Owing $142 on April 16 is almost as good as owing $.01 or $.00. When you’re talking about thousands of dollars in tax liability, $142 is so immaterial that I can say we’re practically at $0 tax liability (I mean, we’re still going to pay it so both worthless parties can spend the money on pork and social programs in which I don’t believe), and at the same time, we didn’t give the feds an interest-free loan. I think that’s 3 out of the last 4 years for me that I can think of. Or something like that.
Yee-haw!
Eat that, moneymongers!
Archive of entries posted on 16th April 2007
Desperate Measures
According to a new report, sex ed classes that teach only abstinence do nothing to delay the average teenager’s first experience with intercourse.
Since doing “the marital” leads to naught but woe, suffering, and empty promises of “I’ll call you”, and all government programs are equally useless, we must do more to protect our children. Here are my suggestions on how Biblical-type knowings may be more effectively prevented:
- Viewing of any kissing scene from “The Golden Girls”
- Don Imus masks (Rutgers only)
- Thinking about baseball – specifically Tommy Lasorda
- Master Lock™ brand genital piercings
- “Friend of Sanjaya” t-shirts
- Being a white man on a dance floor
- Viewing “Shaved Britney”… either end
- Free car with your first driver’s license, but it’s a Yugo
- Or you can take the Vespa
- E-mail address containing “@aol.com”
- Community service: peep show mop boy
- Chess club membership (voice of experience here)
Of course, the best way to prevent pre-marital sex is to avoid spending the night with Michael Jackson, but that sorta goes without saying.
WSJ Today
If you happen to read the Wall Street Journal today, read the letters to the editor on page A13.
The last one? Mine. A response to Case Closed: Tax Cuts Mean Growth by his eminent Fredness.
But seeing my words in black and white on dead tree media. It’s hard to believe.
[BSEG]
Sure you can read it online too, I mention the Laffer curve. But its in print too
Update: Am I looking for kudos? Virtual cookies? Pats on the back? No, I am really saying “HAH! My words are in the WSJ and yours, not so much. Neener, neener, neener.”
State of the Frank Report
This is the part of the blog where I write about my day for those interested.
To further my plan and kill Aquaman in an elegant and — if I may say — a poetic fashion, I’d first need some radio jamming equipment. I had a dealer downtown who often dealt in electronics of questionable legality, but before I got there, I noticed a pair of eyes in a window three stories above me.
Damnable monkey eyes. Staring at me. Boring into my soul.
Apparently the lone survivor had followed me, deciding to attack me when I was away from home… when I was more vulnerable.
I pulled out my .45. If the monkey wanted to end things now, I was game.
I charged into the apartment building, running to the third story and counting doors until I was pretty sure I had the apartment the monkey must have hid in. I then kicked in the door as I disengaged the thumb safety on my gun.
The family inside screamed at me. “It’s okay; I’m a popular blogger,” I told them as I kept my eyes down the sights of my gun looking for monkey movement.
I heard scurrying and fired two shots through the wall.
“Maybe we should call the police,” the mother there said.
I grabbed the cordless phone from her and smashed it against the wall. “They’d only get in the way.” I heard a window open and ran into the kitchen. The breeze billowed the drapes and I looked out the window for the monkey expecting to see him scurrying down the a pipe.
A cabinet popped open behind. I spun around and tried to aim my gun, but I was too late. I got off one unaimed shot before two monkey feet slammed me in chest sending me out the window. I plummeted towards the streets, smashing into a soft top car. Through pained-filled eyes, I could see the monkey jump out the window and fly off in a little monkey hang glider.
Outsmarted by a monkey. It was not a good day.
“Having trouble, Mr. Fleming?”
I recognized the voice. It was Aquaman. I groped around me until I found my gun. I then put it back into its in-the-waist holster and rolled off of the car. “I’m doing awesome. How are those swimming lessons at the Y working out for you?”
He glared at me. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”
I shrugged. “What? Is it suddenly illegal to fall out of a window?” I walked off to finish my errand.
I still can’t believe his obsession with me; it’s not like he actually cares about some dead monkeys. It’s not my fault what happened to you last year, Mr. Curry, but, when you die, it will be by my hands.
That I swear.
Perspective on stolen dreams
Twenty-oneAt least thirty-one students had their dreams stolen this morning. Not by a bad joke from an un-funny man. By an evil person (or persons).
Our prayers go out to the families of the victims and also to the witnesses of the shootings. How very sad.
Racial Slur Time!
I have to say that this whole Imus thing makes me a little worried. With humor, we’re always pushing the boundaries, and, if I’m not careful, I could end up the object of condemnation. Thus, to make sure I don’t say something racially insensitive, I’m going to focus all racial hatred on a group I won’t get in trouble belittling: The Irish.
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The Irish are, by all measures, an inferior race. According to an Oxford study, the Irish are genetically prone to violence. Plus, they are incapable of higher mental feats usually associated with human intelligence. Teaching algebra to an Irishman is as big a waste of time as trying to teach a cat to use a butter churn. Further study of the Irish’s DNA proves they are actually more similar to a weasel than a Englishman.
So, what to do of these Irish who could break out into violence at any moment and are incapable of being reasoned with? The only solution is to call them racial slurs. Some suggestions:
Mick
Paddy
Shant
Spud
Bog-Jumper
Coal-Cracker
Turf-Cutter
Pot-Licker
Potato-Eater
Mucker
Fumblin’ Dublin
Giant Leprechaun
Kermit
Drunk
What’s your favorite slur for this inferior race?