Eight Feet Deep

When the Marxists take over, comrade, we’ll all be equal!

Photo by Mary R. Vogt and courtesy of morgueFile.

It is a nasty, dreary day. I have been trying to make some headway on a story I am writing for a publication. I am pleased to report I’ve made some headway, but yet here I am pecking out malarkey on EFD.

In between working and not working and working again and not working again, I have thought about wanting something to drink. I have finally narrowed the choices down between some lemon Celestial Seasons tea and some sort of soft drink. The problem, or make that one problem, is I would have to go to the store to buy a soft drink. And as I may have mentioned, it’s nasty outside.

My other problem is choosing which soft drink I would buy. I thought about Mr. Pibb, but I don’t think it has been sold under that name for years. Besides, I never liked Mr. Pibb. I recall that it tasted like bog water strained through athletic socks. Or worse.

The truth be told, I’m not much of a soft drink fan anymore. When I was a kid I used to slam ice-cold 6 1/2-oz. bottles of Coca-Cola down one after another. I also was quite a fan of Fanta at one time during the 1960s. I don’t know why. I later found out out Fanta was first bottled by Coca-Cola in Nazi Germany although its arrival on the scene was apparently not aimed at developing a master Fanta-drinking race.

At some point in time, I came to like Dr. Pepper, even though I heard a lot of people say it tasted like prune juice. When I was in elementary school I used to see kids put peanuts (shelled ones) in their Dr. Pepper. I don’t know, this too was in the 60s. Maybe they were getting stoned on it, like people who licked toads were supposed to get high. I still drink a Dr. Pepper every now and then, so I think it is rather funny that I never once visited the Dr. Pepper Museum in the seven years I lived in Waco. Big Red also hails from Waco. I’m talking about the soda, not Lucille Ball. I still don’t put peanuts in Dr. Pepper. Nor in Big Red for that matter.

Come to think of it, a root beer wouldn’t be so bad right now. I used to fancy Barqs Root Beer. It was just a local brand when I was stationed in Gulfport, Miss. How far it has strayed from its roots. I have had a few Dads Root Beers, which is bottled by the same company as Moxie. Unfortunately, I always thought that Dads Root Beer lacked moxie. Har har.

R.C. Cola was always known as a big Southern soda water. But I never drank much of it. I never was a big Moon Pie fan either.

Two of the worst soft drink ideas in my estimation are Yoo Hoo and New Coke. Chocolate is okay. Even chocolate syrup is okay on a sundae or a Monday for that matter. But a chocolate soft drink? I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right. The same goes for the New Coke. Not only does it not seem right, it just isn’t right. I think the Coke people picked up on that.

Actually, the last soft drink I can remember drinking was a Jarritos Limon. I bought a 2-liter bottle at the Mercado La Familia in Beaumont while I was still living there. A little bit of Jarritos goes a long way.

Well, there are so many choices that I spent all of my break time thinking about them, so going to the store to buy a soft drink has become a moot point. I guess I will have the tea.

It is a bit subtle perhaps, but more and more can one hear U.S. soldiers speaking out against the war in Iraq. It is becoming fewer and far between that you hear the company line or the upbeat optimism from the grunt on the ground when interviewed by reporters. It’s little wonder when you have men and women less than 25 years old on their third tour of combat. And it isn’t just the grunts who want to go home. The captains and the colonels are expressing their doubts as to whether the Iraqis they have tried to train will ever come together for their own defense. Not to mention a slew of former generals who say this war thing just isn’t working out.

Perhaps a bit startling and perhaps not is this expression of bitterness and frustration from former Army Ranger Kevin Tillman, whose brother (former pro football star turned Ranger) Pat Tillman, was accidentally killed by fellow soldiers in Afghanistan. The Army decided to wait to reveal the facts of the latter Tillman’s death to his parents. But not before concocting a big story of heroism in which they posthumously awarded Pat Tillman with an upper-tier medal.

Is your past really all that important? That seems like a slam-dunk question from first glance. Why of course it is. You would hopefully think twice (or more) about hiring a convicted pedophile to provide
your kids with daycare. Do you think you might want to hire a convicted embezzler as your accountant? These are all legitimate considerations for ensuring Mr. (or Mrs. or Ms.) Right isn’t all wrong. But just how much of one’s personal history is germane to the job someone might do as an elected official?

Would one’s past as a hemp-loving nudist necessarily preclude them from doing a good job as a state legislator? Does it matter if a candidate for U.S. Senate who may someday be a presidential candidate had “millions” of dollars in cosmetic surgery, or even if that candidate’s opponent supposedly referred to that candidate as “ugly?” The answer is an overwhelming yes, or no, or maybe or perhaps.

In a fair and just world, the actions or words of someone would be taken in context. But context doesn’t always keep your kid safe from Chester the Molester. And, the situation in which one’s words or deeds took place will certainly not prevent political operatives from exploiting an opponent’s negative.

So what to do? Should parents raise their kids in a world void of making all mistakes? Then, when the child grows to adulthood, should that person avoid any type of misunderstanding or questionable judgment or God forbid, fun? Of course not. That leaves only one choice — to “fess up.”

Yes, confession is good for the soul. It’s more than just a Roman Catholic thing. When you apply for that job, when you decide to run for office, sit down and list every bad thing, every questionable event, every errant thought that has ever crossed your mind.

“When I was 5, I took Johnny’s candy when he wasn’t looking.”
“I called Jane “Chicken Legs” in the 5th Grade.”
“I told my mother I was going to the library but really went to the arcade when I was 14.”
“I got so drunk at Chip’s house that I peed on his dog’s leg.”
“I reported to the IRS that I spent $40 on a new chair when I actually only paid $33 for it.”
“I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.”

Of course, if you are running for political office then don’t be too surprised if your opponent tries to disprove that you really peed on the leg of Chip’s dog or if the opponent tries in other ways to brand you as a liar by accusing you of really going to to the library even though you confessed to sneaking over to the arcade. In other words, you just can’t win. So f*ck it.

Karl Rove’s October surprise may be at hand.

A lot of what ifs are circulating about the blogosverse over a potential “October surprise” that Karl Rove may engineer for Republicans during next month’s mid-term elections. The speculation has run the gamut from near-hysterical — nuking Iran or declaring martial law in the U.S. — to the mundane.

If I were a psychic I would tell you what surprise, if any, Rove and friends might pull out of their hat. Of course, if I were a psychic, I would wait for a big lottery jackpot and go buy a ticket.

All I hope is that the GOP and Rove do not try something stupid. It’s one thing to be desperate to win at politics. It’s another to do real harm. After all, hasn’t the present ruling government done enough harm?

PS In case you are wondering, that is Flat Stanley in Rove’s hand in the above photo. Don’t ask me.