Social Security for years had a taxable ceiling of $42,500. If you made a million dollars in any given year, your FICA liability would have been maxed at $42.5. Actually from $3,000 in (1937) to $110,100 (2012). Which means you had no FICA taxable liability above those earned amounts. Though if you considered the commensurate salary increase for the average population during that time, you would find it woefully unobliging. Truth is most people earning above that amount during their life time have no need for social security benefits. But those monies have been appropriated for other needs. The rape of the social security system in this country is tantamount to extortion and every government official that has signed off on such appropriations should be put behind bars.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Jail Time
I have three interviews for work this week and one solid commitment to myself. I will read and finish Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment by Sunday. I will set a goal for War and Peace at some later date.
Perhaps I will have it imported to the prison cell where I will waste away on death row for having killed the guy from Reputation.com as a result of him spreading rumors about me as a convicted child molester because I likened his business plan to veiled extortion. It seems he was much more clever than I gave him credit for. He hacked into my computer and down loaded pictures of naked young girls all of which turned out to be Reputation man's younger cousins but the court would hear none of my explanations because the same pictures were being erased from the judges computer while he was in session with me.
So that was it. My DNA was found on my computer-and everyone knows you cannot argue with DNA evidence. And the DA summed up the jury with "His fingerprints and DNA were found all over the laptop riddled with child pornography. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, you have to admit, you can not acquit."
I am headed for the Big House.
Reputation man's twin brother winked at me as he scanned the court room for his own next victim. It made sense that since they were twins-they were a team. My attorney was yelling obscenities into the phone at his broker as he had been doing the last two weeks of my trial. I even got so bored with his reiterating rant I started to develop some obscenities of my own.
"Call him a pig teat sucker," I whispered in his ear.
"Call him an ass-dragging dog with worms," I echoed.
"Call him a candied-ass Captain Kirk who finally took in the shorts from Spock because, as he explained, it was only logical."
"That one got him, I think," my attorney whispered to me with a grin, "He's a Trekkie."
"Guilty as charged!" the judge said banging the gavel hard enough to make the entire room pop from their seats.
I was going to San Quentin for the better part of fifteen years with every rat bastard in the place looking to get a piece of a candy man who liked little girls in the buff-though I didn't like little girls in the buff. As a matter of fact, every time I saw little girls in the buff I had flash backs of my own daughter in the buff when she was very young and I could be guaranteed, when she was in the buff, there was shit involved somewhere.
She was always a stickler for cleanliness, so whenever she shit herself, as far back as I can remember, she figured a way to dump the diaper and let the chips fall where they may.
I'll never forget the first time I walked into her room after just such an episode-she was about six months old at the time. She looked directly into my eyes, stark naked, arms stretched out, both palms raised toward the ceiling glancing toward the corner of the room where her diaper lie. Not yet weaned to words, her eyes spoke, "Who'd a thunk."
Irony being as it is, my own eyes mirrored that same look when the gavel hit the block.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Brrr!
Here it is June fourth and I am clad in down and a ski-cap. It is like 48º outside.
It reminds me why I left California fourteen years ago. This state could indeed screw up a wet dream. I had no idea, 'they', in their assumed righteousness, could manage to fuck up the weather. But they have. I cannot, for the life of me, remember ever once donning a coat, or even a sweater, in Ohio, in June. If there is a God, here, He is indeed making the brain-dead pay.
Today is election day in California and the state has given the vote to more foreigners than politicians have alibis and bankers and car manufacturers have scapegoats. These people (those whom have mastered the language but not the nuance) are still trading dirty old quarters for shiny new dimes.
American politicians have become the world's ultimate three-card monte-fast-talking-street entrepreneurs plaguing every American tourist mecca from Hollywood Boulevard to the Jersey Boardwalk-and now, with the influx of foreigners, from Beijing to Briton, the U.S. has become the carrot for everyone of Barnum's 'suckers.'
Currently, in San Jose, local residents surrounding Guadalupe Parkway, a refuge for local homeless, are lobbying the city council to destroy homeless "assets" ensuring they either stay in jail or are forced to move on. So much for a Christian nation. California wants you to protect their right to legal marijuana and toss the ones who can't afford the price of a joint into the pit. "Peace, brother." If I was not a lightening rod for such indiscretions, I may be one of the idiots holding vigil to destroy everything that is not me.
We have two age-old adages we embrace, "safety in numbers" and "mob rule." Antithetical by nature, they explain the realistic-irony of the cornered rat. How ignorant the sheep, but how credible the shepherd.
With a jaundiced eye, I see a thousand perfect worlds as presented by the least arguments to be considered. Why ninety-nine percent of us are not muttering "bullshit" under our breaths in response to anyone who proposes the "perfect solution" is indeed beyond me.
Even at fifty-eight-years-old I have yet to abandon the inherent Quixotic nature that brought me here. Compliance is not an option when responsibilities lie beyond the scope of personal well-being.
Let us finally create a worthwhile national holiday when we celebrate the whistle-blowers and show the ultimate respect for the first person who stood to declare, "The emperor has no clothes."
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
The Truth is in Reflection.
We live among monsters. None of us could survive unless we were one of them. Like Snow White's nemesis we are each the fairest of them all. "Gospel according to Tony Day, if I had a girl, he'd take away." David Bowie.
Conscience, remorse, regret. Definitive monster-like characteristics identifiable in every reflection, yet denied by the full head of receding hair, the crow's feet that become laugh lines and the darkness behind a pair of eyes given sway to a once brilliant blue that reflected an innocence wrenched away when we became like everybody else.
There was a time when personal ambitions, inherent responsibilities and self awareness were innocent discoveries of a maturing child, a naive pubescent and a grieving adult. The mysteries of life gave way to unreasonable platitudes: "Life isn't fair." "That's the way it is."
"No way," we retorted as children.
"Bullshit," we responded as adolescents.
"Fuck!" was the only response we had left for the inevitable truth as adults. And at that point we didn't care if our parents were uncomfortable with that language or not. It was a relief to inspire an incense for the betrayal.
My personal bitch, you could have lied to me well into my adulthood and stringed me along throughout my eulogy. No one would have been the worse for wear.
But monsters do not reside in closets alone. They live and breathe in the light of day. And all good parents provide such armor as it takes to survive the onslaught. And even though, my naiveté lasts still well into adulthood and even now I cling to bits and pieces of the fear, I find myself responding "No way" when I read a child has exploded himself in a suicide bombing, or "Bullshit" when I discover a man may seriously think seventy-two virgins await a murderer in Heaven, and "Fuck" when I realize this is more horror than one should have to deal with.
I have come to understand now that only good monsters live in closets, because the world outside is unbearable to them and only fit for the monsters that can tolerate the mirror.
Conscience, remorse, regret. Definitive monster-like characteristics identifiable in every reflection, yet denied by the full head of receding hair, the crow's feet that become laugh lines and the darkness behind a pair of eyes given sway to a once brilliant blue that reflected an innocence wrenched away when we became like everybody else.
There was a time when personal ambitions, inherent responsibilities and self awareness were innocent discoveries of a maturing child, a naive pubescent and a grieving adult. The mysteries of life gave way to unreasonable platitudes: "Life isn't fair." "That's the way it is."
"No way," we retorted as children.
"Bullshit," we responded as adolescents.
"Fuck!" was the only response we had left for the inevitable truth as adults. And at that point we didn't care if our parents were uncomfortable with that language or not. It was a relief to inspire an incense for the betrayal.
My personal bitch, you could have lied to me well into my adulthood and stringed me along throughout my eulogy. No one would have been the worse for wear.
But monsters do not reside in closets alone. They live and breathe in the light of day. And all good parents provide such armor as it takes to survive the onslaught. And even though, my naiveté lasts still well into adulthood and even now I cling to bits and pieces of the fear, I find myself responding "No way" when I read a child has exploded himself in a suicide bombing, or "Bullshit" when I discover a man may seriously think seventy-two virgins await a murderer in Heaven, and "Fuck" when I realize this is more horror than one should have to deal with.
I have come to understand now that only good monsters live in closets, because the world outside is unbearable to them and only fit for the monsters that can tolerate the mirror.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Shortcuts Are the Products of Great Minds
While many argue that necessity is the mother of invention, I contest that laziness is the precursor of all genius. There are no idle hands or minds when it comes to the Devils workshop.
For years we've been sweeping dirt under the rug, dumping trash into a neighbor's receptacle, purchasing school essays on-line, buying fast-food, stealing cable, pissing in dark alleys, stealing social security checks from aged neighbors (okay, maybe that last one was just me) and the list goes on and on. These are not criminal or lazy activities as often labeled-these are shortcuts to a better life.
From the time of cavemen, foreplay was little more than the raising of a fist and took substantially less than twenty minutes. Over time, women discovered ways of delaying gratification by offering similar means toward the same end. One has to wonder now whether the hand came before the vagina? My understanding is that Eve used to pose that same question to Adam as some good natured ribbing.
But in this day and age we see things like breaking into an opponent's campaign headquarters, fudging the numbers on electoral ballots, trading drugs for guns then guns for hostages, manipulating numbers in banking transactions so it creates a win-win for the winners. All pure genius for the winners-and don't we all imagine ourselves as winners?
In all honesty, would you take those same shortcuts if you could get away with it? Most of us just aren't smart enough. And in the boardrooms around the world they echo that same sentiment, "most people couldn't find their ass with a piece of toilet paper." Pure genius at work.
Semantics is one of the most effective tools available to the lazy and one of the least used by hardworking people. Firstly, to be labeled 'hardworking' is no feather in your cap unless you are incorrigibly lazy. Semantics. To lift a finger for anything that does not further one's station in life is definitely a sign of average or below intelligence. A MENSA candidate you are not. To convince others that you are too busy to be bothered is the Holy Grail of genius. Though you have accomplished nothing, they will beg for your time.
A sure sign of a hardworking idiot-anyone who offers free advice. Free advice is worth every penny you paid for it and will likely, if heeded, cost you more than you ever imagined in the long run. No lazy genius has the time or the energy to ponder the aspects of any job beyond his own purveyance let alone figure out the wit and wisdom it would take for you to be a happier person. By the way, this is not free advice, it was either entertain myself with some legitimate sarcasm or do my laundry. I ran the idea past my editor. She said run with it as she dumped in my second load.
Though I grow bored with this diversion (my genius is begging me to stop) I must add a single observance: trees are some of the oldest living things on this planet and for the life of me I've never seen one move to any benefit. Does it get smarter or lazier than that?
For years we've been sweeping dirt under the rug, dumping trash into a neighbor's receptacle, purchasing school essays on-line, buying fast-food, stealing cable, pissing in dark alleys, stealing social security checks from aged neighbors (okay, maybe that last one was just me) and the list goes on and on. These are not criminal or lazy activities as often labeled-these are shortcuts to a better life.
From the time of cavemen, foreplay was little more than the raising of a fist and took substantially less than twenty minutes. Over time, women discovered ways of delaying gratification by offering similar means toward the same end. One has to wonder now whether the hand came before the vagina? My understanding is that Eve used to pose that same question to Adam as some good natured ribbing.
But in this day and age we see things like breaking into an opponent's campaign headquarters, fudging the numbers on electoral ballots, trading drugs for guns then guns for hostages, manipulating numbers in banking transactions so it creates a win-win for the winners. All pure genius for the winners-and don't we all imagine ourselves as winners?
In all honesty, would you take those same shortcuts if you could get away with it? Most of us just aren't smart enough. And in the boardrooms around the world they echo that same sentiment, "most people couldn't find their ass with a piece of toilet paper." Pure genius at work.
Semantics is one of the most effective tools available to the lazy and one of the least used by hardworking people. Firstly, to be labeled 'hardworking' is no feather in your cap unless you are incorrigibly lazy. Semantics. To lift a finger for anything that does not further one's station in life is definitely a sign of average or below intelligence. A MENSA candidate you are not. To convince others that you are too busy to be bothered is the Holy Grail of genius. Though you have accomplished nothing, they will beg for your time.
A sure sign of a hardworking idiot-anyone who offers free advice. Free advice is worth every penny you paid for it and will likely, if heeded, cost you more than you ever imagined in the long run. No lazy genius has the time or the energy to ponder the aspects of any job beyond his own purveyance let alone figure out the wit and wisdom it would take for you to be a happier person. By the way, this is not free advice, it was either entertain myself with some legitimate sarcasm or do my laundry. I ran the idea past my editor. She said run with it as she dumped in my second load.
Though I grow bored with this diversion (my genius is begging me to stop) I must add a single observance: trees are some of the oldest living things on this planet and for the life of me I've never seen one move to any benefit. Does it get smarter or lazier than that?
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Fart That Made The Cigarette Viable
Today I stood in a movie line because a friend ask me to. Normally I avoid all lines at all cost; life is simply too short and I have yet to find something at the end of any line too valuable to pass up. It is not so much that I have a thousand things to do, as we all find ourselves wanton for time, it is more to address the issue that waiting is most frequently sands through the hour glass that may never be recaptured. Granted, a certain portion of my day is allotted to quiet time, however, meditation within earshot of a thousand conversations about absolutely nothing is impossible.
As my frustration simmered, I decided it was time for a smoke. Yes, I still smoke in spite of the warnings. If I listened to every warning offered me, I would still be on hands and knees without the personal ambition to wipe my own ass without specific instructions. Sometimes desires outweigh sensibilities and I am not one to rain on other's parades, so why indeed would I rain on my own?
So this chick in front of me was so outraged at this obvious affront to her well tuned regurgitation of current advertising spiel she let me have it with both barrels.
"Do you mind not smoking around me? Do you know second hand smoke is just as dangerous as smoking directly?" she asked.
"I had heard that," I responded, "But I have yet to find a legitimate study that makes it conclusive. Do you remember where you got that information?"
"Ask anybody. They'll tell you." she said.
"I prefer to hear directly from a qualified professional who has done first-hand and quantifiable research, preferably a blind study not financed by special interests. Forgive me if I don't take your word for it, or the word of a well-payed advertising agency for a fanatically closed-minded group with an axe to grind." I said. "Besides, those farts you've been squeaking out over the last half hour are far more toxic than this cigarette."
Somehow I had blurted that out without passion or rancor. Its tone was simply matter of fact that I, and others, had suffered this inconsideration for some length of time and opted, out of sympathy and our own consideration, to forego the embarrassment of confrontation.
"Well, I never." she said with a blush rising in her face as she turned away.
"Sweetheart, we are right behind you and my friend and I can attest that you have. I am not sure what you have been eating since the 1960's, but I can assure you it is far more offense than the smell of burning leaves. Besides, methane is not only toxic-it is also flammable. You really shouldn't be doing that next to a lit cigarette." I warned.
"I was born in 1985." she said with an affront.
"I would definitely get that checked then. I believe we have some Mastodon meat involved here." I retorted.
And that was the end of the issue. I am afraid the ah-ahs to my responses from the surrounding crowd left little doubt as to the malodorous source.
Personally, I have grown accustomed to the smell of cigarette smoke over the years-even before I smoked myself. Like incense, it has a soothing quality for me. On the other hand, I can remember a fart from decades ago from which I may never recover.
In the U.S. we have about 60 million smokers among 300 million people; all 300 million fart, most without regard for second-hand exposure.
Many are unaware that there are 250 million sheep in New Zealand that have created such a level of methane release into the atmosphere that scientists have attributed that release as partially responsible for the destruction of the ozone. I got that from the Wall Street Journal, circa 1998.
By the way, I have been known to hold an exhale of smoke in until I am well out of someone's face, and a fart until I am well out of someone's olfactory range. Yet, one must never forget-consideration is a two-way street.
"Live as if you will die tomorrow. Learn as if you will live forever." Mahatma Gandhi.
As my frustration simmered, I decided it was time for a smoke. Yes, I still smoke in spite of the warnings. If I listened to every warning offered me, I would still be on hands and knees without the personal ambition to wipe my own ass without specific instructions. Sometimes desires outweigh sensibilities and I am not one to rain on other's parades, so why indeed would I rain on my own?
So this chick in front of me was so outraged at this obvious affront to her well tuned regurgitation of current advertising spiel she let me have it with both barrels.
"Do you mind not smoking around me? Do you know second hand smoke is just as dangerous as smoking directly?" she asked.
"I had heard that," I responded, "But I have yet to find a legitimate study that makes it conclusive. Do you remember where you got that information?"
"Ask anybody. They'll tell you." she said.
"I prefer to hear directly from a qualified professional who has done first-hand and quantifiable research, preferably a blind study not financed by special interests. Forgive me if I don't take your word for it, or the word of a well-payed advertising agency for a fanatically closed-minded group with an axe to grind." I said. "Besides, those farts you've been squeaking out over the last half hour are far more toxic than this cigarette."
Somehow I had blurted that out without passion or rancor. Its tone was simply matter of fact that I, and others, had suffered this inconsideration for some length of time and opted, out of sympathy and our own consideration, to forego the embarrassment of confrontation.
"Well, I never." she said with a blush rising in her face as she turned away.
"Sweetheart, we are right behind you and my friend and I can attest that you have. I am not sure what you have been eating since the 1960's, but I can assure you it is far more offense than the smell of burning leaves. Besides, methane is not only toxic-it is also flammable. You really shouldn't be doing that next to a lit cigarette." I warned.
"I was born in 1985." she said with an affront.
"I would definitely get that checked then. I believe we have some Mastodon meat involved here." I retorted.
And that was the end of the issue. I am afraid the ah-ahs to my responses from the surrounding crowd left little doubt as to the malodorous source.
Personally, I have grown accustomed to the smell of cigarette smoke over the years-even before I smoked myself. Like incense, it has a soothing quality for me. On the other hand, I can remember a fart from decades ago from which I may never recover.
In the U.S. we have about 60 million smokers among 300 million people; all 300 million fart, most without regard for second-hand exposure.
Many are unaware that there are 250 million sheep in New Zealand that have created such a level of methane release into the atmosphere that scientists have attributed that release as partially responsible for the destruction of the ozone. I got that from the Wall Street Journal, circa 1998.
By the way, I have been known to hold an exhale of smoke in until I am well out of someone's face, and a fart until I am well out of someone's olfactory range. Yet, one must never forget-consideration is a two-way street.
"Live as if you will die tomorrow. Learn as if you will live forever." Mahatma Gandhi.
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