Hypocrite

I seem to remember that Warren Buffet has recently been going around the country telling us all how Obumer needs to tax rich guys like him MORE not less. Here's Buffet in his own words in the NY Times.  You can read it if you want.  Basically he thinks rich people should give the government more of their money.  Its a stupid opinion but its his and he's entitled to it.  Just like a crack whore is entitled to think that getting aids is a good thing because she doesn't have to worry about making guys put on a condom anymore.

The Obummer cartel took ole WB at his word and the IRS taxed Net Jet for flying rich people around in private jets.  Did the Sage of Omaha rejoice in getting his taxes raised, like he's been preaching?  After all who's better able to pay the taxes, rich guys in private jets or guys like me?  Nothing says excess wealth like having a pilot fly you around the country the way some people take a cab.   Is WB praising the IRS for doing exactly what he wanted, i.e. taxing the rich?

HECK NO! Warren Buffet is suing the IRS over paying a lousy $642 million of his fair share.

The ticket tax WB is pissed about is an indirect tax on people who have the money to fly PRIVATE JETS, because it would be so droll to fly first class commercial to the 10,000 foot weekend cottage in Aspen. Hey Warren, I'm in favor of the government cutting spending, paying off the debt, canceling the welfare state and CUTTING everybody's taxes.  BUT COMMON all ready you can't bitch about taxes being to low and then cry about a tax on people rich enough to take the Lear; when thanks to your buddies handling of the country, most of us can no longer afford to take our car for a weekend trip to see grandma.

HYPOCRITE!!!

Happy Birthday

To those of you, (Difster) you know who you are, that look upon Tun Tavern as your spiritual birth place, HAPPY BIRTHDAY.  Thank you for your service.

Oct 26, 2010

A little better than a year ago, I was at work, praying my hart out.  I've got family that sails the lakes, as well as friends I've not seen in years.  Even here the weather men were making comparisons to November 1975.  I couldn't help remembering a song we used to request Kim to sing at the Peanut Barrel or maybe Claddagh, in my college days.  We called it the "Dead Ship Song".  I guess that was a smug college kids way of dealing with something that I hadn't the least bit of a clue about.

The weather report that day had me worried. Gary was on the Jackson and they hadn't made port.  There is a web site that tracks ship movements.  I keep hitting refresh every couple of seconds, hoping to see the ship come up.  All it reported was that the Jackson was out of Duluth bound for the Rouge.

The waves on Superior were reported 30 to 40 foot with winds up to 90 miles an hour.  This was way worse than Nov 10, 1975.  I was just a boy then and I don't remember much of it, but I learned more about it as I got older.   Enough that in 1991 when I was offered a chance to sigh on as a cooks mate on the Paul R. Tregurtha, I turned it down.  Perhaps that was a dumb move.  If I'd done it, I'd have my 20 in this year and could retire at the end of season pulling down about $5k a month.

When I saw the Jackson had made port, I thanked God.  I also made a phone call, it went unanswered, just like the one I made a minute ago, but that as they say is another story.

HIgher Education

"Where did you receive your training?"

"Yale."

"Good. And what's your name?"

"Yim Yohnson."


Would you have read the post if I titled it Bad Joke Wednesday?

Internet Friends

I enjoy meeting people in real life that I've met on the blogs.  Its usually very enlightening.  Over the years I've had the chance to met several people and I've always enjoyed it.  Today I got to wondering, "what would happen if some of my internet friends got together for a weekend?"  For instance what would happen if Farmer Tom and Astrosmith had a couple of days to hang out?  Wonder no more.

Marines and Momma

The white haired women stands by the gate, it’s late and the day has been long.  Yet she waits.  A while latter a blond bounds through the doors and over to her.  Her walk is more of a bounce, a youthful skipping and hoping motion that to older eyes is annoying for its youthful vigor.  The older woman is both perturbed and amused.  “His plane isn’t here yet”, she offers.

“Oh good” the young girl giggles, “I want him to see me first”.  The girl is a blond of the dish water variety; not magazine cover drop dead eye candy, more of a solid old fashioned, girl next door kind of cute.  She’s not the school beauty but she runs in the top tier and most of the other girls probably envy her for being “the in crowd”.   Her perky B cups defy gravity briefly as she hops around excitedly.  “Oh he’s been gone so long” she sighs.  She is still wearing her green Albertson’s grocery store apron and she’s popped out over the top.  The older women just smiles at her exuberance and motions for her to “fix that” as another couple walk in.

The husband and wife come over to the gate.  They too look like it’s been a long day.  The wife has a cross look on her face as the blond introduces her to the first white haired lady.  “This is my mom, Mrs. X” she coos.  I can’t hear if the old biddy is actually saying hello or just nodding a terse acknowledgment.  A boy comes running in and asks the father if the plane is in yet.  The dad shakes his head in the negative.  Another young man with a short hair cut comes around the display case and assumes an at ease position behind the family.

This solves the mystery of who these people are.  The newest arrival looks to be all of 17 and is wearing a rust red jacket with an EGA on it.  The guy they are waiting for must have just finished boot camp and is coming home for leave.   I think I recognize the man.  If I remember correctly he is a pastor at a local church.  I don’t go to his church but I think I’ve seen him around town.  It looks like two of his boys enlisted.  That’s a proud thing.

A plane is taxing up to the gate.  Some travelers come in off the tarmac.  The youngest boy runs out the door.  This is a security breech.  The TSA blue crew sees, but does nothing.  The kid is a freshman, not Al Qaeda.  We still know the difference here.   His dad gives the boy a nervous “get over here now” motion and the young man comes back inside.   “I saw him” he says excitedly.  “I can tell by his walk, he walks like you do” he says to his older brother.  The young marine smiles and nods, but says nothing.

A very lean boy walks in the sliding doors and a blond girl bounces past his increasingly irate mother to get the first hug in.  They start clapping for him.  Then the passengers on his plane applaud, as do the other people waiting in the lobby.  I’m by the baggage claim and join in.  One of ours has come home, at least for a visit.

I get my first close look at the two brothers.  They look young, I can’t believe these two kids are old enough to drive.  The young man grabs his sea bags off the baggage belt, and sets them down.  His mom and dad are making all kinds of arrangements, or rather his mom is and dad is trying to pretend he still has a pair. Mom has now brushed the blond to the back and SHE is taking charge.  The girl looks rejected as her mother puts her hand on her arm and pulls her back.  The drama is compelling.

That’s when I notice something else.  The two brothers are both in civvies but they still wear combat boots.  A dog tag is laced up next to the tongue with just the eyelet showing.  The young man in the rust red jacket gives the new arrival a nod, as if to say “how was it”?  He shrugs.  No words are spoken, they nod and they know.  I can see the airline tags on the marines sea bags, two of them are in Arabic, one says Okinawa to L.A.  This isn’t a reunion after a 13 week trip to boot; this boy has been away for awhile.  

Neither one of these young men tip the scales at 150.  Neither one of them look old enough to drive.  You’d card them if they tried to get into an “R” rated movie.  The eyes tell a different story, a story older than their years.  As the group moves towards the exit mom moves to block the blond girl from coming with them.  I see the look in the girl friends eyes.  She chokes back a tear; her eager enthusiasm has been thwarted. 

I have heard it said that the number one thing a man dying on the field of battle asks for is his mother.  A man returning from battle wants something mom can’t give.  It's a kind of comfort but its more, it affirms life and manhood, in a way that momma can't.  He’s earned it.  "Hey mom, the innocence your trying to protect is gone, being a bitch isn’t gong to bring it back."