A federal judge has refused to order the re-insertion of Terry Schiavo's feeding tube.

Thank God.

I have been astounded and sickened by politicos turning this whole thing into an opportunity to pander and garner votes. The issues is that a 25 year old woman had an opinion on extraordinary measures to keep people alive in a vegetative state. She voiced those to her husband. No, she did not have a living will. Yes, she should have.

But the point is that once she was an adult and married, much that it pained them, it was none of her parent's business. And yet they fought against the wishes of their own daughter for 15 long and painful years, punishing a husband more than should be allowed considering he was already dealing with the loss and vegetative condition of his wife.

Yet, rather than do the right thing and honor Ms. Schiavo's wishes, the shrub and his fat-headed brother decided to enlist the Florida legislature's help to establish their "No vegetable left alone" policy, further punishing the victim and her husband.

However, in a shocking turn of events, Florida Federal Judge James Whittemore refused to order the re-insertion of the tube.

I am so glad that someone, ANYONE in this case, had the sense to not use this for personal gain but to do what is right for the victim.

I am frequently amazed that we can do the right thing for our pets by law to help end their suffering, but know it all assholes, radio and tv hosts and politicians can tell us it's not okay to help the people we love most in the same way.

Go figure.

We're busy and sometimes this thing has to come last.

Anyway, there are a couple of things to discuss today as I've missed chances to comment on pretty big stories and some little ones as well.

First, they should use a paring knife to skin and leave for dead that fucker that kidnapped, tortured, sexually assaulted and killed that little girl in Florida. And surprise of surprises, he was a prior sex offender, and was living unannounced, next door to a family with a little girl.

Thanks government of Florida. You're so busy disobeying the wishes of an adult citizen who didn't want to be kept alive that you failed to protect a little girl who very much did want to be alive.

Assholes.

Next up was the Brian Nichols debacle here in Atlanta. A six foot two, 230 pound monster is left alone with a 51 year old five foot one female deputy, and he crushes her skull, kills three people on the way out of the building (as the two video monitors go unwatched because the guys who have that job were fetching breakfast for their boss), he steals a car and drives one floor and leaves on foot while 10,000 law enforcement officers spend 20 hours searching for a car that never left their proximity.

Nichols finds a federal agent, kills him and steals his gun and badge, and goes to Duluth, where he forces his way into a woman's apartment. She talks to him for seven hours and gets him to peacefully surrender.

And now the agencies that offered rewards for his capture don't want to pay her? Shit, I don't care if she was the mother of Brian Nichols' kids. She did what no one in law enforcement could do. She got him to surrender and not kill anyone else. Fuck every agency that won't give this woman their piddly part of a pretty piddly reward of sixty grand.

But the coup de gras (times two) occurred this Sunday afternoon around midday and again around 6pm.

I live on a street where there is no outlet. My street feeds three cul-de-sacs. There's nowhere to go, and certainly nowhere to go fast.

I was outside with my nephews, my daughter, and some neighborhood kids when this douchebag came around the corner and up the hill (after running the stop sign) and raced past my house at well over 45mph. I shouted (as we do at speeders), but he didn't stop. He did race the engine and spin out thru two full gears leaving my street.

About an hour later, my nephew called from elsewhere in the neighborhood to alert me that the guy was returning and heading my way. I made my way outside and stood on the curb until I saw him make the corner, when I stepped into the street and gestured for him to stop.

I crouched down at his passenger window and said "I hate to have to do this, but could I please ask you a favor?"

His reply: "No."

me: "Hmmm. I haven't even asked you anything yet."
him: "Fine. Go ahead."
me: I have a two year old and there are many children and pets in this neighborhood, and I'd really appreciate it if you could slow down and not race thru here at such high rates of speed. It's dangerous and I'd hate for one of the kids to get hurt."
him: Well, I wish you'd stop throwing footballs in the street, so I guess we're even."

(what?)

me: "Well, I've asked you nicely to slow down in a no thru street community filled with children and pets. I don't think it's too much to ask you to respect the posted speed limit."
him: tough shit.
me: Then go ahead and fucking do it again, and don't be shocked when I drill your car with a football.

Then, my brother in law and I went to discuss this with a neighbor whose circle of friends is filled with local policemen.

Him: Get me the tag number, and I can assure you that (cop's name) will handle it. Hell, last time this type of thing happened to me (cop) found him, removed he and his friends from the car and searched the car bumper to bumper. Haven't seen him since.

us: Yeah...I think we'll do that.

So if you're reading this, asshole owner of a late model metallic blue two door sporty japanese ride like an acura or Mazda, just know that two things are going to happen next time you race by my house. One is that you're going to get a football in the door and the second is that the local gendarme will be looking for you. Hope you have all of your I's dotted and your T's crossed.

Then, later in the day, we are outside again and there are probably 15 people in the yard, driveway, and surrounding yards and we're throwing the football around when this late model gray VW jetta races down the hill towards us.

My brother in law steps near to it's path and, as they drive by, he screams into the window for them to slow down.

The car lurches to a stop. Inches forward to turn around at the intersection, does a 180, drives about 20 feet back toward us, and the driver unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car and bows up as big as he can.

My BIL says "you don't need to race thru here like that."
The kid: "I wasn't going that damned fast, and you've got no right to touch my fucking car."
BIL: Are you getting out of your car to fight with me?
kid: returns to car, where we both approach and advise him that he's breaking the law, that we have his tag number, and his parents might be interested in his behavior.

I am going to get his plate traced and show up at his door and discuss it with his folks. My father taught me that that's the best way to deal with this type of thing.

I also decided that next time (if there is one) and he gets out of the car, I am going to grab him by the neck, bend him over and literally spank his ass. Then I will offer him a cell phone, and he can either call 911 or his parents and we'd wait until either showed up to discuss it.

I don't like to be this way, but hell hath no fury like me when someone injures or hurts in any way my daughter or my nephews or any of their friends.

Oh, and Wake Forest and Kansas fucked my bracket to high heaven, so now I'm rooting for Bucknell and UW milwaukee so CBS gets about a 1.0 share.

One last thing, my new favorite driver over the past year or so has been Carl Edwards. This weekend, Carl became the first driver to win both the Busch and Cup races at Atlanta...ever.

I hate Ford and I hate Jack Roush, but Carl Edwards is the face of the future of NASCAR. Join the bandwagon today, cuz it's filling up fast.

Last Friday, I got home from work at the regular time and the wife asked me to blow out the garage. I responded in my usual way, which was to drop my shoulders slightly, say "Yes dear," and head outside to one of those task I loathe.

Except I don't loathe it for any particular reason other than I don't like doing anything yardwork related. I am much better about it now because I am proud of my house and my yard and my community, so I do it more often and put more effort into it.

But just for the record, I still hate it.

Anyway, I got changed, headed out to the garage and reached for the leaf blower, only it wasn't there. So I did the casual "hey, where'd you use it last?" search that led me to the rest of the garage, the deck, the area under the deck, and then my nephew's house.

All of these searches turned up nothing, so I waited for my nephew and brother-in-law to get home so I could find out if either of them borrowed it. Turns out, they did not.

Know what that means? It means someone, some little peckerhead, walked into my garage and stole my $200 fucking leaf blower.

It's a green Poulan, which is a little embarassing since my brother in law recommended it to me as "the one I'd buy," then he proceeded to buy a nice manly red Toro. Thanks, asshole.

But I had grown to like it. It was very forgiving and easy to use. It started quickly, it didn't freak out when my nephew spilled gas all over it, even though it never seemed to finish spilling said fuel.

I am still floored that someone walked into my garage and took this thing, but left my $180 weedeater. I guess he was too lazy to look up and see it hanging from the top shelf.

The thing is, it's not a very common blower. If I see some little dickhead using it or one very much like it, I may inquire as to it's origin. You never know what I might find.

Next time, I'll be smart enough to deface it with a sharpie and some sort of branding impliment so no one will want to take it or be able to do anything with it.

Crime. It's tough when it hits so close to home.

I would like to say that I'm sorry that I haven't posted in a while. Heck, I am sorry I haven't posted in a while.

But not real real sorry.

I've been busier than a:

1) one armed wallpaper hanger
2) 50 cent whore at mardi gras
3) Michael Jackson in a daycare center
4) one-legged man stomping out a grass fire
5) fire inspector at a Great White concert
6) one-armed taxi driver with crabs

You choose which one you like best, but the point is that I've been busy.

Heck, here's my last seven days.

Saturday Feb. 26:

My nephew's struggling in ninth grade Algebra. I cannot invent / create a cure for cancer. I cannot and will not invent a new diet free of beer and red meat. I will never be the guy that comes up with next year's pet rock or tickle me Elmo or whatever's hot next Christmas.

I can, however, kick the shit out of 9th grade algebra.

I stink at Geometry. I even had to invent theorem 69 to avoid failure by getting partial credit in high school. Theorem 69 says:

All angles, arcs, and other measurable things are congruent and equal because I say so.

(Teachers ALWAYS give partial credit in geometry, especially if you're creative and a brown-noser).

Anyway, I am a ninth grade algebra God. I hadn't touched it since right after college until a friend of mine was studying for her GMAT a couple years ago, and she needed help. That test reminded me that algebra is my bitch, so why not help where I can.

So, my nephew's struggling and I can help. So I did. We busted ass for about two and a half hours and he went from "why do I have to do so many practice problems?" to "why don't we just finish the chapter right now rather than take a break?"

I nearly wept.

We got thru Chapter 8 that day and had a nice time playing Mailbox that afternoon.

Saturday night:

Went to Brad and Carol's house for a party. They just moved in a little while ago and, along with their new son Aubie (just kidding), they live next to Kerry and Tom.

We had a good time and had food and drinks and laughs. Around 10:30 or so, Molly and Heather decided it was a good time to leave and take my 8 year-old nephew Jack home. Todd and I decided to stay.

I should stop here. I will not tattle on anyone else, but I was a mess. Shitfaced is not a strong enough word. I don't know a strong enough word. I am still mad at myself for being that drunk, and it was seven days ago. THAT should tell you something.

Sunday:

Cracker Barrel with the Thomas', only we got started late, had a 30 minute wait, and by the time we got our food, I thought Todd was gonna chunder in his scrambled with cheeses.

Next stop: Home-the sofa-nap city.

Except I couldn't nap. Too hungover. I wished I was in a coma.

The plan was to work on Chapter 9 with Nick, only I couldn't shake the cotton in my brain loose to help him. So I made him do one problem from every section in chapter 9 (which he assured me he understood), and he got them right.

High five, baby. Now it's back to the sofa. Someone help me.

3pm: A quick break from my nausea when Caca, max and woo-woo come over for Heather and Todd's Birthdays. We sing, light candles, pass out four slices of cake, and everyone splits. Hooray!!

Dinner and sweet sleep couldn't come fast enough.

Monday:

Drive to Anderson in the rain to update and patch computers. Left at six fucking a.m. It's 100 miles door to door, so 200 round trip is three plus hours, and I've gotta try to fit 10 hours of work into six hours so I get to see my daughter today.

My highlight was passing all of the Craftsman Truck and Busch Series cars on their way back from California. I love those rigs.

Anyway, I busted ass, skipped lunch, still felt a little shaky, but finished by about 3:30 and headed home in the pissing rain.

About even with the Mall of Georgia exit, traffic stopped. Stopped. There was a vehicle entrapment in the woods on the east side of I85. I hate that stuff, but the car had passed me doing over 90 in the rain with out of state plates. I was not surprised.

Home. Exausted. Ate. Played with Lauren. Put her to bed. Went to bed.

Tuesday:

Nothing to see here. Just working. Move along.

Oh, except we went to Red Lobster for Todd Thomas' birthday, and that ruled. Lauren loved the lobster tank in the lobby, and she loved her chicken and fries and sprite and the lobster carcasses. She liked how they bowed.

But the best part was in the car as we were pulling into the parking lot. We rode together in Heather's car and as we turned in, there's a neon lobster on the building (obviously). Lauren doesn't really know the difference between one shellfish and another, so she yelled out "Aw crab!!" which sounded a lot like "Oh CRAP!" to everyone else in the car.

Good times.

Wednesday:

Work. Overslept. Got up at 6:25, which is when I am normally arriving at work.

Anyone that knows me knows that I hate HATE to be late. To anything. It doesn't matter if it's a girls varsity basketball game. I hate being late.

Oh, and since my boss was going on vacation, he was early, so he knew I was late.

Mind you, I wasn't late for work. I work 8-5. But I was late for me. And it's still irritating.

Thursday:

Home from work after having a finance person "leave to pursue other opportunities" so I had to disable her stuff.

Got home to the joyous news that the Cooley family (of Cooley's Pizza fame) was coming over for dinner and a little web design consulting by my bride.

Baby Emma and Lauren played, although Lauren is reluctant to share with kids littler than her, but we're working on it.

We then busted out the Cooley's Pizza (one greek, one pepperoni and one barnyard, which is a Molly creation: Original white minus tomatoes and add steak, so it's white pizza with bacon and steak. YUM!!!)

Andy had to run into work (for 20 minutes....laugh here) and Courtney and Emma and Molly and Lauren and I played. It was great. Emma kills me.

Sidenote here. In the last two weeks or so, we've found a channel called "Boomerang" which, in the evenings anyway, features The Flintsones, The Jetsons and Scooby-Doo. The thing is, Lauren LOVES Scooby-Doo. Loves it. I hate it. Always have. I have never ever found an episode of Scooby Doo remotely entertaining. And my daughter loves it.

Maybe that's what they're talking about when they say a parent's best revenge is their grandchildren.

Friday:

I've been on the phone for two and a half with our distribution center trying to get the fucking spyware software to work. I am five minutes from driving up there and fixing this myself. At least that way I could be home by 5pm with another 80 bucks in my pocket.


So you see? It's not like I've been sipping pina coladas while some naked island princess massages my nether regions. It's tough going in the real world, and I'm in it.