says Kelly. "He said the greatest pick-up ball in the city is at the Dowd Y."
Paul G played hard but he played right. He didn't belittle lesser players. If his teammates weren't hustling, or made a joke of it, he'd walk off in the middle of a game. He'd learn details about the players he had drawn so they would feel less like strangers and more like a team.
"Other people say they don't bring the job home," says Kelly. "Paul never did."
Whatever frustrations he had, he left them, along with pieces of his nose, on the court.
CB says if he had $50 for every game he played with Paul he'd have $500,000. He knew every nuance of Paul G's game.
But he didn't know that Paul G hugged his kids when he walked in the door. He didn't know that he told Kelly every night that he loved her.
He didn't know that Paul G and Kelly, who rarely went out, recently saw "The Notebook." Paul G cried as hard as she did. It's probably good that CB didn't know that.
Kelly says she never encountered anybody Paul met in sales, and he had been in sales more than 20 years. When they met somebody, the name usually ended in an initial.
The guys with the initials show up everywhere. Paul G spent the night at his church, St. Stephen United Methodist, as part of the Room at the Inn program. One of the homeless men who visited that night was a Y regular. What do you say?
"Hey, man," is what Paul G said. They were equals. When you've repeatedly forced your tired bodies down court for a 2-on-1 fast break, status no longer applies.
CB went to a banker's holiday party and right away was asked what he did for a living.
"If I told you, would you pretend that you cared?" CB asked the woman.
At the Y, nobody asks. Whether your collar is white, the skin beneath your fingernails black, your politics, red or blue, matters not. Can you play? Do you hustle? That's the currency.
There are mats and step-benches on the edge of Keith Gym, and on the wall is a sign that insists on appropriate language. Each basket is a point, games are to 11 and there's a 12-minute time limit. Losers walk.
Paul G played in Keith games and in games around the corner in the Y's Underwood Gym, where the men tend to be younger and encounters above the rim more frequent. Paul G was one of the few older guys able to slip seamlessly from one to the other.
Beneath Paul G's obituary is the message: A GOOD MAN...A GOOD FRIEND...Y B-BALLERS. Some players already have sent money to the recreational fund at Paul G's church, where he coached. They plan to hold a tournament in his name.
I did a small favor for Paul G last year, getting tickets at cost through a friend so he could take his older son to the Carolina-Washington football game. A few weeks ago, Paul walked up to say that Andrew still talks about it, and he thanked me again.
Paul G was a friend. You had to like him. Had to. He was gracious and kind and sufficiently handsome that, had he broken his nose a fourth time, he still would have looked good.
December is a terrible time for a tragedy.
"But this is not about grieving," says Kelly.
Paul G was respected and loved, as hundreds of basketball players, some with tears in their eyes, will attest.
"What a legacy," says Hummell.
"He was one of the good guys," says basketball player Jim B. "You hate to see this happen to anybody, but it's terrible when it happens to one of the good guys."
The good guy leaves a wife and three children.
The Gilgo Children Scholarship Fund has been established in their name. You can contribute in care of Central Carolina Bank, Kings Drive Branch, 101 S. Kings Dr., Charlotte, N.C. 28204.
You're probably wondering why, on Dec. 24, I'm coming to you with this.
Had you known Paul G, I suspect that you'd be coming to me.
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