The Razor

Just not here.
The site is sometimes blocked, so here are some recent writings posted elsewhere:

Dean’s World:
Better Brush Off Your EU Passport
The Negro Leagues and the Men of Spring
Aetitology Comments on the value of Children’s Opinions

Just a note that this post of mine at Dean’s World has made the Daily Roundup for July 29, 2005.

(Ben Stein) Woohoo. Go Kirwin. Go Kirwin. It’s my birthday. It’s my birthday. (/Ben Stein).

Here’s
a link to a story about Conservative cartoons (hat tip Instapundit), "Laughing
at the Left". The article goes beyond cartoons and makes some important
points about the ideological divide. Take for instance this quote:

(Chris "Day By Day") Muir’s girlfriend, the primary model
for one of his characters, “is a total liberal.” As it happens,
the same holds true for Mallard (Fillmore) creator (Bruce) Tinsley, whose
wife is a civil rights lawyer. There’s perhaps a lesson here. “It’s
a funny thing,” Tinsley says. “All her liberal friends are incredulous
that our marriage works, but none of my conservative friends have any trouble
with it at all. They understand you can think differently about things and
still be civil to one another.”

One of my favorite quotes about civility comes from President Gerald Ford "We can
disagree without being disagreeable." It’s a value to live by – most of
the time. I’m a firm believer that it only works when your opponent holds the
same value: when he doesn’t you must roll up your sleeves and open up a
can of Ann Coulter on their ass. That said, I too live in a "Matlin – Carville"
marriage.

Part of it could be the old adage that "opposites attract" – or in
New Age speak "my yang yearns for her yin" (hmm… that doesn’t read
right). When we met 15 years ago she loved the Grateful Dead while I held them
in complete Hardcore Punk contempt (and still do. If I ever end up in Guantanamo
I expect I’ll hear "Wake Of the Flood" and "American Beauty"
until I cracked – which I reckon would take all of 15 minutes). When Jerry Garcia
died my first response was "How did they notice?"

There are serious benefits to a Liberal/Conservative marriage. First and foremost
it keeps both of us from the extremes. If she comes home with some barking moonbat
piece of tripe, I can usually shoot it down before she has wasted too much time
on it or worse, come to believe it herself. Likewise I can sound an idea or
an opinion off her and get her candid take on it before going public with it – thereby applying a level of rigor to what might otherwise have been a stupid
idea or opinion. Secondly we can intellectually spar with one another, thereby
keeping our ideas fresh and perhaps even (gasp) changing them. Finally, when
we’re together we can handle issues and situations using our different perspectives.
Because of her liberal nature she can be much more open with salesmen than I
can be. If the salesman takes advanatage of her openness, I can step in and
bitch-slap him into submission without any regard for his feelings or the validity
of his opinions. Needless to say the "Good cop – Bad cop" routine
comes in quite handy when dealing with disputes with retailers and service providers.

Then there’s parenting. Here the roles flip: I’m as free with money
for The Kid as the Carter Administration was with taxpayer money for welfare
moms. The Wife, on the other hand, is the motherly personification of the Graham-Rudman
Act. Ever had to justify buying a $3 pack of Yu-gi-oh cards for a kid that
already has hundreds? I have. With a Daddy Decision The Kid always knows
there is the Mommy Court of Appeals – and she is all too happy to exercise her
judicial perogative and overturn my decisions. Mommy establishes precedent and
there is a strong stare decisis in The House. Daddy, being the liberal
parent he is, has no sense of the importance of precedent so often finds himself
overruled.

There is a definite positive dynamic in our family that is based on our differences
and it works for us. I am sure all relationships don’t have to be of the "Matlin – Carville" type to be successful, but
the article points out some interesting reasons why such relationships are
more stable than you might expect. It also makes some important points about
humor – but I’ll have to leave that for another time.

A writer always treads in dangerous territory when he or she writes about pets. Your dog may seem quite interesting to you, but the moment you start putting down your thoughts about her things just slowly come apart. Why? Because most pet stories are boring. So I will do my best to avoid that tendency over the next few paragraphs.

Yesterday the Wife and I put one of our 4 cats to sleep. “Chalupa” was a scrawny feral cat that took up residence in our backyard starting about 6 years ago. We fed her outside for about a year until we were socked in by a snow storm and the Kid noticed that her paw was bloody. The 8 inches of snow and injured paw slowed her down enough for me to catch her and get her to the vet. After another year she lived in our house but always ran away from people. Finally, after about 2 years she escaped outside, was trapped by a neighbor and taken to the Humane Society where I found her. Taking her back home she was suddenly the sweetest and most affectionate of all our cats. For the remaining four years of her life she was an integral part of our household.

Over the past year she became bloated with ascites – fluid in her belly. At first we thought she was pregnant (which would have been a miracle considering she was spayed) and an x-ray confirmed she was not. We fed her diuretics and tapped her belly but nothing could keep her from slowly wasting away carrying a softball sized belly of fluid. In the end she stopped eating, and I knew the time had come.

So what did that scrawny little cat teach me?
1. Never rule out change. From feral to affectionate this cat reminded me that change is possible for those that allow it.

2. Don’t care what other people think. Chalupa never made friends with the other cats. There was something in her mannerisms that turned off the others and made them bully her. But she never seemed to care. She did her thing no matter what the others thought.

3. History doesn’t matter. Chalupa was a street cat but you would have thought that she had been raised her entire life amongst humans.

4. Don’t whine. She bore her illness with quiet dignity, never crying out or calling attention to herself.

5. Never give up. Up until the last day she tried to jump up on the bed with her belly full of fluid. She would have lived a few more days through sheer will had we not stepped in and said “that’s enough”.

She spent her last day in the arms of the Wife and died while being caressed surrounded by people who cared about her.

It was a good death.

At Dean’s World

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve liked fireworks. Back in the early 70s before society’s Self-Appointed Nannies banned them in most places, I remember traveling across the county line with my sister and her husband to buy boxes of Black Cat bottlerockets in “grosses”, firecrackers in “bricks” and “sticks” of Roman Candles. Oh, just to make those nannies cringe today I might mention that I did so in the back of a station wagon unbelted and with the tailgate window rolled down.

Summer to me will always mean the smell of black powder and the incense-like “punks” that were used to light the fireworks. Add in the sound of a lit fuse and the staccato bursts of a pack of firecrackers to silence the whining cicadas, and you have an idea of what summer was like for me growing up in the midwestern suburbs in the ‘70s.

But by far the best memories are of the fireworks shows I attended. In those days each shell was lit by a man with a red railroad flare, and the sight of that flare as the dusk deepened was a sign that the fireworks were minutes away.

Looking at fireworks as an adult, I see something very Zen about anticipating the explosion of a firework and fully appreciating its beauty for the few seconds it lasts. It is an ethereal beauty that cameras and videos cannot really fully capture, but one that leaves an afterglow that in some instances may persist for years, at least in memories.

I mention this today because I recently attended a show at the local “Ice Cream Festival” and saw some of the most beautiful explosions I have ever seen.

Shaped charges of blood red outlined hearts and iridescent blue stars peppered the nighttime sky. Aerial waterfalls with streams of light that cascaded down for hundreds of feet. Explosions of circles within circles around a bright white core like gigantic atoms in the sky. Oval bursts of white light between sprays of gold, red and purple appeared like giant fiery butterflies. Traces of gold lines crossed and connected making the sky appear cross-hatched with gleaming golden thread.

At some shows those who paint the sky with light tend to rely upon amount to impress the audience. However this show excited the crowd with its breathtaking designs and use of color alone. Every explosion added to the overall piece – nothing was wasted. There was never a moment when you felt bored with the show, when you looked at your watch and wondered how fast you could get to the car to beat the crowd.

I would have to say that this was the first time I have ever appreciated the true art involved with fireworks displays. There was an artistry apparent in the skies – in the timing of the explosions, in their placement, even in their design. The carefully sculpted light brought out a child-like wonder in me, and for a few minutes I felt like a kid again, entranced by a beautiful and magical display of light and explosions.

Of course there is science behind the magic. There are journals devoted to fireworks with articles such as “Application of Semenow’s and Frank-Kamenstskii’s Thermal Ignition Theories to Firework Reactions”. I don’t know if the journal is peer reviewed but it wouldn’t surprise me. Even NOVA - one of the two shows worth watching on PBS (the other being Antiques Roadshow) did an episode on the science behind the magic of fireworks.

I spoke to Anthony Clark, one of the organizers of the Ice Cream Festival, and learned that Zambelli was the company hired for the display. He states that Zambelli has been used at the Festival for years because of their record of quality and safety – an absolute necessity since the show occurs over the historic Rockwood Mansion. According to Clark, Zambelli mixes its own gunpowder and then ships it to China for packaging into the fireworks it has designed. This helps the firm to maintain a strict level of quality control over each shell. And the quality was apparent. Considering that the show occurs over a mansion in a densely populated suburb, not a single spark appeared to go astray or hit the ground while alight.

I recognize that The Kid will never have the same memories I do of the infamous M-80 launching a sewer lid 20 feet in the air. But he will have the memories of the fireworks show we saw last night. Each of our memories are our own, but I hope that when he takes his children to a fireworks show he will remember the magic we shared under a sky painted with beautiful explosions.

Children are not miniature adults.

I begin with this reminder because it is apparent that many in our society have forgotten this fact. Children are incapable of making rational decisions, don’t know what is good for them, and have no concept of delayed gratification as they live in the never-ending “now”. As a parent I struggle with this fact on a daily basis – from explaining what a word means in terms my child understands to making sure he receives the proper nutrition to stay healthy.

For parents, that’s just common sense, right?

In my house, the Cartoon Network vies with Fox News and the Discovery Channel for dominance of the TV. Being a kid at heart, I enjoy cartoons and anime and find that most of the stuff around today is of much higher quality than the Hannah-Barbera stuff I grew up with in the late 1960s and 1970s. Unfortunately the commercials are far worse though. During breaks between cartoons you will see ads in which adults – especially fathers – are portrayed as complete morons, with the kids sassing back with a witty – at least to a kid – remark. You’ll also see an advertisement for a CD of pop songs sung by children. Most pop songs are about love – and the CD mirrors that subject.

It’s just plain creepy to hear adolescents singing love songs originally sung by adults. I mean we are not talking girls in their late teens – but ten and eleven year olds pining away.

Similarly I attended The Kid’s school talent contest last week and saw a handful of all-girl acts sing and dance on stage. While the song choices were innocuous for the most part, I raised an eyebrow over way that some of the girls danced and the way they were semi-dressed. In a high school I would have thought that the suggestive dancing and dance costumes would be inappropriate, but we are talking about primary school – girls in the second and third grades.

Have I become a prude – or have some parents completely lost their minds?

It’s hard to say “no”. I struggle with this word myself – especially when facing an adversary like The Kid who is completely reliant upon me to provide him with everything. He will use any and every tactic to make me fulfill each and every whim that passes through his mind. He is a child and must manipulate; I am a parent and must control. This is a constant battle between two powerful forces yet the stakes are high: the raising of a creative, independent, intelligent human being.

Gil Reavil has written a book called ” Smut: A Sex-Industry Insider (and Concerned Father) Says Enough is Enough”. It is excerpted here at NRO. He writes:

“But we also have left unfulfilled our function as guardians of their cultural environment. The boundaries of their world have been repeatedly breached, many times by people interested in making money and dismissive of all other considerations. All too often, our children are exposed to the loud, frenzied, garish spectacle of adult sexuality. They get their faces rubbed in it.”

Consumption lies at the heart of our society – not sexual liberation. The only reason why sex pervades our culture is because it sells. If prayer moved product you could bet that our TVs would be filled chanting monks and bowed heads, but it doesn’t. Britney Spears doesn’t bump and grind on stage for fun – she does it for cold hard cash. Take that away and she would disappear.

Instead of falling into the liberal trap of debating morality, let’s talk about the underlying reason for our society’s obsession with sex: pure commerce. People get rich by appealing to our basest instinct, yet this doesn’t bother Leftists at all. It must be the only means of getting rich that the Left supports.

Republicans and the Right aren’t blameless either. The Right has played into the hands of liberals by falling for the morality-trap, and the laissez-faire pro-business supporters of Republicans must recognize that their “hands off” idealism supports this unique sales tool. As Dean Esmay has often said, corporations are not “natural” – they are contrivances of the state. Republicans need to recognize that corporations are amoral and need to be controlled to a great degree. We wouldn’t allow a company to sell products to Iran, yet we allow thousands of them to pitch products using sex. Both are threats to our national interests.

Raising children has never been easy, but we chose to be parents. We owe it to our children to make sure that we provide for them, protect them and fight for them at all times. While we may tire, we must never, ever surrender.

Exhaustion isn’t the word for the way I feel now. Death is so complicated that if you’re not careful it will kill you.

The memorial service was held yesterday after only 10 days – a whirlwind of grief and remembrance that ends with even more tears and complete exhaustion. Some quick thoughts:

Da was a kind and gentle man – unless you were a squirrel. You see, Da was a gardener and any home gardener knows how destructive squirrels can be. He tried everything to keep the squirrels away from his tomatoes and peppers, but in the end he resigned himself to finding half-eaten green tomatoes strewn around the yard and on the driveway.

Da kept a loaded air pistol at the ready in the garage. I don’t know if he ever used it, but I wouldn’t hold it against him if he did being a gardener myself.

A squirrel appeared at the door. It stopped and looked inside the funeral home. I watched him and could almost hear it say “He was a worthy opponent”. It stood there for a few moments and disappeared. I didn’t see another squirrel the rest of the day.

Yes, there is honor among even the most die-hard enemies.

The morning starts out in the kitchen with the Wife making waffles for the Kid as I scramble around her putting his lunch together. I hear Wife stifle a sob, then another, and another – so I come up behind her, wrap my arm around her belly and lay my head on her back.

“It’s one beautiful day after another,” she sobs. “He would have loved this.”

Da was a playboy in the literal sense of the word: he loved to play. On days like this he would be outside tending his garden or in the car driving to one of his favorite restaurants in Lancaster County. Although he was 80, Da moved in a way that you could tell that in his mind he was still in his twenties.

As I get older I realize that some old people aren’t really “old”: they are a young person trapped in an old person’s body – and that’s exactly what Da was. Da ignored aging as much as possible; only the failures of his body betrayed his physical age. Had medicine kept his body going, Da would have lived forever as active as any man in his twenties or thirties.

But the body betrayed him one final time, and now he’s gone.

The Kid padded into the kitchen, a concerned look on his face. He came up to the Wife.

“Are you okay?”
“Yes, honey, I’m okay. I’m just making your breakfast.”
“I thought I heard crying.”
“I wasn’t crying,” she lied – I’m not exactly sure why.
The Kid looked at me and my expression told him exactly what I wanted to: Yes son, she’s crying but she will be okay. Don’t push her.

He understood with a nod and took the tray with his breakfast out of the room.

Just one more complex interaction as life continues onward.

This morning I grabbed a copy of the local newspaper while fueling up on coffee at the local Dunkin Donuts. I opened it up to the obituaries and found this:

Da
Age 80, died Thursday, April 7, 2005.
Da was a retired DuPont chemist, a retired commander in the U.S. Naval Reserve and a WWII veteran.
He is survived by his wife of 58 years, Mother-In-Law; his children Wife, Sister-in-law and Brother-in-law; and his beloved grandchildren.
A memorial service will be held at 3 pm on Sunday, April 17, 2005, at the MCCRERY MEMORIAL FUNERAL HOME, 3924 Concord Pike (Rt.202 south of Silverside Road), where friends may call after 2 pm.
In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the American Cancer Society, 92 Reads Way, New Castle, DE, 19720. To send condolences, visit
www.mccreryfuneralhome.com

I showed it to The Kid as he waited for the donut he had ordered. He read it, slid his arm around my waist and leaned his head against my side.

Here is a list of links that covers the 7 weeks between the discovery of my father-in-law’s (Da’s) cancer through his death and its aftermath. Consider it part eulogy and part therapy with a strong dose of wonder over the life of a humble yet brilliant man.

A Doctor’s Schedule & Death Sentences

Death Is Busy

Death Misses Yet Again

A Quiet Death for a Humble Man

Things Could Always Be Worse

Death’s Aftermath

Visiting the Funeral Home

Da’s Obituary

One Beautiful Day After Another

A Quite Death for a Humble Man – One Year On

I haven’t been to a funeral home in close to 30 years, and I have never been to one as a customer or client. Yesterday the Wife called and said that she needed me to go along with her and her mother to discuss the arrangements for my father-in-law’s memorial service.

The two women we met at the funeral home looked like your average middle-aged suburban housewives who took up a career after the kids went off to college. Neither one of them wore black, and both seemed sincere when they expressed their condolences. The home itself had a single open space divided by a vinyl curtain that partitioned the room into two spaces. My wife commented that there were no windows in either space – something Da wouldn’t like – and one of the funeral directors noted “There aren’t many funeral homes with windows.”

I stood in the open space with rows of chairs neatly placed facing an empty area where the casket would usually rest. An audience facing a casket – as if the stiff were to rise and perform for the crowd, garnering laughs and applause. Da would not have liked that either, so the Wife immediately changed the seating arrangements.

One by one the details of the memorial ceremony were worked out as I stood and imagined the countless corpses that I been laid out in that empty space, the innumerable tears shed on the industrial grade low-pile carpet, boxes of Kleenex neatly placed on the small tables that were spaced along the walls. Da wasn’t a funeral home goer, but this ceremony had to conform to certain expectations, and one of those was that dead people are memorialized in funeral homes.

“These ceremonies are for the living,” the funeral director said. I commented that her job seemed more like a cruise director or wedding planner. “My job is to…” I almost got her to say it but she didn’t. She wanted to say:

Put the “fun” back into “funeral” but she artfully stopped herself from saying that although I knew deep down she wanted to. What followed was a more politically correct explanation of her duties and how much she enjoyed her job.

Well, I suppose it takes all types.

She led us into a room that I can best describe as a gift shop for the dead, a Hallmark Shop for the Goth and the Goth at heart. Laid out below recessed lighting were numerous caskets. Some were open to show their quilted lining. The funeral director explained that Serta – the same maker of beds for the living also made the thin mattresses that cradled the dead for eternity. However I don’t suppose that we will be seeing their “spokesheep” mention that in any of their commercials.

There were urns for the cremated, ranging from a grey slate pressboard box to cloisonné and marble vases. There were pieces of jewelry that held small amounts of cremains (an absolute must for Goths if you ask me, vials of blood being so cliche). There were the corners of coffins bolted to the walls to show their quality and workmanship. Prices ranged from the Sauder or O’Sullivan pressboard type for $175 to $6000 for polished steel hermetically sealed coffins that looked like you could launch them from a photon torpedo tube into space without scratching or denting them or damaging their contents. Pictures of families – all white because I suppose minorities don’t grieve for their dead or don’t die – hung next to the coffins, discussing the qualities of their construction and how they added to the memories of the deceased.

There was also a section of vault models. These models were the perfect size to lay your guinea pig to rest, and as one funeral director showed me, weighed a lot. There was a picture showing the step-by-step process of opening and closing a grave. She pointed out that these heavy concrete vaults were mandated by law to withstand the pressure of the heavy equipment necessary for digging graves today. It seems the heavy backhoes can collapse the coffins under them as they dig a nearby grave. This can cause “insurance problems” for the cemetery, and also cause subsidence and make mowing the grass more difficult.

I never realized that death could be so complicated.

As the Wife continued discussing the details, I examined the coffins, urns and vaults carefully. The expensive coffins were made with high-grade steel and had tough rubber linings around their openings. I noted to one of the funeral directors that if you placed an embalmed body in one of these caskets, sealed it shut, then placed it in one of the heavy concrete vaults and sealed it shut as well, the dead would not decay.

“That’s the point,” she said. “The loved ones don’t want to think of their beloved decaying. They want to think of them laying under ground as they were in life.”

So Grandma is pumped full of toxic chemicals, then sealed in a metal coffin which is then sealed in a concrete vault and buried 6 feet below the surface. This is supposed to make people feel better about their loss?

I found this to be plain creepy. I also couldn’t stop myself from imagining a zombie scenario. Come on. Am I the only one who imagines a “Dawn of the Dead” scene when visiting a cemetery?

Well let me assure you that given modern burial techniques, there is no way a zombie would make it out of the coffin, out of the vault, and through the dirt to the surface. This means that in such an event we would not have any zombies who died during the past 25 years – when the laws mandating heavy concrete vaults took effect.

I mentioned to one of the directors that thousands of years from now people would dig up our dead and think what we did was absolutely crazy in the same way we view the Egyptians for building elaborate tombs for their dead and placing heavily salted remains deep inside them.

I also realized that we were continuing a tradition that stretched backwards to the dawn of time, when our distant ancestors painted the bodies of the dead and laid mementos to rest with them. I wondered if it was possible that what set us truly apart from the animal kingdom, what made us unique from the other primates, was the way we treated our dead.

We learned that Da had been cremated on Sunday and one of the directors would be bringing his ashes to the funeral home today. It was a relief to learn that the body that had betrayed Da was no more than a coffee-can’s worth of grit and ash. Da was now completely free.

There would be no encapsulation of Da’s failed body away from the living. Instead his body had been turned into chemicals and gasses that now float in the wind and are now riding the Gulf Stream towards Europe. What had been part of his physical body would now rain upon the land of his ancestors in Ireland, helping keep that country green and beautiful. Eventually some of it would drift across the Mediterranean and hang in the clouds above the islands of the Aegean Sea which he loved. Some of it would be taken in by the breaths of Kurdish children playing in northern Iraq. Other parts would continue drifting in the atmosphere until it rained down upon the southern slopes of the Himalayas in a land he walked in as a young Navy ensign 60 years ago.

Da is a part of life not apart from life.

I think Da would like that very much.

Wife’s father passed away this morning at the age of 80, his wife of 58 years and his daughters at his bedside. He took his last breath and simply didn’t take another. He died as he had lived – quietly and with dignity.

He was born in a hotel in New Orleans. World War 2 veteran who served with the US Navy Raiders in Burma. 26 years as an officer in the Navy. A research chemist who as a kid regularly blew things up in his parents garage.

He lived by the rules – and suffered accordingly – raising two sons and two daughters. He saw one of those sons slip away into madness, another die of diabetes complications. His last months were spent supporting his daughter recovering from alcoholism and divorce.

He was a quiet, gentle man who never complained. He was extremely rational, and taught me the importance and application of the scientific method in daily life.

The last conversation I had with him on Sunday was the only one I ever felt comfortable having with him. Our generations are too different – 80 and 40 – but his was by far the greater of the two.

He will be missed.

Kill babies – before they are born.
Kill old people – when they want to die.
Kill sick people – when their lives lack “a quality of life”.

Protect convicted murders – because killing is wrong.
Protect dictators – because human rights don’t apply to all humans.

Have you ever wondered how many troops the US has stationed abroad and where?
I have, and after some searching I found just what I needed from the good (libertarian) folks at the Heritage Foundation: Global U.S. Troop Deployment, 1950-2003 (link)

There is also a link to an Excel spreadsheet there with all the data – should you want to parse it yourself.

So being a statistics junkie, I did, and here’s what I found:

Who would have thought that the USA would have 93 troops deployed in France? And more telling is the fact that it went up by 19 from the year before – a 26% increase.

Some more fun:
The USA withdrew all troops from these countries in 2003.
Uzbekistan
Kuwait
Gabon
Grenada
Guyana

The USA sent troops to the following countries in 2003 (number sent):
Iraq (183,002)
Latvia (6)
Congo (formerly Zaire) (9)
Malawi (1)

The guy in Malawi must be pretty damned lonely – kind of like the Maytag repairman of the US military. Do you think he dreams of an invasion by Zambia? Or how about an amphibious assault from Mozambique? I hope he goes snorkeling at least; some of the most beautiful freshwater fish in the world are found in Lake Malawi.

Do you think he faces US out of Malawi protests on the way to work?

This morning an oncologist team breezed into my father-in-law’s room at the hospital, gave him a death sentence, and left the room. My father-in-law was alone, and is a scientist by training, so he took it well enough. He called his wife…

It took over an hour for my wife to stop her mother from screaming.

A few months ago, my wife was rounding at a hospital in Lancaster County. She met a nurse who was absolutely furious with a doctor.

It seems this doctor, a Chinese, visited one of her patients, a woman on a ventilator, told her she had stage 4 lung cancer, and left the room.

Tears rolled down the woman’s face as she choked back sobs on her breathing tube.

Could the doctors have waited until visiting hours to sit down with my wife’s family before dishing out this death sentence? Could that Chinese doctor had waited for the woman’s loved ones to have arrived before telling her she was going to die a very painful and senseless death?

No – because making a doctor’s schedule around the family members of a terminally ill patient isn’t convenient.

But it is the right thing to do...

Bastards…

Yes, our old “friend” Dhimmi Carter has been linked to the UN Oil For Food Scandal (link to story here).


“Sho’ me da money…”

Not content with ruining America during his 4 years in office, Carter apparently decided to help ruin Iraq.

Carter has a long history of kissing the a$$es of dictators, and we at The Razor have a long history of disliking Dhimmi, viewing him as the second worst President in American history (Nixon gets the top honor) (see link here and here).