Chapter of Extreme Measures Merry Making

There are days, when managing the affairs of state from one’s center of the universe…

It seems my hackers, mobsters business associates, colleagues, and others on the take (you decide whether labels like politicians, teachers, pensioners and religious leaders are synonymous with “others on the take”) are happy to give me my usual breaks to live like a regular member of our species.

But, they reckon, it’s time I pick up the reins again and lead this wagonload of Motley Crue groupies out of the rut and away from the road that leads to the town square and gallows that smells of fresh pine wood and hemp (rope, we assume).

I enjoyed that momentary feeling of blissful craziness a U.S. Presidency (that’s a capitol capital P that stands for Pool and that means trouble!) headed (or occupied, if you will) by Newt Gingrich would have given me for four fun years.

My wife does not speak for me but I’ve got to mention at this point my wife is convinced that voting for a Mormon for U.S. President is not that bad an idea.  A conservative businessman, governor and man who believes in marriage for life — my wife’s [nearly] ideal presidential candidate.  After all, Mormons believe in talking/burning bushes, astrological signs and other miraculous signs of an invisible God, just like any other religion out there.  One’s as good as another as long as the kids’ moral and ethical behaviours are all right (or left (or center( or…))).

As for me…well, you see, I’m independent, which means, in this case, that, as a citizen of the state of Alabama, my vote is pretty much useless.  Some sort of Republican will receive the state’s vote in 2012, no matter which candidate I think expresses my view that my view is my view and my view only.

Guess I better start attending the Committee meetings again, listening to the same viewpoints and arguments the Committee members have been espousing ever since their predecessors determined they were worthy of Committee member status, no matter whether the status has no meaning outside the Committee meetings…

We’ve a planet to run, a species’ miniecosystem to box up and ship to cosmological parts unknown, and, perhaps, a bit of fun at our species’ expense along the way.

If all I do is express a formula in verbotic, unsanctimonious, mathematically-obscure word form, using a set of nested blogs to fill out the subscripted footnotes before your eyes magically, then I’ve accomplished the goal set before me years ago.

I’m falling behind in my thanks and’ll have to catch up later.

Speaking of formulae, my wife and I sat through a viewing of the film production based on a tired script of “Iron Man III,” set in 1891 apparently.  I’m afraid, Watson, there was little that was elementary about all the explosions and pastperfectfuture androgynous, joker-homaged, testosterone-filled, demographically-profiled videogame settings.

Enough of the chitchat.

Back on my high horse I go.

You’ll have to find another chap to whittle your matchbox figurines in foxholes with.  I’ve a script to write in realtime…