Au contraire. If you listen to Track #5 (They Call The Wind Mariah), you can be clearly heard chortling at one of the jokes. It precedes your guffaw, your snicker, and your chuckle.
Posted on 01/01/2012 8:10:22 AM PST by Gen.Blather
I met some illegal Mexicans last night at a party. Several years ago I stayed with a couple of wonderful Mexican families in the Baja below California. These were well-off people. The homes, on average were beautifully tiled and some of them had mahogany inlaid walls, bookshelves and cabinetry that would cost a hundred-thousand dollars here. So, I’m guessing if they aren’t rich they’re very comfortable. The elderly not as well-off grandfather, while living in Mexico was receiving Social Security from the United States and owned a rent-free apartment in California which he used as his address to receive several forms of assistance checks from Californian agencies. He visited the apartment once a week to re-arrange things and make it looked lived in. He had a car, a Toyota Corolla that looked quite nice and had working air-conditioning. I gathered it was supplied as some form of assistance and he generally left it in California at the apartment. The apartment was about 1100 square feet and very livable. The grandfather told me most of entire complex, easily a 1000 units, were like him, on Californian assistance, but actually living in Mexico.
At the party were a couple of teenage boys from this family. Very nice kids. I’d be proud to have them as my own; diligent, hard working, trouble-free and much more adult than you’d expect from that age. They told me that they’d decided to go to high school in California instead of Mexico. They said that the (California) government gave them an apartment and they travel back to Mexico on the weekends. (I don’t know if they’re staying alone or if a family member is staying with them, but if I had to guess, they came alone.)
When I posted information on this family last time, Freepers angrily asked why I hadn’t reported them. Firstly, I was a well-treated guest. Secondly, this must be obvious to the casual observer. Even if I knew who to report it to in California, which I don’t, it is obvious that this is how it’s done. These people are only taking advantage of “benefits” put there for them. Not to avail themselves of these benefits would be like deciding not to take candy freely offered to you.
Tom Lehrer reference?
Are you talking about Mariah of the Port Arthur Mariah's? Because I think they spell it with a 3. No, wait, they definitely spell it with a 3.
If we're supposed to spellcheck our tattoos we really should have gotten them in a place where w . . . maybe we should just keep that between the two of us. Okay? 'Cause Phoenix isn't a good place for spellchecking tattoos.
I stole from Tom Lehrer (but I think his was a 5). And I’m the greatest mathematician ever to get chalk on my coat.
Oh, good grief! That really *was* you. Am speechless.
Au contraire. If you listen to Track #5 (They Call The Wind Mariah), you can be clearly heard chortling at one of the jokes. It precedes your guffaw, your snicker, and your chuckle.
I am reminded at this point of a fellow I used to know who’s name was Henry, only to give you an idea of what an individualist he was he spelled it HEN3RY. The 3 was silent, you see. Henry was financially independent having inherited his father’s tar-and-feather business and was therefore able to devote his full time to such intellectual pursuits as writing. I particularly remember a heart-warming novel of his about a young necrophiliac who finally achieved his boy-hood ambition by becoming coroner.
I’d like to take you now on wings of song, as it were, and try and help you forget perhaps for a while your drab, wretched lives. Here’s a song all about spring-time in general, and in particular, about one of the many delightful pastimes the coming of spring affords us all.
Spring is here, a-suh-puh-ring is here.
Life is skittles and life is beer.
I think the loveliest time of the year is the spring.
I do, don’t you? ‘Course you do.
But there’s one thing that makes spring complete for me,
And makes ev’ry Sunday a treat for me.
All the world seems in tune
On a spring afternoon,
When we’re poisoning pigeons in the park.
Ev’ry Sunday you’ll see
My sweetheart and me,
As we poison the pigeons in the park.
When they see us coming, the birdies all try an’ hide,
But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyanide.
The sun’s shining bright,
Ev’rything seems all right,
When we’re poisoning pigeons in the park.
Cold enough that I had to buy electric blankets so we could sleep. 2400 square feet of house doesn’t heat very well wth 5 year old wood.
Maybe we’ll do
in a a squirrel or two...
For those who aren't ready to face the day quite yet ...
ROTFL!!!
Classy flag, that!
That would be me, for sure. Not ready for much of anything, right now.
A haircut is what I need, and I have to go to the PO to mail a three-week late BD present. *sigh*
But I also have to clean house. I wonder what will win?
Wait until it’s light to decide! I had to go to Walmart as soon as I got up, to get diapers. I didn’t realize it was critical until I put the last one on Frank before I put him to bed!
Yep. Waiting until it’s light is a good idea. But I’m still yawning. (ohsotired)
The Stig doesn’t want me to wait for daylight to take off his cover...he wants me to remove it as soon as I get up...4:30 or 5:00. Silly bird.
I don’t get up with the birds; the bird gets up with me.
;o]
My mammals are doing Sunbeam Time. I should go lie down for a while, or I’ll never make it to evening and the Knights of Columbus social with square dancing. (If I wanted to have the baby tomorrow, square dancing would be a good idea, but I don’t.) And I need to make a casserole.
DP, Bill, Tom, and Pat (with other Scouty sorts) are out working on Bill’s Eagle project. Sunny and 50s now, good day for it.
Sounds like a recipe for a short but uninteresting life; going to bed with the chickens, and getting up with the birds.
I’ve never thought about when chickens go to bed.
In the country, it has to do with when it gets dark. Chickens don’t much care whether they are eating dirt, or bugs, but the bugs are more nutritious.
Instead, they are aware, in their dim instinctive crevices of brain-wrinkles, that predators will be able to see them before they see the predators. So with the waning light, they seek shelter.
In industrial coops, the lights are kept on. The chickens continue eating, and getting fat. There’s a lesson in there for us as well.
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