Foot in Neck disease

So the I-Man is history. Stuck his foot too far down his neck to recover and now he's toast. So long I-Man.

The thing that is remarkable about this is that the phrase he used was mild by some hip-hop standards. Granted, it was stupid. It was insensitive. It brought back memories of a time when racial stereotyping and insensitivity was not only blatant, but approved.

But Imus is a "shock jock." He makes his living by pushing people's buttons. This time he pushed the wrong ones and now he's got a pink slip. Maybe he'll do like Howard Stern and go to Sirius/XM where he can say whatever he likes and no one can say 'boo' to him because it's a pay service.

But should we be shocked? I mean don't you know what you're getting when you tune into his show? Or Howard Stern? Or Tony Kornheiser? Or Tucker Carlson? You come to these shows with an expectation of content. And if you hear something you don't like, turn it off. Or call the advertisers (which probably played a bigger role in Imus's dismissal than anything).

I don't listen to Imus. I don't listen to Howard Stern. I also don't listen to Hank Hannegraaff, the man who calls himself "the Bible Answer Man." Why? Because I don't care to hear what they have to say. I have to be responsible for my own thinking; I cannot say "well I hold that opinion because so-and-so does." That's a cop-out. That's dishonest.

Oh, and you can call me white boy, pale face, cracker or honkie if you'd like. I had nothing to do with that and it has nothing to do with me.

You are #*$)@*#$ hosed!

I learned something today that I wish were not true.

If you lose money in a DC parking meter, there's nothing you can do.

They have these signs on the side with a number to call if something is wrong with the meter. But when I called it and explained the situation (I had put $2.50 into a four-hour meter and then it went FAIL on me, so I had no time and no money) the operator told me there was no way to get my money back.

Me: "I put $2.50 into a parking meter on I street Southwest and I was wondering ...."

Her: "What's the meter number?"

Me: "You could let me finish my sentence before you ask me something. I'm not trying to report a broken meter; I want to get my money back."

Her: "Well sir we just handle repairs for the meters. We don't give refunds."

Me: "So you're telling me that there's no way to get my money back from this thing?"

Her: "That's right sir."

Me: "Okay. I see I'm on a fool's errand. Thanks."

Her: "Thank you, sir."

I wanted to take a sledge hammer and smash the stupid meter. I wouldn't take all of the quarters; just 10 of them - the number I put in there. But I realize that would be a crime. So I just moved to another meter, one that works, and put in my money for four hours.

So be warned. If you come to our lovely Chocolate City, and you park at a meter, and as you put your money in, it stops giving you time and reads "FAIL" or "OUT OF ORDER" you are screwed. There is nothing you can do. Welcome to the Collective.

A hero's welcome

If you need a good cry, click the link on the title of this post.

It takes you to a video of U.S. Navy Ensign Bill Hawes as he surprises his 6-year-old son and his son's first grade class by returning early.

Apparently the whole class had been writing to John's dad while he was deployed in Iraq. John Hawes had no idea his daddy was coming home early and no idea he was coming to his school, apparently. So the tears are genuine.

It made me think of a lot of analogies - especially fathers and sons, Christ's return for his children, the parable of the prodigal (okay it's the return home thing).

It also brought home the personal costs of the war in Iraq - families separated for months or years, people dying, tears of loss instead of joy.

So be forewarned - if you don't have any tissues in the house, get some. If this video doesn't make you cry, then hold the lilly tightly while they close the casket.

Get my gun ... NOW!

I just watched the footage of Karl Rove trying to get his groove on at the White House Correspondent's dinner. You know, Karl Rove, the man so white that his skin looks blue in sunlight.

There he was in a tux, with some dude rapping, and Karl was trying to bust his move.

Note to history: Old, balding, doofy-looking white men cannot dance and should not subject the rest of humanity to the abuse of watching them. One would think with all the years of dancing around the truth, Karl would have aquired a sense of where the beat is.

Unfortunately for those of us who saw the tape, The Lord High Counselor and Architecht of all that's wrong with the world has proven the old adage about the line between Miami and Rome - those below it can dance and those above it drive big cars and make money.