I think I'm going to declare Thursday's here as "Pulbic Service Announcement Day".
In light of all the so-called "police brutality" ("so-called" because all it could have been avioded if the people just would have done what they were told) I feel as if the following topic has not been adequately addressed by the media. Sometimes, if I can't fall asleep, I end up watching a lot of late night TV. As such, I've seen my fair share of PSA's. I'd figure by now that some orginazation would have come up with this idea and run a series of ads, but since they haven't, I will.



Public Service Announcement number 1.

HOW TO INTERACT WITH THE POLICE:


If it's late at night, dark, and a police officer approaches you and asks you to put your hands behind your head, DO NOT REACH A HAND TOWARDS YOUR WAIST OR BELT. Calmly put your hands behind your head. Failure to follow instructions may result in a well deserved bullet to the chest area.

If a police officer pulls your vehicle over, DO NOT GET OUT OF THE CAR AND GO RUNNING UP TO THE OFFICER AND START SWINGING AT HIM. Simply sit in the vehicle and await further instruction from the officer. Failure to to follow this advice may result in your getting a well deserved beating about the neck and torso with a heavy, thick baton by several officers.

If a police officer has said that he is placing you under arrest, CALMLY PLACE YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK AND WAIT PATIENTLY FOR THE OFFICER TO PLACE YOU IN HANDCUFFS. Do not attempt to touch the officer, strike the officer, threaten the officer, or resist the arrest in any way. Comply with the officer and follow his instructions. Under NO circumstances is it acceptable to grab the arresting officer by the testicles. Failure to follow this advice will most certainly result in a well deserved beating.

If a police officer stops you and asks you to drop whatever it is that you have in your hand, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPROACH THE OFFICER AND SHOW HIM WHAT IT IS. SIMPLY DROP THE ITEM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTION FROM THE OFFICER. Failure to drop the item may result in 41 well deserved bullets to your torso.

The men and women that make up your local police force do a great job and deserve your respect. The best way to show them respect and keep yourself beating-free is to follow their instructions. Just do what you are told. It's just that simple. These people have wives and husbands and kids they want to go home to, just like you do. If they think for a second that you are a threat to them, their personal safety, or the safety of others, they have no alternative but to overcome that threat or perception of a threat by any means available to them. If that means beating you with a fist or baton, or poppin' a cap in your ass, they really have no choice.
Your 3 best techniques for surviving an encounter with the police: COMPLY, SUBMIT, DO NOT RESIST.

Bottom line: If a police officer asks you to stand on your head and spit nickles out your ass, pucker up, Buttercup.



This message brought to you by the producers of the New Rodney King Beating Tape Directors Cut and Amadou Diallo Brand Police Targets, bringing you the finest in moving, kicking, non-english speaking targets since 1996.

I don't know exactly why, but I feel compelled to respond to or expound more on some points and questions that Cinnamon raised in the comments below regarding fathers. One reason may be that as part of the upcoming adoption, I have to write an autobiography and in doing so, I've brought up some memories of my father, both good and bad. As background I'll give you the 2 minute history of his life. Born Albert Louis Meisenheimer, Jr., AKA "Louie", in Cape Girardeau, MO in the late 30's. Went to Cape Central High School, just like Rush Limbaugh by the way, where he excelled in basketball and football. Got a football scholarship to Southeast Missouri State University (SEMO, just like me) and went on to the Bills training camp, where he was cut for being, well, slow. Back in the early-60's, pro ball players were earning a whopping 4-figure income, so he decided to go back to school to get his engineering degree from University of Missori-Rolla. Worked for the same oil company for over 30 years which brought us to Chicago where I was raised. Married his college sweetie, had 2 boys, of which I'm the younger but much more mature and responsible. Diagnosed with cancer, given 18-24 months to live, and being the punctual German, he died at the University of Chicago Medical Center promptly at the end of the 24th month. We buried him on his 54th birthday. I was 24 and living in St. Louis. I got a call that morning telling me that I had better come up fast on the next flight. I made it with 3 hours to spare to say good-bye, but at that point he'd been unconscous for most of the day, but I like to think he waited for me to come up. Hey, whatever makes it easier, get off my ass, just let me think that, okay?

Anyhow, I recall as a child that I had some serious issues with the type of father he was, but in hindsight, he was a really good dad. He travelled a lot for his job, but he would call almost every night he was gone so we could talk. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, I always felt closer to my mother than with my father. Ironically, now that he's gone and I'm a father, I feel so much closer to him than I do with my mother.

One of the things that hit a chord with me in Cinnamon's comment was what her mother said regarding her father, "He tried to be a good parent, he just didn't know how." I think that is a very important point that should not be overlooked when discussing our opinions of our father's miserable shortcomings. I got the same response from my mother on many occassions regarding my father. My mother explained that my father "did the best job he could, given how he was raised by his father." I had no idea what she meant at the time, but it does make a lot of sense when you look at the 3 or 4 generations involved, starting with my Grandfather and going to my son.
My Grandfather was born at the end of the 1800's and raised by a second generation German immigrant. His formative years were at the early part of the century, with the advent of cars, indoor plumbing, electric light, manned flight, WWI, the Great Depression, etc. Race relations at the time consisted of "as long as them niggers know their place, there won't be any problems." Homeless people were called "bums." Alcoholics were called "drunks." Things were very, very different than today, so I don't think it's fair to judge the men of the past generations by the same measures we use today. Fathers were not encouraged or expected to openly show affection to their boys, for fear that they, well, you know what might happen, "He might turn into a queer."
I recall my mother telling me that my father had told her that his father had told him that he loved him only once. (I know that was a difficult sentence to follow, but there was no other way, I'm sorry.) Once. One time. His father told him he loved him only once. I find that incredibly sad. Believe it or not, at the time, that probably took a lot of courage and emotion for my grandfather to do because that was just the way he was raised. I recall my father telling me he loved me many times, but there was always a reason or special occassion. Perhaps it was a sign of the times. From the time my father was born through the time I was born, society had gone through many changes, most of them in my opinion, were not for the betterment of society, but that's a topic we'll cover later. Myself on the other hand, I shower my kids with "I love you"'s through the entire day. Sometimes I'll call Nick or he'll call me in the middle of the day just to say, "love you, buddy" or "love you, dad." (Sambo isn't to the conversational level yet.) Every day, and I mean every day, we have a ritual of affection:"schmuggie-time," when and where we will psuedo-wrestle and just love each other up with "schmuggums." When I stop to think about how my grandfather would have felt about this, I have to figure that sitting up there in heaven, he is probably looking down with my dad, both very happy that this practice is fully acceptable and encouraged by society today. I really feel that if they had been raised in a time when a father showing affection were more accepted, they both would have been a lot happier as sons and fathers. Long story short, they both did the best job they knew how to do because that is what they were taught and the example they were shown by their fathers who did the best job they could, etc. Were they perfect fathers? Given the results or product that I am of their collective efforts, I'd have to say "No, of course not, but I am an improvement." But, once again, they did do the best they could and that's not too bad.
Without mentioning any names,I know that there are probably at least one or two people reading this who still play an important role in my life who can probably relate to the topic, as I know that there have been some grandparenting issues we've discussed. Well, that's the best answer I can think of, and I thank Cinnamon for inadvertantly prying it out.

If this kid doesn't make you think of your own kids and then cry, then you need serious help.
This kid just wanted to be "the boss of the ice cream man" so he could make him give ice cream away all day.
You can find him in the "I wish to be...." Archive section.


I like this kid, too. He's in the "I wish to be..." current area.


I really like this charity. Go. Give them some money. Now.

And now, something completely unrelated:






In America, 24 million children live in homes without their fathers. And nearly 40 percent of these children have not seen their fathers at all in the past year. These children -- one out of every three kids -- are at an immediate disadvantage compared to those who live with both parents.


The Facts

Almost 75 percent of kids from single-parent households will experience poverty before they turn 11 years old, compared to only 20 percent for families where there are two parents.
Violent criminals are overwhelmingly males who grew up without fathers, including up to 72 percent of adolescent murderers and 70 percent of long-term prison inmates.
Children living in father-absent homes are two to three times more likely to be suspended or drop out from school, be treated for emotional or behavioral problems, and be victims of child abuse or neglect, compared to those in intact families.
Children with involved, loving fathers are significantly more likely to do well in school, have healthy self-esteem, exhibit empathy and pro-social behavior, and to avoid high-risk behaviors such as drug use and delinquency, compared to children who have uninvolved fathers.


What a Dad Can Do
Fathers are often predominantly viewed as "breadwinners" -- far too little attention has been given to a father's role in terms of a child's social, emotional, and psychological development. New research indicates, however, that fathers play as important a role as mothers in healthy child development. Studies have shown that girls who live in father-present households are much more likely to achieve career success. They also get better grades in math. Boys from two-parent homes are better able to communicate verbally and to control their aggression. These findings are directly linked to the participation, encouragement, and nurturing offered by an involved father.

While divorce and custody agreements sometimes don't make participation in a child's life easy for a father, it is crucial that dads make the most of the time that they have.


Taking an active interest in your kid's schoolwork is a good first step.
E-mail or writing is a great way for dads who live far from their kids to stay involved.
Providing acceptance, love, and occassional serious ass-whoopin' discipline are some of the best things dads can do for their children.
Be the spirtual head of the house and leader of the family.

Anyone can father a child. It takes a man to be a dad.

I got an email from an old High School classmate (Yo, Denise!) asking about the origin of our youngest son's nickname, "Little White Sambo." Excellent question. First, let me explain that the name "Sam" is from 2 different inspirations, my best friend in grade school, and my favorite beer. Ok, my second favorite beer. But, can you imagine a 5 year old trying to learn how to spell Leinenkueggel? (My oldest, Nicholas Adam, got the second part of the beer name, Sam Adams.) So we named him Sam. Quickly, Sam turned into Sambo. Well, here is where the story get's interesting.....


Once upon a time in a grocery store far, far away, there was a little boy and his name was Sambo. This little boy was behaving very badly in the store, running and grabbing, and generally acting like a little shit. Well, when Sambo was in the cereal aisle, he really went on a tear. Running up ahead of his parents, he started pulling boxes off the shelves. This made his father, Big Jumbo, very unhappy. His father yelled for his son to stop. "SAMBO!," he shouted. As luck would have it, about half-way down the aisle, there was a family of people with darker skin than Big Jumbo or Sambo. These people gave Big Jumbo a very stern look of disapproval. That dark skinned man looked at Big Jumbo like he was going to beat him so hard his dog would be retarded. Big Jumbo could not figure out why. He decided to ask one of his dark skinned friends. He got the answer he was most affraid of.



From that day on, Sambo was only Sambo in private. And between his father Big Jumbo and his mother Big Mumbo, they always laughed when they muttered under their breath, "that's little WHITE Sambo."

The moral of the story is that sometimes, when we least expect it, we can be very racist and not even realize it. I'm not going to stop calling my boy Sambo, but I am going to attach the disclaimer whenever I'm in doubt as to who might be offended just to remind myself of my past mistakes. When one is looking to adopt a minority child, it is best to not have a Mark Fuhrmann-esque reputation.

With no apologies to anyone for any of the content of this entry, I have to vent a bit on some things that simply annoy me.

1. I hate "M*A*S*H" (the tv show) I've tried watching it, but I can't for more than a few minutes. It is just so unfunny it actually hurts me to watch it. Questions keep running through my mind. Like, "Why is there the sound of people laughing?" I understand that it's a laugh-track, but, do the producers think that I think that there is a live audience there? Also, "Doesn't Alan Alda realize he's simply doing a camera-mugging, smart-ass Groucho Marx impersonation?" That quit being funny 20 years before Alda was even born. Throw those 2 issues on top of a weak unfunny script, untalented actors (Col. Potter, Frank Burns, Loretta Switt, and the rest of the cast), anti-war pontification and the advancement of the liberal agenda, and I'm done with trying to like "M*A*S*H. I'd rather watch an info-mercial for an all-natural hair remover from Australia named after male genitalia. ('Nads." I guess some knife company already took the name "Boner.")

2. The Beatles. I never liked them. Some of the tunes are admittedly catchy, yes, but face it, a lot of it was just acid-induced non-sensical crap. I think my dislike of them has more to do with their personalities than their music really, but that's a hard separation to make. They took, and some might agrue still do take, themselves way, way, way too seriously. John Lennon especially makes me want to vomit. "Imagine" has to be the most disgusting afront to most people's common sense and core values imaginable, and yet some people treat it like an anthem to of sorts. Instead of trying to imagine there is no heaven or religion or any of the other huggy-feel-good crap he pukes out in that song, how about we imagine he was a better father to his son, Julian, or a better husband to his first wife pre-Yoko wife? Speaking of Yoko, how 'bout we imagine there was some personal grooming on the "Two Virgins" nude album cover? I look at that wooly bush on her and I reach for my sheep shearers. How 'bout I imagine she did some waxing? Plucking and trimming, too. She could have donated the excess to a tribe of small bald naked people somewhere. (sing it) "Imagine all the people, living with that hair....oo oo oo oo" She looked like she was shoplifting a Gene Shalit bobble-head doll.
Speaking of Beatles and hair, let's talk about Paul McCartney. Here is a man who is living proof and testament to the fact that money can't buy you love, or good hair.
Hey, Paul, you're worth like 400 BaGillion Dollars. So, um, like, what's with the Mullet? Oh, Paul, and while I got ya, sorry to hear about your former wife Linda passing away. Linda. Linda, Paul, L-I-N-D-A, Linda. You remember Linda, Paul. Your wife, Linda, the animal-rights activist. Yes, her, Paul. Yes, the blond one. Anyhow, sorry to hear about her long torturous battle with cancer. Ironic that the animal testing she protested against could have possibly saved her life, huh? Looks like she forgot to think that one all the way through. So, who do the Springer Spaniels favor in the November elections? Oh, that's right, animals can't vote yet in off-year elections. Oh well, keep up the good fight. They'd probably go for Nader in 2004.

3. Baseball. Not too popular to dislike baseball in a great baseball city like St. Louis. (Yes, I was at McGwire's 62nd, Emerson box.) Sure, I'll go to a game as a social or business event, but frankly, baseball is boring. I was more interested in Olympic Curling. There's a few problems with baseball. First of all , there are just too many damn games. So many that each individual game is fairly inconsequential when it comes right down to it. (Same with basketball and hockey, but at least they have some action.) If you miss a particular baseball game, who cares? There are 173 more. Baseball lacks football's intensity and sense of exclusivity. There are less than 15 regular season NFL games. If you miss a football game, it is a very big deal. The perfect example of how meaningless baseball is, there are 7 games in the World Series. There should be one game, like the Super Bowl. Just play one game and call it a year, guys.

more later.

Although I have nothing funny to fume about to appease Hadji, I'll tell you what I did with Nick, my 5-year old on Monday. He had been asking me for weeks to come to work with me. Finally, I caved and we decided that it would be July 1. Well, for the 2 weeks before that, he would ask me every night at bedtime if he was going with me in the morning. No, I said, not for another week. Last Wednesday night, he woke up at 3 a.m., sat bolt upright in bed, and announced that us "men" had to get ready to go to work. 15 seconds later, he was snoring again. Finally, Sunday night came, and he was all atwitter with boyish anticipation. He wanted me to iron his dress pants, and his "man shirt". I lent him one of my old ties, gelled his hair like Gordon Gecko, gave him an old pager and cell phone, some business cards with his name, and filled an old briefcase with some papers, pens, crackers, and one of his favorite fire engine Hot Wheels. We "shaved", put on some after shave, grabbed our coffee/juice, and headed out for our big day. I let him sit in the front seat. He was so proud.
When we got to the office, he was simply amazing. Everything I had taught him came out as if rehearsed for weeks. "Pleased to meet you, sir. Yes, Ma'am. No, thank you. No, sir. You look very nice today. It was nice to meet you. Etc." The best, though, was he did my favorite cheese-ball move: the finger gun point with the double cheek click. (Read it again slowly and you'll almost see Herb Tarlick doing it.) As we were driving for me to drop him off at Grandpa's for the afternoon, he said, "Dad, this was the best day of my life. I love you, daddy."

*sniff* I promised my self I wouldn't do this. *sniff* Little fucker......

(editing, re-thinking, etc.)

Hello, infidels. Mo' here. Just wanted to drop a note to say "Wassuuuuuuuuup," from down here. Boy, that came as quite a shock, let me tell ya. Here I was expecting to be seriously banging away at some tawdry virgin poon and boo-tay by now, and instead I'm frying my ass off for eternity. Oh well, my bad. Dahmer's down here, too. I dunno, something about that guy just sorta creeps even ME out. He's always wantin' to hang with me and the 18 Abduhls, but we're all like, "Shyaa, beat it, whitey." I'll tell ya what, though, I am glad I decided to wear that blue silk shirt on the day of the "operation." It's light, airy, and, frankly, I look totally dope in it. Oh, while I got ya, I wanted to give some shouts out to my peeps on the left for all their support and defense of my still-living cohorts. Big ups, y'all. Like pimpin', terror aint easy, but when it comes to ridding the world of the Great Satan, it is necessary. Till next time, Peace Out."

I had made a comment on someone else's site about how most liberals were like a mediocre checker player playing chess against a pretty good chess player. They get all excited about capturing a pawn, not ever realizing that they are 4 moves away from being mated. With that as the hypothetical example, the real life example happened last week with the "pledge" controversy. While liberals were getting their collect rocks off on their short-lived "victory", they failed to notice that "we" slipped school vouchers right under their noses. BAHAHAHAHA!

Now, regarding the Florida Muslim chick and her veil. After much thought, I've come to the following decision: When in fucking Rome do as the fucking Romans do or get the fuck out of Rome! It's not an issue of "religous freedom." No one is telling her she can't be a Muslim. It's a safety issue. As soon as some burqa wearing bitch runs over HER child, she'll see what we mean. As Jerry alluded to, nowhere in the constitution does it say we have a right to drive. It is a priviledge. I'm wondering why any bank would let her walk in and do business. And if a bank does, let me know which one. "Well, Officer, she pointed a gun at me and seemed very, very tall for a muslim woman."

Has anyone else but me noticed how silent the media and most liberals are on this issue. None of the usual defenders have stepped up to the mic to spout off their typical mind numbing drivle. Could it be a touchy area for them? A religous (strike 1) woman wants (strike 2) to shroud herself because she feels that only her husband should see her (strike 3). Katie Couric and Rosie O'Donnell must be so conflicted over this one. Wisely they have for the most part let this sleeping dog lie.