extension of my offer

Dear the Donald,

I am extending by 24 hours the deadline for your accepting my offer of $100 for your college records, passport records and seven years of you tax returns. 

Due to the recent inclement weather and the obvious effect it has on your east coast businesses, I feel it is only fair.

I am somewhat shocked at the unbelievable momentum that my offer to you has generated.  Many of my readers have expressed to me that they can’t understand why you have not already come across with this information.

“How can you defend somebody for something like that?”  They ask me when I tell them you have not accepted my offer and presented me with these documents.  “It’s ridiculous,” they tell me.

Everyone—except that weird guy with the wierd hair who says you are his idol—is telling me you are hiding something.  I tell them you have nothing to hide and that you are a right-thinking guy with a song in your heart and show biz in your blood.

And you also have great hair, in my humble opinion.

I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

 

Jimbo

withdrawal of my offer

Dear the Donald,

 

I have read much and heard much about your offer to purchase President Obama’s college and passport records and have heard many people say, what does the President have to lose?

 

I analyzed the question and I applied that logic to my own offer of my college records for $1 million.  I regret that I have to withdraw my offer, because I now understand that anyone who would sell their college records would be an idiot and the President and I are not idiots.  Well, he isn’t, anyway.  Anyone who would sell their college and passport application records would set themselves up for identity theft.

 

Whoever had the application and transcript records of anyone could ruin their lives applying for credit cards and using them for online theft.   Although I don’t look at you as a common criminal, well, you can’t be too careful these days.

 

I wish to make a counter-offer.  I will pay you $100 for all of you college records, passport application records and your last 7 years income tax returns.

 

You have until midnight October 31 to produce them.

 

I figure that for me—an elderly, retired gentleman on a fixed income-- $100 of my net worth is equivalent in your net worth to the $5 million you have offered, and therefore a fair offer.

 

What have you got to lose?   Are you hiding something?

 

I think you are probably an honest man and you probably were born in the United States and probably did well at the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, but how can I know for sure unless you come across?

 

I am anxiously awaiting your reply.

 

 

Jimbo

earth-shattering offer to donald trump

Dear the Donald,

 

I just read about your offer of $5 million for President Obama’s college records and his passport application records.  It was a very generous offer, indeed, but not near as earth-shattering or election-changing as I was expecting.

 

 I have to admit that my first reaction was, “WTF?!”

 I had expected something like maybe videotape or photos of a younger Obama coming out of the water at the beach in a wet Speedo that clung to his younger torso in such a way that we could see he was a man with the kind of stones to get bin Laden.  Or, perhaps that same young Obama, in the same Speedo at the same beach, with a fifth of Wild Turkey in one hand and a blonde in a string bikini in the other.

 I was impressed with your showmanship and the way you built up the suspense and got us all interested in the dramatic revelation, but I was very let down that you couldn’t come up with something better than you did.

 It occurred to me—hey, if The Donald really wants to see some transparency in a presidential candidate—there might be a better alternative.  Offer Mitt Romney the same five mill for a couple of year’s tax returns.  However, my idea crashed and burned almost before it came together in my brain knowing that Mitt would not bite for that kind of small change.

But, as you may have suspected, I have come up with a better idea.  Give me only $1 million and I will release to you my college records.  I can get you the discount because, for one, I don’t currently have a passport.  Last year, before I retired, my boss asked me to get one for a business trip to Mexico, but I got busy and blew it off.  I regret that I did because I could have gotten it on the company dime instead of paying for it myself.  And, since I didn’t pay for it, I won’t expect you to, either.

However, my college records would be a good read.  There is some stuff there I am not proud of, like that first semester of my freshman year, back when I was seventeen and I skipped classes and stuff and spent the rest of the time I went to college working to get my GPA back up.  But wait, I don’t want to reveal too much until you come across with some serious coin.

I am offering you a chance, Mr. Trump, to redeem your tarnished reputation and let you have some real stuff and not just some kind of dumb-ass speculation, inference and innuendo.  And, at a bargain price, too.  Please get back with me at your earliest convenience.

Jimbo

proof obama is an alien

I keep hearing people putting out wild stories about President Obama not being an American.  The nuts out there are putting out all sorts of stories that Obama is an illegal alien or not a citizen of the United States.

 

Because there is not a day that goes by that some nut comes up with some tall tale about Obama being a Muslim or being ready to give America to a foreign country, it makes one wonder why anyone would want to be President of a country so chocked full of nuts.

Then it dawned on me that, since I have credentials of being a nut that overshadows the nuttiness of most of the certifiable nuts that have gotten their fifteen minutes recently, then I should come up with something really nutty.

Fortunately, I have suddenly come into possession of some very interesting information about the President that can help certify my nuttiness over and above some of the crazy people we have heard from lately.  Here it is.

When I first came about the information the Barack Obama is not even a native of Earth, I admit I had to study it twice.  However, I am now convinced that the President is actually from the planet Vulcan.

Oh, Jimbo, there you go being a nut again, you are probably telling yourself.  Well here is my proof.  Vulcans are all highly rational people who use logic and intelligent thought to make decisions.  I defy you to find another politician who does that—beside, of course, the President.

Fascinating, you are probably saying to yourself at this moment.

Do you need more proof?  How about those ears?  Does the President have the prominent Vulcan ears, or am I just out in the deep end?  Sure, if his ears were pointed it would seal the deal, but if Obama could have won races for the state house in Illinois, the U.S. Senate from Illinois and the United States Presidency surely could have had the presence of mind to have those ear tips altered.

How about the sideburns that end in a point at about the edge of the earlobe that the Vulcans have, you might ask?  Shavers, is my one-word answer.

Yeah, I think I have proved my point—or at least as well or better than most of the other nuts who have crawled out from under their rocks recently.  And to the President I say two things.  One, I am good with it.  We need someone who uses logic running this show.  And the other thing I would tell the President—if he is even listening—is as follows.

Live long and prosper.

murder, or just a joke?

Rumor has it that Karl Rove wants to kill Todd Akin.

 

Actually, he made a joke that implied that he would not want to be investigated closely if Akin were found mysteriously murdered.

Ha, ha.

Actually, Rove as the assassin who actually carries the gun and pulls the trigger defies credibility, so let’s not even think of trying to pin physical violence on the rotund one.  I think his point is that what Todd Akin said about “legitimate rape” and the black eye it gave the Missouri Senatorial candidate is an embarrassment to the Grand Old Party as well as it is to modern, civilized society.

I know an artist who once did a series of sculptures based on angels.  He invited me to the showing of the sculptures at a local art gallery and, during the conversation, I asked him about his choice of subject matter and whether he believed in angels or not.  The conversation moved from whether or not he believed in angels to the subject of religion and faith.  He told me that one who has faith need not require physical proof. I thought about that conversation this morning as I read the story about Rove and Akin and I thought there was a point to be made about faith.  The definition of faith I found today is as follows.

Faith: belief that is not based on proof

I watched RNC coverage this week and I was surprised by a lack of specifics and I keep coming back to the statement by Todd Akin. What I heard from the Republicans this week were vague and flowery stories about a beautiful place they are going to take us, and they don’t know where it is or how we are going to get there.  We just need to have faith.  We just need to believe.  We just need to drink their Kool-Aid.

Akin was basically reiterating the position of the Republican platform when he inserted his foot into his mouth.  I think, however, since it is not a purely religious issue, and he does represent the show-me state, he was compelled to attach some cold, hard facts, rather than simply to rely on faith.  I think he got caught up in the moment and tried to explain his position by making up some cold, hard “facts.”  Unfortunately, his “facts” were more a wish rather than something he could prove.  His “facts” were based on his faith that his opinion had to be right, so he needed to provide proof for those of little faith.

He and his fellow Republicans are going to take us to a much better place:  A place where everything is pure and good.  And how are they going to get us there?

They’ll make it up as they go along.

walkin' on the water

I had a few momentary thoughts of terror yesterday morning when I read about Congressman Kevin Yoder skinny-dipping in the Sea of Galilee.  My anxiety was not because a fellow Kansan might have had one more drink than he should have, lost his clothes and tried to re-enact Jesus’ fabled walk upon those same waters.  After all, how many times have I and my fellow Kansans been somewhere near water where alcohol was served and one thing led to another?  Usually it is a lake, reservoir or farm pond and not a sacred historic site, but we all know how the story goes.

“Liquor?  Why, yes, just to be social.  Is the water warm today?  Oh, no, I won’t need a bathing suit…”

Yoder said that alcohol played no role and I have to accept that as the truth, but usually it takes me a few drinks before I will unharness the old package.

Well, you know the drill.  Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

However, my fellow rednecks and I are expected to get drunk and do stupid things.  Our representative is supposed to be a tea-totaler and not do stupid things.

Oh, wait!  Yoder is a member of Congress, and that group is famous for doing stupid things, so I can’t expect their behavior to be half a good as my fellow rednecks.  Please disregard my first argument that he should be held to a higher standard.

My terror, however, was two-fold.  I still can’t get it through my head that Yoder is not my congressman.  We moved a couple of miles west three years ago and either moved out of the district he represents or we were gerrymandered out when they moved the boundaries to insure that no Democrat would ever again win the district once represented by the highly respected, sober and fully-clothed, Dennis Moore.

Oh, good, Yoder is not my congressman. 

This should help the Democrat running against him, I thought.

Then I remembered.

Oh, great!  Because the district has been gerrymandered to insure a Democrat will never win, there isn’t even one running, just a Libertarian without a ghost of a chance, even though he thinks this will help put him over the top.  Despite the fact it will have no effect on the election it will be fun to hear the congressman explain this again and again.

day one

The question has come up a number of times the last few days: When is day one?


Was day one actually Friday night when I shook the last hand and signed out for the last time? That would have, theoretically, been just another Friday night when Jimbo would have left work for the week, just like he has countless other times over the last five decades.


Or, would it have been Saturday, the first day off work after a long career? One could argue both sides. On one side, the argument is that, although Saturday is a typical day off, that it was a different Saturday, since I left the job at work and was not thinking about the previous week or strategizing about the week upcoming. I think I disqualified Friday and Saturday as day one because I still strategized in bed Friday night and wondered what I had failed to impart upon my replacement and what I needed to communicate to him.


Sunday as day one would have been a lukewarm argument. The pro-day-one argument was that the elimination of Sunday night mental preparation for the following work day was not necessary and therefore a relaxed Sunday night. However, the strategizing continued. What did I forget to do? What did I leave out? What did I fail to give emphasis in my last week of training the new guy?


Therefore, I assert that Monday was day one.


The strategic planning and the “what if” and “if then” scenarios were beginning to move to the recesses of the brain. The realization that total release from a career that demanded 24/7 attention will not happen in one day or one weekend had begun to set in. The realization that I am not free and won’t be for a week or two—or maybe more—had become reality.


However, I was as free as I had been in any time in recent memory. In an era where the day off no longer exists, where holidays are a time to be with the family and sneak in some work time and when the definition of vacation is doing ones work outside the office, being retired takes on an unfamiliar significance. I am not complaining, though. I am good with it—very, very good with it.


Yeah, Monday was day one.


And if you were to argue that my first day of freedom was spent doing laundry, cleaning house, cooking and doing dishes and that doesn’t sound like much of a way to enjoy oneself, I can only suggest you try it some time. It’s about as good as it gets.


Now, let’s see what kind of a ball we can have on day two.

Coming Soon

Coming soon will be more exciting and more frequent content. Just be patient for another couple of weeks. Thanks for your continued support

ghost of christmas past

Back in an ancient time, my Cub Scout leader lived in a house on the block behind our house on Alden Street. The shortcut there and home was through their back yard, over the fence into my next door neighbor’s yard and then over another fence into my own yard. On that particular December cub scout meeting, I was wearing the shirt with my badges and a good pair of jeans. I was wearing a coat, so the shirt was safe, but I didn’t want to snag the pants on the fences, meaning the next shortest route was not much longer. I would walk from the scout leader’s front porch and twenty yards down the street and then up a driveway that once led to a garage that had been demolished at some time or other. With no garage at the end of the driveway, it led directly into my back yard. That driveway route was to be the route I selected that night.

But, while on the short sidewalk I heard chimes: Christmas songs.

It wasn’t some out of body experience. There weren’t any angels that appeared to me and it was not a Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus kind of thing, What I heard was just the organist at Quayle Memorial Methodist Church playing chimes through the loudspeakers on the outside of the building.

So, instead of making the left turn down the driveway and toward home, I continued to walk down the sidewalk, north on 17th street, toward where the music being played. Seventeenth Street made a little ninety-degree hook to the left where the big stucco house was (and still is) and then a couple of hundred more feet to the corner of 17th and Yecker. That was where Quayle was. There was a stained glass window on the Yecker side of the church, if my memory is correct—and it may not be. I believe last time I was by there, it was boarded over, so I could not confirm.

I remember on that ancient December afternoon, I stood for a while at the corner and listened. There was something back then about Christmas that piqued the imagination of a ten- or eleven-year-old boy. There was something about the songs of the season that re-enforced the connection.

They still do.

I remember after hearing a song or two, I headed west down Yecker, took the shortcut through the alley and back home on Alden.

It is strange how one can forget something someone said this morning or the name of someone met yesterday, but still have a fairly solid memory of hearing a song fifty years ago.

Like I said, there is something about the songs of the season…

Well, no need to repeat myself. I just said that three paragraphs before. And they are short paragraphs.

However, we sometimes repeat ourselves in Jimbo’ world.

the north forty-forth street sidewalk surfing association

Most of the things we used to do in ancient times—back when I was growing up—have slipped into history. Kids today don’t do a lot of the same things we did two generations ago. One of the few, however, that seems still to be in vogue, is the skateboard.

Back in 1964 a group called Jan and Dean had a popular song on the radio called Sidewalk Surfin’ and we loved the song. Perhaps it was because we were riding sidewalk surfboards at the time, so it was something with which we could identify.

Either we were too poor to buy them or skateboards were not widely commercially available at the time. Anyway, we made our own.

I took a scrap piece of 1” X 8” pine, cut it to a couple of feet long and then penciled lines on it—a pattern that came to a point in the front and tapered to about four inches wide in the back. Then I took a hand coping saw and cut the board to the configuration I drew. Afterward, I sanded down the edges, removing any sharp corners and then smoothed out the top surface with fine sandpaper. I managed to find a skull and crossbones decal at the hobby shop and spray painted a thin blue stripe at a diagonal across the board, just behind where I applied the decal toward the front of the board. Then, I took a steel wheeled roller skate and used screws to attach it to the bottom side of the board. I put a coat of dark shellac on the board to give it a light brown color.

I was then ready to put my life on the line.

Forty-forth street had a gradual incline to the North of our house and it was a good hill to walk up and then ride the board back down. However, to the south, there was a very steep hill and, once we knew how to ride the board it was always the South hill we rode down. All of the neighborhood kids built boards or had their fathers build boards for them, and we would attack the hill as a group. There were a lot of bruises and skinned elbows and knees, because the hill was fast and we didn’t wear any protective equipment.

Because interaction in society requires that we belong to something and give a name to that something, we called ourselves the North Forty-forth Street Sidewalk Surfing Association. It was better than joining a street gang, I suppose.

Even though we are sure that you can go to You Tube and hear Jan and Dean sing,
“Grab your board and go sidewalk surfin’ with me,” Jimbo has reached the point in life that falling off a skateboard would require some time to heal, so he won’t be joining in.

But it is good to remember how it was forty-seven summers ago on Forty-forth Street in Jimbo’s world.