Forget those messy and morally dubious weapons of mass destruction -- the world would bend to our every whim if we were to use this week's offering properly. Our military members need never risk a hair on their heads. All we need do is gain control of the satellites and beam this into our enemies' homes each night until they surrender:



It would be so terrible, it would end all wars. Forget prisons and captial punishment -- it would be the ultimate deterrent to crime. Think of the peace and brotherhood, brought about by the sheer horrific threat posed by this video.

If only someone could make the dream a reality...

at Ultra Foods?



Jimbooo's Italian Style Beef, that's what. Just $3.98 for a 26 oz. package, er, bucket.

When it comes to hot weather, I tend to say, "Wear whatever's comfortable, and I'll look away if it's disgusting."

I hate hot weather. Especially hot, sticky weather that feels like you're drinking in sweaty sludge every time you take a breath. I will not pass judgement on people who choose comfort over style in the summer.

However.

Some things don't go well together, and are easily avoided. Everyone knows not to wear socks with sandals (right, Dilf?):



I would also add, don't use sweatpants as a swimsuit cover-up if it emphasizes a round tummy:



No sport coats with shorts (Is this a sport coat? This outfit is just wierd.):



And finally, a man who has it all: beer, matching beer belly, sweat-stained t-shirt, and dirty feet. I said I wouldn't judge:

Caution: this post contains offensive words. Not pictures, but a description of a stand-up comedian's act that was pure nastiness. Just so you know.

I'm not a prude. Lord knows I've seen things before. But a stand-up comedian appearing on HBO managed to shock and disgust me. And to top it all off, it wasn't even amusing -- just ugly and nasty. Let me paraphrase (I would see if I could find a transcript, but I turned it off before I could even learn the dumbass's name):

The "comedian" is discussing how his girlfriend picked up blow job tips from her gay friend; these useful "how-to" suggestions led to him having an intense orgasm, which he demonstrated onstage by writhing around on the ground.

At the end, he said, "Bitch, you're going to have to drive your own ass home. I can't move my legs." I changed the channel.

Isn't that love?

In fact, throughout his entire routine, he used "bitch" instead of any other term to identify a female person. I know I'm not the first or last person to complain about the "bitch" word, but I found it's use particularly disturbing in this instance. I found it disturbing that the entire audience -- not a small nightclub, but a large ampitheater-style auditorium, erupted in laughter instead of squirming uncomfortably in their seats. I found it shockingly dehumanizing.

Am I oversensitive here? Or is it customary to treat your girlfriend like that post-coital? Is that funny?

Note: This Week in Coupons will not be seen this week, because I received NO coupons in my Sunday newspaper. Please enjoy the following editorial debate in its place.




Me: Get out of your sister's chair.

Elder: It's not Younger's seat. It's my seat.

Me: No, it's not. You took your placemat off the table and said you were going to choose a different seat. Younger sat down in front of the placemat that I put down on the table.

Elder: I changed my mind.

Me: Too bad. You can't push your sister out of her chair.

Elder: It's NOT her chair! This is MINE!

Me: That's a lie. I saw you pick a different one. Now move.

Elder: You don't love me!

Me: Yes I...

Elder: NO YOU DON'T!!!

Me: I don't love the way you're acting...

Elder: You never loved me!

Me: I don't love your screaming...

Elder: NOBODY LOVES ME!!! You show me no respect! You never do! I...

(Dilf enters, with Moxie, states that screaming could be heard all the way from the park, calmly plucks Elder from chair to end debate. Carries Elder into her bedroom; wails could be heard as she heads down the hallway. I remember high school sophomore physical science class lesson about the Doppler Effect.)

In addition to fallen public servants who gave their lives so that I could sit comfy and cozy on my couch, I will also pause to remember when I lived under a representative government. You know -- the kind where the people democratically vote to elect someone to represent them?

I really liked that about my old government. That every adult had a voice. It was really cool because there was this system of checks and balances, with three branches of government. Each branch had certain powers, and it was designed so that no one branch could rule over the other two. Pretty cool, huh?

Oh, and know what else I liked? We had this thing called "The Constitution," which guaranteed people's rights, so that state or federal lawmakers couldn't enact legislation that violated them. Also, it provided an outlet for the minority opinion to affect change, to change other people's opinions through thoughtful discourse (freedom of the press) or mass demonstration (freedom to assemble.)

Yes, those were the days.

But now I can rest easy knowing King George has my back. If anything threatens me, anything at all -- terrorists, drunk drivers, cicadas -- King George can enact his secret police to shut them down. Of course, that runs the risk that my friendly monarch might use his powers against me or anyone who disagrees with him, but that won't happen.

Will it?

I went to YouTube in search of a different Doris Day tune, but this one stopped me in my tracks. And, I'm kind of a collector of bad music. So, to stun me so thoroughly... well, you just have to watch:

I was going to write a men's swimwear edition, but I decided to spare you all. While researching, I discovered that gay men and I apparently have different ideas of sexy. I unfortunately clicked on one site's "sheer fun" section, and discovered what appeared to be two smooshed onions and a fingerling potato in a mesh bag. Only they were neither onions nor a potato. Whatever the case may be, it didn't look "fun" for the models, it looked uncomfortable.

It led me to think of the (thankfully) wide disparity of what people find attractive. The world would be quite boring if we all thought alike, and there'd be a lot more lonely people. Here are some male types I do not find in the least attractive, yet many women (and men who are thusly disposed) do. My comments reflect my thinking when I was on the dating scene; clearly, I have found the ideal mate and have no need to look further. Without further ado, I give you:

The heavy metal rocker:



Sorry. He looks like a girl. And I bet those spandex pants smell after a night under the hot stage lights. Also, he looks like he could be carrying several diseases. Also, looks like he'd always be borrowing money from me and perhaps steal my credit card. Also, looks like he reached peak maturity in eighth grade.

The cowboy:




The problem with the cowboy is, I am too much of a history buff. I happen to know they bathed semi-yearly, ate beans all the time and were generally social outcasts. So, they have the smell issue, were brutish, and basically homeless. Also, riding in a saddle all the time couldn't be good for erectile function. I don't care how they've been romanticized, the truth is out there and it's not pretty.


The yuppie:



Selfish prick who doesn't know how to have fun. Over-privileged with compromised morals. Sociopath who cannot form bonds with other humans. Trying to use wealth to make up for small penis. No interests outside of money. Might as well date Mr. Krabs; I could boil him and eat him at the end of the evening.

The stoner:



Useless and unreliable. Probably will become a decent guy someday, but I'm not willing to waste my youth. Also, smells.

There you have it. My "Don't Wear" advice this week: don't dress to type.

I chose the name Übermilf because I thought it was a ridiculous concept. It's a big lie. I say this because in the classic Gilligan's Island debate, Mrs. Howell is not even mentioned.

NOT EVEN MENTIONED.

It's all Ginger vs. Mary Ann. That's how I know.

Not that I agree. I think Lovie Howell is dead sexy, and one hell of a singer:



You would think the sight of her in stretch pants would've stirred the erotic imagination of at least one person, but there is nary a mention of her. Not fair.

One of the many joys brought by the weekly coupon circulars is how they help mark the change of seasons. This week's bonanza reaped coupons for bug sprays, citronella candles, hot dog buns, and Huggies Little Swimmers. (I don't need those anymore; I'll give them to Cuntzilla.)

My hands-down favorite, however, was the Hershey's-Honey Maid Graham-Kraft Jet-Puffed Marshmallow combo coupon for s'more fixin's, complete with a traditional s'mores recipe.

For those unlucky souls unfamiliar with the pure joy of s'more eating, you can check them out in all their glory here.

I am in love with summer right now, because I am immersed in nostalgic reverie and romantic notions of picnics and parades and romping in the sunshine. Check in with me again after a week of 100 degree temperatures, bug bites and soggy swimwear left in a moldy heap on the floor.

Also, the cicadas are back this year. They aren't murderous like earwigs or annoying like mosquitos, but they make a lot of noise and carpet the sidewalks with their nasty dead bodies. And as Dilf will attest, I am not afraid of bugs, but I am creeped out by the grisly crunch of their exoskeletons when I kill them. With cicadas, you can't go anywhere without that happening. Also, they have beady red eyes.

But still, s'mores... ah, summer.

The dog ate an entire stick of butter yesterday, wrapper and all. I need new car mats in the back seat. Those two statements are related.

Dilf is coming home tonight, and since I have been crisis-managing and playing online Scrabble all week, I have much to do before he comes home. I don't want him turning his own wife into DCFS for unfit mothering.

Thus, the story of two creepy butchers offering Double Post and me a free sample of their sausages will have to wait until later. So, for now...

Here's some reciprocal blog love for Todd.

Todd wants Twitty action, I'll give him some Twitty action.

Conway Twitty (RIP 1993; abdominal aneurysm. Insert "unable to stomach his own music" comment here) seemed to be the kind of guy, or at least sang about being the kind of guy, that all women wanted. Badly.

You know how there are some perfectly great guys with self-esteem issues, who think "She's out of my league" all time, when it's not true? Well, ol' Conway was the opposite. He thought all the ladies wanted him, but just couldn't act on their fervent desires for one reason or another. But he could tell they wanted him, and desperately. By the look in their eyes, for example:



If only she weren't married. That was the only thing that stopped her from running her fingers through his hair and getting them entangled for life in his sticky cotton-candy pompadour.

One interesting thing I found, as I researched the annals of 1960's and 70's country music, is the artists would sing the most raunchy, sex-crazed lyric, then throw in some reference to being married. To make it all acceptable and above-board, you know.

Now, while I couldn't nominate this song for "Bad Music" with with the rockin' back-up band assisting Conway, I do want to show you this video, for fun's sake:



Eyeballs!

Country and Western is not my thing -- except for rockabilly and some of the old classic stuff. So, normally, I don't think it's my place to comment on the culture. I'm not qualified.

But some things are so horrific, even outsiders begin to notice...

All of the pictured outfits are available for sale here.

Just don't show my eyes, my achy breaky eyes.

I interrupt my busy schedule of tidying and nurturing to bring a special message to Kirstie Alley, Tom Cruise and all the other assorted nutjobs in the "Church" of Scientology:

Shut the fuck up, you bunch of pussies.

As reported in media as diverse as the Chicago Tribune to Boing Boing, Scientology is embarrassing itself once again with nonsensical claims of religious persecution -- all because a mean man yelled at them.

Soon they'll need to change their book title from Dianetics to Cry-anetics.

To be fair, I did a quick Google search to see if Scientologists are being beaten, gagged, discriminated against, or otherwise persecuted. Maybe they have a genuine concern. The only thing I found was this -- someone made a malicious comment in a usergroup about pointing a non-existent "Tom Cruise Missile" at Scientology's headquarters. There were other incidences of people saying things, but no one actually doing things, to or about Scientology and Scientologists.

Listen, Scientologists: everybody thinks everybody else is a wierdo about religion unless he/she completely agrees with him/her. Even within the same religion, different sects argue, fight and kill each other. Cemetaries are defiled. Graffiti sprayed. Insults hurled. You aren't unique, you aren't being singled out. Put on your big boy pants and get over it.

If you want to whine, whine to someone who's been burnt at the stake, sent to a concentration camp, lynched or fed to the lions. See how much sympathy you get.

Not only is your whining unattractive, it is opening you up for an ass-whuppin' of Bilblical porportions. Throughout history, countless wars have been fought in the name of religion. By revealing yourselves as a bunch of knock-kneed twats who can't handle the most minor of slights, even a bunch of pot-smoking Rostafarians could be looking at you, thinking, "We can take them in a war. Even with John Travolta providing air support."

You have some major financial holdings and prime real estate. You better shut yer yappers before the Mennonites come knocking at your door with pitchforks and war bonnets, looking to expand their congregation.

What? What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy? Go away.

I read about the upcoming line of Mayberry's Finest foods with great joy. I love all things Mayberry. I love the slow pace, the comraderie, the wholesome goodness.

I love my Mayberry Cookbook. I use it fairly often. I wish I had the dessert one, too. Oh, well. A girl can dream.

As I was reveling in all things Mayberry, I discovered some harsh truths.

The problem with Mayberry is, you can't dig too deeply or it gets ugly. For instance, why were there no black people there? It was set in the South, after all. And if they were there, how do you suppose they would be treated? Do you suppose people named "Goober" and "Gomer" were fair-minded individuals in real life? Do you think their children would've been educated alongside Opie? And what kind of name is "Opie," anyways? How did his mother die? Why are there no pictures of her, or any mention?

Why was Otis drunk all the time? Why didn't anyone help him? Was Floyd in the closet, unable to be true to himself for fear of being ostracized or even killed? And what of Barney's illicit affair with Juanita, while publicly courting the "respectable" Thelma Lou? And did Aunt Bee put her life on hold to become an unpaid domestic servant for Andy and Opie? How would an old spinster like her have survived otherwise? What were the realities of life for people in a real "Mayberry?"

While all of those things lie in the realm of speculation, I discovered a wicked reality about my beloved Aunt Bee: she was not sweet, tidy and pleasant in actuality. He was a crazy cat lady with a dirty house and a sour disposition.

I read all about it here..

Oh, Bee. We hardly knew thee.

This is one of my all-time favorite songs, made better with visuals. I hope it brings joy to your soul, as it did mine.

This is what I've heard all week:

UberElder: Mommy? Don't worry. Your eyeballs can't fall out. They're connected in the back by some veins. Mommy? Can I do an art project? I need to use the iron. Mommy? It itches. Mommy? I read the book Arthur Has the Chicken Pox and he took an oatmeal bath so I think I should take an oatmeal bath. Mommy? What's for breakfast? Can I have pancakes? Can you cut them for me? Mommy? What's for lunch? What's for dinner? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Yooooouuuung-eeeeer! Stooooop it! MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY! YOUNGER JUST (fill in any number of infractions)

UberYounger: MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY I think I just had diarrhea.

UberElder: Mommy? Someone had diarrhea in the toilet and didn't flush.

Moxie: Where are you going? To get the paper? How long will you be? Can I come with? Please? I don't like when you leave. I get really nervous when you leave. Okay, then, I'll just wait plastered against the door until you get back... Phew! That was the longest 8 seconds of my life!

UberElder: I still want to make that craft, mommy. You take crayons and melt them with the iron.

UberYounger: (Wailing) Moooommm-eeee! mooooooommmmmeeeeee! MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY! (sob) (pause) Never mind.

It's enough to make me want to seek outside employment. Plus, I could buy one of these....

Todd tagged me for a meme. I hate memes. But I will do this for Todd. It's about restaurants. And you're supposed to link the other people who have succombed to peer pressure, so here you go:





Nicole (Sydney, Australia)
velverse (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)
LB (San Giovanni in Marignano, Italy)
Selba (Jakarta, Indonesia)
Olivia (London, England)
ML (Utah, USA)
Lotus (Toronto, Canada)
tanabata (Saitama, Japan)
Andi (Dallas [ish], Texas, United States)
Todd (Louisville, Kentucky, United States)
Ubermilf (Chicago-ish, Illinois, United States)

Now, Chicago and its surrounding suburbs contain many, many wonderful restaurants. I don't get out very often, so my sampling is limited. Bear that in mind as I list my personal favorites:

1. Clara's: Located in a strip mall in a bedroom community, this place isn't much to look at. But oh-my-God is it good. Especially the artery-clogging alfredoes. There's this one that combines garlic chicken with pasta alfredo and then they cover it with mozzarella and put it under the broiler. I'm surprised the American Heart Association hasn't filed an injunction against them yet. There are oodles of great Italian restaurants, and an entire section of the city is called "Little Italy". This one happens to be in my neck of the woods. It is also quite reasonably priced and located near a movie theater for an ideal date night.

2. Vie: Incredibly expensive works of art on a plate. Fresh local ingredients. For special occasions only, unless you are Thurston and Lovey Howell.

3. Emilio's: Pretty standard as far as tapas goes, but it was one of the first in the area and they're pros. We had our wedding reception at La Perla, an Emelio's offshoot. They know what they're doing and they don't make mistakes. Also, not a budget-buster.

4. Yu's: I have the Sysm family to thank for this one. They introduced us to it. Another strip mall gem, this place puts all other "Chinese" food restaurants to shame. They make their own noodles, and put on a "noodle show" in the evenings. I've never seen it. The food is enough of a draw to me. And good mai tais, too. No bland nondescript white or brown sauces to be found, this place has flava.


5. Salt and Pepper: This is a sentimental favorite of mine. I've only been there for breakfast, and only after a night of revelry. I've been there with my friends and I've been there with Dilf. It was yet another "meant to be" moment when we discovered our mutual love of Salt and Pepper as a post-partying destination. They put onions in their hashbrowns. And their omelettes are perfection.


I tag Dr. Sardonic, Tits McGee, Monkey, Melanie and Johnny Pipewrench. Just to piss him off.

I couldn't call this "Bad Music Thursday" because I like it too much. But I needed a special Chicken Pox song, and those are difficult to find.

Please enjoy "Chicken Pox" by Darling Rooster.



Also, since state law dictated that both Elder and Younger receive a vaccination against chicken pox at age 18 months to 2 years, it is difficult to determine if your child has chicken pox right away. It's very mild, if your child does contract it at all after vaccination. She has a pox-like rash on her tummy, upper arms and upper legs that is consistent with chicken pox. She's not suffering like non-vaccinated children, however. She's mainly staying home because she's contagious. Potentially. If it's chicken pox.

A member of the law enforcement community (aka "Mommy") made a grisly discovery this morning on the way to the kitchen to make coffee:



The victim, whose feet and one hand had been viciously chewed off at some point during the night, has been identified as Parisian Barbie. She was found in the dining room early this morning.

Police are questioning a witness to the attack, who was hidden atop Elder's bunkbed during the incident.



The witness provided a full description to authorities, and they have released the name of the suspect, ("Moxie"), who appears here:



While the testimony of the witness is somewhat compromised by the fact that she has had past altercations with the suspect and is also a known catnip addict, police still find her claims credible after films of the suspect's past activities have been discovered:



The owner of Parisian Barbie (UberYounger, pictured below) has been contacted, and she released the following statement to the public: "Bad doggie. She ruined my dollie. Stop licking me! Bad!" A funeral will be held later in the day to honor the memory and contributions of Parisian Barbie. As UberYounger tearfully noted, "She had a hat! With a real feather on it!"



The suspect remains at large pending further investigation. Until she is apprehended and brought to justice, who knows what she will destroy next. It could be anything. Anything at all.

I don't think so. I think this is pretty self-explanatory:

Think you're having a bad day, hmmmm? Think you have a reason to complain? Life treating you badly, eh? Well, if you need a little pick-me-up, you can be grateful you're not this guy.

Run of the mill home invasions are so passe. These days, if criminals want to get noticed, they have to be creative.

I wonder how hairy the poor guy was? Well, he's less hairy now.

I need to follow my doctor's advice. Instead, I risked my health for some noodles stuck to the bottom of the pot and a handful of crunchy stuff.

I had my physical a couple of weeks ago, with a full blood work-up. My doctor is checking my thyroid every four months or so, because I have both the family history and antibody count to support the conclusion that it will start failing any time now. She also checked my blood sugars and cholesterol and such.

While my thyroid is creeping upwards toward requiring drugs to function, of greater concern was my blood sugar levels and lipid counts. See, while the thyroid problems are attacking from my mom's side of the family, dad's family's diabetes is racing to be the first to kill me.

Which means: the dreaded diabetes diet. I did it once, when I was preggers with UberElder and had gestational diabetes. And for a few days, I was doing quite well. Except for the tamarind margarita I had Saturday night. But that was okay.

What crippled me today was the SpongeBob Macaroni and Cheese I finished from Younger's lunch. And the individual packet of Ritz Bits cheese sandwich crackers, which had 25 grams of carbohydrates and 12 grams of fat in its pretty, shiny red bag. It made me seriously ill and nearly comatose and it was my own damn fault.

I think I'm some sort of cheesy-carbo addict.

This isn't about fitting into a dress for a wedding or looking chic for my high school reunion. In fact, I didn't eat enough of either substance to affect my size and shape. But the physical effects are alarming. I knew they would be. Why did I eat the poison? Why?

Somebody come be my food warden. Please.

Warning: this post may contain language offensive to younger and more sensitive readers. Reader discretion is advised.


The April issue of Real Simple magazine contains some disturbing news on page 82.

"Can coupons save you money? Not really."

Are you still reading, Terasita? I warned you.

"With coupons, people may buy products they wouldn't normally buy, which are overpriced to begin with," says Eric Tyson, author of Personal Finance for Dummies.

And

Remember: Manufacturers don't issue coupons because they care about your budget. "Coupons are a marketing device to sell products and drive traffic to stores, not to save consumers money," says Jean Ann Fox, director of consumer protection at the Consumer Federation of America.

So if you are a coupon lover (Terasita) who swears by the power of coupons (Terasita), please take it up with Jean Ann and not me. I'm just the messenger.

Both Double Post and I were blessed by the gadonkadonk fairy when we were born. Or, as Auntie Julie used to say, "We got da big buckets." As a result, men from cultures whose women tend to sport such impressive protruberances often look our way.

One of those cultures happens to be African American. Now, I dated a young man of African American heritage in high school; my beau was an honors student active in the debate club and the a capella choir.

I'm sure you'll be shocked to learn that Double Post attracted an entirely different sort of suitor. The name he gave her was "Player." I am not making that up. "Player."

Yes, Double Post's admirer didn't so much woo her as menace her with his gangsta charm. "What's your phone number?" he demanded of her one day. "And don't give me a fake one. Because I'll find out your real one. And I won't be happy."

He also confronted our eldest sister in the hallway (Double Post and Eldest Sister are but a year apart; they attended the same high school), saying, "Give this note to your sista."

My eldest sister, ever the diplomat, snarled, "Why should I?"

He answered with a smile, "Ever see 'Guess Who's Coming to Dinner'?"

Anyway, a frightened Double Post gave Player our phone number and cringed whenever the phone rang. However, Player didn't call until Saturday afternoon, when our then-12-year-old-brother answered the phone. This was pre-Cuntzilla brother who hadn't yet turned to the dark side.

My brother: "Hello?"

Player: "Is your sista there?"

My brother: "Which one?"

Player: "Double Post."

My brother looked at Double Post, who anxiously mouthed, "Who is it?"

My brother: "Who's calling, please?"

Player: "Player. P-L-A-Y-E-R."

My brother: "She doesn't want to talk to you."

Player, ominously: "Oh, yeah? And who's this?"

My brother: "Nevermind. N-E-V-E-R-M-I-N-D." [hangs up phone.]

We all nervously awaited Player's retribution for my brother's insolence, but it never came. Unless he's biding his time...

Maybe he's the pimp who sent the ho Cuntzilla into his life. If so, Player is one patient and sadistic son of a bitch.

I found the perfect Bad Music Thursday, so I had to share it a day early.

I was going to write about uneven hemlines in general, and my somewhat irrational dislike of them. Other people like them. They just seem messy to me. And while I have seen them work with some styles, like a 1920's inspired cocktail dress, this is just atrocious on many levels:



But taking things to the bottom of the fashion abyss is this creation, which has so many things wrong with them I can't even describe them all in a family blog. Is this a family blog? I've got to stop swearing, then.

Anyways, may I present to you this week's ugly find:



Did they change their minds about making that a one-shoulder dealie? And the straps are two different widths; I'm not even sure why the skinny one is there. And a dog-collar like thingy. And ugly Karl Rove's America colors. PLUS the uneven hemline.

Goodness Gracious.

As a religious person, I have a question for my fellow believers. Specifically, the ones who watch Fox News and listen to Sean Hannity on the radio. You believe God created the world and all its natural beauty, right? I mean, we may disagree about the whole seven days thing and all, but we agree that all those wonderful connected ecosystems and such were put together by a divine mind to work together in a marvelous harmony, correct?

Then how can you believe that a group of people pushing globalization and lessened protections for this wonderful, beautiful planet are on God's side? They're wrecking all the good stuff He made and putting us all in danger of extinction in the process. Why am I upset today? Two things come to mind.


Fish dying in the Great Lakes. Lots of 'em. Tons of 'em. From a non-native virus. "Non-native" means they're dying because global commerce is taking precedence over protecting life. Am I saying we should become isolationist and not do business in foreign countries? No. Am I saying that we should enact every protection possible to prevent such business from destroying ecosystems? Yes. We are risking our lives to make a cheap buck.

Also, melamine-contaminated food. First, why are we importing pork from China? Don't we have huge hog farms in this country? Why are we allowing a foreign country to poison us? And paying money to them for the pleasure? Second, why are we being told "not to worry" because they "don't think there's any threat to humans?" It hasn't been tested in a laboratory, true, but didn't we have hundreds or thousands of innocently unwitting experimental subjects? It's been tested on animals, all right, just not by people in lab coats. Why should we risk this? To not offend our "friends" in China?

And the strange smells coming out of Romeoville last week shouldn't cause us any concern, either. I'm sure the oil companies are policing themselves just fine.

Pro-Life should mean more than your stance on abortion.