Mood:  rushed

Never has the distance between Virginia and Kansas been so completely chronicled as it was by the shutterbug Frodo on his first airplane flight.  Frodo will never forget the thrill, nor will he ever be able to explain why something once so exciting is now so unbelievably mundane.  On the morrow, Frodo and Sam once again tempt their tempers as they confront the growing cancer that air travel has become.  Even the prospect of Bilbo's 90th Birthday offers little to salve the wounds that oil, at more than $100 per barrel, has cast upon those who traverse our nation's skies.

Frodo and Sam will drive more than one hour in order to arrive two hours before flight time (9 AM, or so the schedule alleges).  They will park in a satellite lot,  tip the driver, and be ferried to the boarding gate.  Their bags will be checked  through to Phoenix (at a cost of $3 per bag + another tip), and they then confront passenger screening.  Frodo dresses simply, removing almost everything, and placing all inside his carry-on.  Sam insists on wearing jewelry, shoes with bits of metal aside, and sunglasses.  Frodo usually waits while Sam's body cavities are searched.

Once the TSA stormtroopers are convinced that Sam is harmless, the Hobbits are allowed to make their way to the gate.  At this point the location of the nearest bathrooms becomes a critical determination.  Realizing, subsequently, that they are about to spend four hours in cramped, airless, quarters absent any food service whatsoever, it becomes Frodo's fate to stand in an endless line at the world's slowest Wendy's in order to overpay for a soggy, coolish biscuit.

Eventually, the Hobbits are summoned to discover the location of their seats, but only after every person in front of them first puts a carry-on, a hat, a coat, and something that appears to be breathing into the overhead compartments.  Only then does Frodo realize that he is seated next to the only infant on the entire airplane.  What Frodo learns, much to his surprise, is that this will not be the cherub's first flight.  It will be however, alleges the mother, his first in which he sleeps the entire way without disturbing anyone.  Frodo notes the first opportunity to bet large sums of money against that prospect.  There are however, no adult takers anywhere in his vicinity.

When finally off the ground, well beyond schedule, Frodo commences an assault on a "beach book," and pretends that the cramped space he occupies is his, and his alone.  Frodo has always been a very silly Hobbit.  Every passenger heading to the bathroom violates his space, and every person with a head cold or some form of typhus, coughs into his face as they pass.  Frodo considers that first vodka and tomato juice, for $5, at exactly 10 AM (well, it has to be 5 o'clock somewhere, doesn't it?).

When they arrive at Sky Harbor, Frodo and Sam will walk at least the equivalent distance between Canada and Mexico before they are in a position to retrieve their luggage.  Along the way they pass the lines of refugees waiting to be strip-searched by the TSA stormtroopers before they depart.  Knowing that the Hobbits will pass through in that direction in just a few days prevents them from feeling any solace whatsoever at the absence of such activity for arriving passengers.  Frodo does consider hiding Sam's jewelry, shoes, and sunglasses.

Luggage in tow, the Hobbits wait for the limo, and wait, and then they wait a little more.  Eventually, once the fee for the round-trip ride, including tips, is paid, they are on their way.  It is, by that time, rush hour in Phoenix.  Frodo has never figured out where all those people are going.  They should be sitting by the pool, drinking a "Dos Equis," or planning which golf course to play that day.  Instead, they all seem intent on following Frodo's route, at varying rates of motion, and blocking every effort by his driver to bring a hasty conclusion to the final phase of air travel, step one.

Frodo is convinced that passage by rail is, at last, enhanced, not by what we do to encourage it, but by the sheer dynamics of what we have done to better it.  Air travel is soaring beyond the budget of people everywhere, along with their mortgages, the cost of food, and fuel for individual transit.  It is also one of the most unpleasant ways possible to lose an entire day.   

Frodo thinks he will ask Mark the Magician (a Series 7 license and a lot of lucky guesses) what he thinks about putting a few dollars into railcars?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:53 PM EDT

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Mood:  d'oh

Almost exactly one year ago, a few days of sub-freezing temperatures wiped out Georgia's Peach crop.  The result included the fact that Frodo had to amend his dietary intake to compensate for the loss of fresh fruit.  This physical adjustment made Frodo very grumpy for an extended period of time.  Beyond the strictly personal, all the gardens of the Shire lost their blooming flowers, with the resultant brown droppings seeming to emotionally plague the well-being of all inhabitants.  It was the grumpiest of times.

Frodo is alarmed at the weather report.  An alien frontal system, emanating from Canada, is winging its way through the midwestern US of A, and is bringing the likelihood of a repeat of last year's freeze to a crescendo of probability.  Already Frodo feels himself losing patience with the sufferings of the fools in political, journalistic, military, sports, economic, and scientific leadership roles.  If Frodo turns negative, what portends the future for those of lesser moral turpitude?

Frodo deems to look forward and offer suggestions for change.  Knowing that geographical barriers are a retardant to changes in the weather, e.g. a mountain range preventing clouds from movement beyond the pinnacle, Frodo believes that an artificial blockade on the Canadian border offers hope for the future.  Not only would such a boundary block the flow of freezing weather into the Shire, but it would also assist in reducing the access of illegals from Canada.  Digging and trucking fill-dirt from a source location in the US of A to the Canadian border would be a massive public works project, thereby creating thousands of jobs for Americans as well as needed income for struggling construction-related firms and businesses.

The obstacles to Frodo's suggestion are minor.  What better use could be made of the wasteland known as Texas than to simply dig it up, and move it to Minnesota, North Dakota, and Montana?  The vacancy created on the Mexican border would eventually fill with needed water, and establish a natural moat to replace the unnatural, and expensive, fence blockade currently under construction.  The costs of construction would be recouped by the reduction in current expense levels for border safety personnel and other Department of Homeland Insecurity requirements.

Yes, dear reader, Frodo is a great believer in the fact that no problem is insoluble.  What is most important however, to Frodo that is, is that he do something to ensure a state of systemic regularity in the months to come.  Hobbits do not prosper on Milk of Magnesia and Maalox as dietary supplements.   Frodo does not look forward to another grumpy year. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:07 AM EDT

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Mood:  celebratory

Some time ago, Frodo proclaimed that he would be proud, once again, of the American electorate when the "Approval Rating" of George W. Bush fell to 24%.  It was Frodo's assertion at the time that 24% of the American electorate, at any measured point in time, is functionally illiterate, and will support an incumbent politician no matter what facts are put in front of them.  Frodo was convinced, from the first day the Incomparable Moron ever uttered his first public statement, that George W. Bush would achieve the 24% level at some point during his incumbency, assuming that he would ever be elected.

The Associated Press reported in its' latest polling data today that 27% of polled respondents, given the dismal economic slide underway, indicated "approval" of the performance of George W. Bush.  That means, dear reader, that only 3 out of every 100 potential voters need to be convinced that George W. Bush is an absolute, and complete, failure, in order for Frodo to be declared prescient.  Here is how you can help.

It will not be hard to identify Republicans who are functionally illiterate; they still have "Bush/Cheney '04" bumper stickers on their cars or on their foreheads.  Please ignore them.  However, should you come across a person who, say, is the off-spring of four consecutive generations of Republicans, and has been supporting this clod out of sheer habit, then sit them down and talk to them as if they still have brain cells not smothered by Sean Hannitty or Rush Limbaugh.  Remember, it is not necessary to even discuss the upcoming election, just get them to recognize that this blowhard has done damage even to the Republican Party.

Frodo truly feels that it is important for all Americans to recognize that if we can survive eight full years of an absolutely abominable President, then, together, we can do anything.  Let us bring all thinking Americans to the same conclusion:  George W. Bush Sucks.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:37 PM EDT

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Mood:  don't ask

Every once in a while, thinks Frodo, it is not a bad thing to step back and admire the effort.  Mrs. Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton and Mr. Senator Barack Hussein Obama both distinguished themselves this day, and they did so without anybody taking a cheap shot, except, perhaps, for Frodo.  Even their fellow Senators surrendered some of their own individual political thunder in order to provide both presidential contenders with the ability to appear on the evening news shows.  Ambassador Crocker and General Petraeus be damned, this was the "Bush Surrogates" in review.  Clinton (Hillary supporters please pardon the familiarity, Frodo simply grows weary of identifying every conceivable title except "Your Highness" in order to avoid an error of judgment in sexual identification) asked an absolutely brilliant question, about the review of Bush dogma by the Iraqis, but not by the American Congress, which should someday become a reference in every meaningful history ever written about these terrible times.  Obama (see explanation above substituting the words "Highness" and "sexual" with "Honor" and "racial") underscored the obfuscation of testimony by honorable men who were simply following their orders to imitate the monkeys who neither see, hear, nor speak evil.  In this case, the word "evil" could be replaced by the word "truth."

The Incomparable Moron was, at the same time, shedding crocodile tears with the parents of the third young man to receive the Medal of Honor, posthumously, as a result of heroic action in the "George W. Bush Memorial Pre-Emptive War Against Terrorists, Insurgents, Rebels, Innocent Bystanders, Tourists, Volunteers, and Religious Pilgrims."  The needle-nosed slimeball had the unmitigated gall to allow his wimpy chin to quiver while he contemplated the fact that he was responsible for another loss of life.  Then again, he may simply have been thinking about the sad ending he imagines to the one book we know he has opened, which is, of course, "My Pet Goat."

Frodo is angry at George W. Bush, but he is proud of the as yet nameless person dragged from the proceedings who kept yelling "Bring Them Home."  Perhaps that one voice will resonate loud enough that we will all remember just how terrible War is, and how badly served we have been by those who treat it in such cavalier fashion.  How much better this day would have been if those two very caring parents had not had to go to the White House to memorialize their son, and our loss.

George W. Bush is Sauron.  May he rot in Hell.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:53 PM EDT

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Mood:  surprised

The Gardens of the Shire begin to bust out all over, and with the new growth the search begins for a spot to nest.  Frodo speaks, of course, about the rabbits, the squirrels, the chipmunks, the birds, and any others not presently visible.  Frodo has attached a variety of wooden structures to trees, fenceposts and poles, all in the effort to attract the diversity which appeals to him in both birds and human beings.  For, not unlike human beings, issues of territory, competition, and hospitality seem to play some role in whose chicks will begin life in the Shire, or in other corners of Middle Earth.

Apparently the Shire stands amid the territorial dominance of several male cardinals.  The screaming scarlet battles occur throughout the nesting season, but now that the first nesting has begun there is only the silent sentinel forever in search of food for his mate.  Frodo noted, last year, that his neighbor had a nest of cardinals near a window, while space in the Shire was taken by chickadees, titmice, wrens, nuthatches and a plethora of others.  The neighbor children seemed at the time to be forever peering into the nest, seeking parental progress.  That behavior has evidently resulted in the construction of a natural nest in the bough where stands one of Frodo's feeding spots for hummingbirds.  Frodo has not yet seen a ruby-throat in the vicinity, nor has he pointed out the new nest location to his budding base-ball playing neighbor, "Little Chipper."

Jose Cardenal was a base-ball player for many years.  Claudia Cardinale was an extremely buxom actress.  This fanciful pairing of an athlete and a starlet has been Frodo's way of properly addressing the pending parents in the Shire.  Jose and Claudia are a handsome couple who seem to recognize that they are welcome visitors, and that an unseen "Do Not Disturb" sign exists in their defense.  Frodo can ensure that neither Mr. Beau Neau nor any human interloper approach the nest now occupied full-time by Claudia.  Jose however, will have to assume responsibility for the hummingbirds.  Nature, and higher powers, will hopefully direct the red-tailed hawk toward bigger game.

Frodo never realized that being a surrogate parent was such a big deal.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:09 PM EDT

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Mood:  chatty

Frodo has always had a song in his heart, and a friend at his side.  Mick, the Wonder Dog, is ever present these days, but even in the time before the Fellowship, Frodo kept close to those who shared his dreams and his passion.  Too rarely do instances now occur in which paths cross for those who shared thoughts of a different world than that which molded Middle Earth.  Such an event took place this past week, and Frodo reflects back on the time spent by those whose friendship crosses boundaries, if not explanation.

Frodo had used the magic of the Internet to first find his old friend.  Frodo knew that he had matriculated at Amherst, in Massachusetts, and beyond that there was only a wilderness.  The Webmaster at Amherst graciously forwarded Frodo's message on to one of its' alumni, allowing arrangements for the demise of a 40-year absence.  Afterwards, it would be four more years before the visit just concluded.  This time, in a replay of the adolescent "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours," they brought their wives along.

Bill Kelly's father was the first pilot to safely land his fighter plane on Tarawa, in 1943.  His subsequent career carried him to the rank of Captain in the US Navy, and meant that his family would travel with him on each of his assignments around the world.  When duty brought him to the Pentagon, Bill was of high school age, and the domicile, by happenstance, was in the neighborhood of one known as Frodo.  Frodo had lived most of his life in one or two places, unlike his new-found friend, who seemingly took all the world for granted.  Bill, on the other hand, knew that he would soon be moving on, and friendships had to be quickly developed, without deep entanglements, for they were sure to soon be ended.

Bill Kelly, by the time that the junior year rolled around, was the top student in all the land.  With a perfect 4.0 average, he was the example by which Frodo was compared when admonished by his father.  Frodo took pride in his friend, and did his best to learn his habits and his insights so that he could do better himself.  Frodo did not have the discipline that had been instilled in his friend, but he did have the capacity to sometimes drag his friend away from effort and to discover play.  Perhaps this single element became the grounding of their friendship; to Bill, Frodo was boyhood fancies, and to Frodo, Bill was a view of the larger world and how to get there.

It was a truly gray day when, after that junior year, Bill Kelly was following his family on to the next assignment in someplace called Italy.  Frodo still has the yearbook where it is written that "only two or three times in one's life does a true friend come along."  It ended with the word "Ciao," which, at the time, required translation. 

It was amazing to Frodo that the words which composed the tales flowed so freely in their first reunion.  On two straight nights the bar was closed before they had completed their conversations.  All others had retired for the night while Bill and Frodo talked of families now dissolved, and mentors long absent from current events.  Saying "Farewell" then was just as difficult as it had been two score years earlier.

The convention that brought Bill to the Shire provided the current opportunity.  Louisa, whose name is pronounced to befit one who fancies flowers, architecture, and knowledge, captivated Frodo as she sought to learn more about one of whom she had heard so much.  Frodo was only too anxious to provide them both with an eye into the Shire, and to not disappoint.  Frodo, a mere Hobbit, and Samwise, effervescent and engaging, were, after all, escorting the Chairman of the Anthropology Department of Yale University and his First Ladyship.

An early and brisk spring day, with only a fraction of the flowering potential at hand,  passed too swiftly, and without opportunity to delve deeply into the poetry of life.  Frodo was struck by the fact that Bill spoke of a desire to stay, for all time, in New Haven.  He seemed to fear another relocation, to stay, perhaps, "where everybody knows your name."  Frodo, as we know, looks to the sea, and dreams of lands far away.

Shaking hands good-bye, once again, Frodo committed to an offer to visit the house where Mark Twain once lived, and to sit in the same gazebo where famous words were penned, in Connecticut.  Frodo will bring the mixings of a mint julep, to share with Louisa.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 11:26 AM EDT

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Mood:  sharp

On the night that Martin Luther King died, the Mayor of Memphis clapped his hands and danced a little victory dance.  His struggle against the "outside agitators" who were there in his city, stirring up trouble, with garbagemen, was finally going to end, or so he thought. 

Frodo saw the picture of the celebrating Mayor in a newspaper soon thereafter.  The icon was permanently cast on his cerebral cortex, for he was certain that he never wanted to forget the callous disregard for human life.  His mind told him that he shouldn't hate Henry Loeb, for that would have been totally contrary to the sacrifice of the man who died that day.  Evil feeds on hatred, and gathers its strength from the words, and the deeds, of those who call upon the tools of violence.  Frodo would not succumb, but he also would not forget.

A few years later, a young Officer of the United States Treasury Department, so the story goes, was dealing with a business owner who did contract work for the City of Memphis.  The contractor was hired by the City to demolish old, abandoned buildings.  One afternoon, something terrible happened, and the bulldozer operator went to the wrong address and demolished the wrong house.  When the story broke in the papers the next day, Mayor Henry Loeb announced that the City would hold all funds due the contractor, pending litigation.  The young Treasury Officer, at the same time, was charged with collecting unpaid taxes owed by the contractor, to the US Government.

After discussing the events with his superiors, and the advising internal counsel, the young Officer prepared a "Notice of Levy" and strolled across the street to the Offices of the Mayor of Memphis.  Upon entering, he displayed his very impressive credentials, and requested an immediate audience with the Mayor.  After a few moments, he was ushered into the Mayor's Office.  The Mayor was seated, and did not rise, behind his desk, and he was flanked by three individuals, a woman and two men, who were introduced as the "City Attorneys."  The young Officer recognized each from the picture on his cerebral cortex.

The Mayor commenced a rather brash introductory outburst against the young Officer, and his employer, but he was cut short when the young officer interrupted him.  The Mayor was informed that the US Government held a valid lien against the assets of the contractor who had demolished the wrong house, and that since the collection of that tax may be in jeopardy, it was his responsibility to protect the interests of all American taxpayers.  The young Officer told the assemblage that the Mayor's comments in the morning paper had alerted him to the fact that the City had funds in its' possession which were presently owed to the contractor.  

"Mr Mayor, here is your copy of the 'Notice of Levy,' and upon this service to you, I will stand here and await you delivering to me, at this time, your receipt of said 'Notice of Levy'.  Please note that you are hereby directed to turn said funds over to me, the amount shown on the 'Notice of Levy' within 10 days."  The young Officer stood tall and straight through the responding invective.  Firmly, without ever raising his voice, he responded to the queries from the City Attorneys as to the legal citations justifying this "outrage" by a "Federal Government gone amuck."

"Just what do you plan to do boy, if I tell you that I am going to protect the taxpayers of Memphis, and just ignore your 'Notice of Levy?,'" said the Mayor, as he raised his eyelids to stare directly into the face of the young Officer.

"Mr. Mayor," he said, "it would then be my responsibility to enforce the laws of the United States, and to move against the City of Memphis, IN YOUR N AME, and to seize and offer for sale any and all assets of the City of Memphis in order to satisfy the liability identified in the 'Notice of Levy.'  That means Sir, that the City of Memphis would have to pay as directed, or a Federal District Judge would be requested to issue a warrant for your arrest, should you choose to attempt to prevent enforcement."

No one blinked.

"If you have no more questions Mr. Mayor, I'll expect to receive a check for the full amount in my office within 10 days."

"Yes, you lizard, get out of my office, and go back to Washington, where you damn well belong."

As he turned to exit, and to turn the knob on the door, he looked back, and smiled.

The check was on his desk the next morning.

The Mayor completed his term a few months later, and died of a heart attack within a few short weeks.

The young Officer was promoted soon thereafter, and moved to Washington. 

Frodo remembers, every year on this day, where he was, and what he did.  Not on the day the good man died, but on the day that a small measure of retribution was paid.  By check.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:52 PM EDT

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Mood:  incredulous

Frodo's day is made whenever he stumbles across additional support for his personal biases and political opinions.  Today, dear reader, we have a news flash out of that paragon of civilization, the actual birthplace of paleolithic philosophy, the Great State of Texas (aka "where the cow poop hits the road").  So grab your socks, and get ready for another episodic installment of why the twenty first century will never cross the Rio Grande.

The University of Texas at San Antonio ("TSA" for any of you acronym freaks) apparently sponsored a group of students who felt it necessary to draft an Honor Code for their alma mater.  The student in charge, not named (but Frodo is sure he had to be dubbed "George"), felt it to be merely an "oversight" that the effort to discourage cheating and plagiarism was apparently copied from the Honor Code of another institution.  Since the online version of Brigham Young University's Honor Code matched the exact word-for-word draft submitted by the TSA Honor Guard, it is reasonable to assume that a little cut-and-paste action off the Internet was all that the little angels had to do.

Daniel Wueste, Director of the Rutland Institute for Ethics at Clemson University (now ain't that a malaprop, ethics and Clemson for petesake?), stated "You Google it and here it comes," in referencing the Internet-era computers as mere production machines for the ethically unaware.  Frodo can't help but wonder exactly what it was that made these latter-day "Plumbers" think that they needed an Honor Code in the first place?  What, pray tell, could be so onerous as to make someone think that copying someone else's work would be justified by violating the Honor Code they hoped to implement?

Do you think it is something in the water?

Noting the judicious performance of former Governor George W. Bush, those TSA students had better be glad he isn't still in office.  They'd get lethal injections.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:54 PM EDT

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Mood:  hug me

Frodo has always had the gift of gab.  In the fourth grade he served as the "Campaign Manager" when David Sollenberger made his run for Class President.  Little Alice Pittard told Frodo afterwards that she only voted for Sollenberger because of Frodo's eloquent plea, e.g. "Give me Sollenberger, or give me death."  Growing up in Virginia, the home of Presidents and political firebrands, Frodo was subject to undue political influence at an early age.  Despite this early capacity to speak before groups, Frodo has found himself with a diminished interest in his own words, and a deeper appreciation for those of others.  That, perhaps, is why he feels a certain anxiety upon recognition.

Frodo has told the story of his attendance at the funeral of the young soldier whose life was lost in the deserts between the Tigris and the Euphrates.  When he walked from the casket to face the grieving family, all he could do was an arm salute to his heart and a kiss upon his fingers blown to Heaven.  It was something he'd seen Sammy Sosa do a hundred times.  He did so because he could not find words adequate for the moment. 

On Thursday, Frodo will step onto a stage once again.  There will be no pleas for victory or death, just as there will be no need to salute fallen warriors.  The ghosts who call to Frodo are just trying to share one more moment with their friend.  

So be it. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:34 PM EDT

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Mood:  accident prone

The following is based on actual events, only the facts have been slightly changed in order to humiliate the otherwise innocent.

Ken Mifume was very lonely in Wilcox Memorial Hospital in Lihue, Hawaii.  Not unlike many of us who spend a measure of our rehabilitation under the care and watchful eyes of those to whom a hospital is a vocation, Mifume appreciated the effort, but he really missed being home.  His uncle Donald was concerned because of the length of time that the young farmer would be away from his normal routine.  Donald could tell from Ken's discussions that he was particularly worried about the animals who depended on him, and he missed having them around. 

Donald Mifume happened to notice a father carrying a puppy into the room of a small boy.  While the boy played with his puppy, Donald asked the father about the hospital policy for bringing pets into the room of a patient.  He was told that as long as the hospital is notified, and that the visitor takes responsibility for any "mistakes," or the behavior of the animal, then the hospital welcomed the therapeutic visitation.  Donald immediately went to the nurses' station and asked permission to bring a pet with him for the visiting hours the following day.  With approval in hand, he hurried home in order to make proper arrangements for the big surprise.

Ken Mifume was still sleeping when Uncle Donald arrived at 8 AM with "King Kamehala" in tow.  The doctors, nurses, and hospital attendants were busy with everything from "rounds" to breakfast, and no one even took note of their progress through the front door, into the lobby, and to the elevators.   When Donald exited the elevator on the 7th floor, "King Kamehala" followed, and that was when anyone first took note of the palomino stallion trooping through the hospital, behind Donald Mifume.

Suddenly, a plethora of voices united to prevent any further incursion of the equine into the room of a patient.  Donald tried to assure them that "King Kamehala" was Ken's "pet," and that he was doing only as the hospital had authorized.  The attending physician tried to explain to Donald that the authorization was for "house pets," like cats or a dog, but not for a "farm animal."  At least two people were overcome and required treatment; the benefit being that they were at least in reasonable proximity of a physician.

Ken Mifume sat up in bed, bemused.  Eventually, his eyes met those of his uncle, and he inquired, "Where'd you get the horse?"  Donald replied that he found Ken's favorite horse in the pasture in front of Ken's farm.  Ken smiled, and asked his uncle to note that this was not a stallion, but a mare, and her name was certainly not "King Kamehala."  Ken also noted that the mare, along with several other mares from neighbors' farms,  had been in the pasture for quite some time with "King Kamehala" for the purpose of breeding.  It quickly became apparent to all that the mare had noted the fact that she was in a hospital, and that this would present her with an excellent opportunity to receive expert maternity assistance.

While the seeming entire staff of the hospital hovered about the delivery taking place on the 7th floor, none seemed to note the arrival, much less the presence, of the Hawaiian State Police.  Ken Mifume got up from his bed, and strolled out into the hall to offer assistance to the "gendarmerie."  One of the officers told him that they were investigating a report of horse rustling from a local farmer.  Ken asked if either of the officers could describe the alleged victim.  Neither of the officers laughed.

It took almost all day to get all of the details ironed out.  The "spouse" of "King Kamehala," and his offspring, were loaded back into Donald's horse trailer and returned to the pasture from which the mother had been removed.  Donald drove.  The Hawaiian State Police followed.  The attending physician smoked a cigar, and waved as they drove away.  Ken Mifume put on his clothes, walked to the nearest bus-stop, and caught an express, without bothering to tell anyone.

It was Tuesday before anybody happened to notice that Ken was gone.  Ken Mifume, in case you wondered dear reader, will be representing the State of Hawaii at the upcoming Democratic Party Convention in Denver.

Why are you not surprised?

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:14 PM EDT

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