The response to the hard-luck story below has been wonderful. I was able to make the appointment for Tiggy’s repairs and the dryer issue will likewise be resolved this week. Depending on the car repair bill, I should be able to get Sputum her new treads as well, and I may even get a “new” (replacement) laptop later this week.
I hate to push my luck, but there’s still the matter of the IRS/ObamaCare fiasco…
I have the best Readers on the Internet.
At any given time, things break, we fix them / get them fixed and get on with life.
However, we should always be cognizant of that old bastard Murphy, the corollary to whose Law states that if things can go wrong, they will always go wrong in the order which will provide the greatest damage or catastrophe. Or, in the sub-corollary, that all will occur more or less at the same time.
Wanna hear mine?
In the past seven days:
- The Tiguan’s rear suspension and brakes need replacing (at only 135,000 miles, go figure).
- When New Wife went to get the Fiat’s tires pumped during the recent cold weather, the tire guy said that her car won’t pass the next inspection because of tread wear (after 30,000 miles, go figure again).
- Our tumble dryer has ceased to both tumble and dry — “What about the warranty?” you ask; why, the 5-year warranty expired a year ago because the appliance is over six years old. As such, repairs will cost more than simple replacement.
- Speaking of old things: my 6-year-old laptop’s chassis has given up the ghost completely — I can’t close it without causing irreparable damage, and it’s being held together with Ye Olde Ductte Taype (pics on request).
- Still on the laptop: the power cord has become loosened to the point where I have to use the above to keep it in place, and even then if I move too suddenly, the connection ends and Ye Olde Batterye takes over, for about an hour before it too goes bye-bye.
- Uncle Shylock has decided that some of my 2013 deductions were not acceptable, and I have to repay some ungodly (for me) amount.
- So does New Wife, who upon becoming salaried as opposed to hourly, decided to enroll in the company medical plan — but whoopsie! that incurs an ObamaCare penalty (don’t ask me for the details; my tax preparer explained it to me, as much as one can politely explain getting bent over a desk by the Gummint, and the penalty actually dwarfs my tax deduction repayment).
Ordinarily, I could handle all the above individually: schedule payments to the IRS over the next year, for instance; and all the others could be put on the credit card. But doing the latter en masse would make the monthly repayments unaffordable. And thanks to Bidenflation (of which I may have made some mention in the past), our monthly expenses are already at the nostrils-occasionally-underwater stage.
I have already sold everything that is saleable in my house. That includes most of my gun collection, and the few pieces that remain I need (for obvious reasons) and aren’t worth that much anyway.
Whenever someone helpfully suggests that I get a job, I point out that this blog is my job. It’s the only one I can do, given my advanced age and health condition, and the only way I can help myself is to depend on the kindness of others as they regard the worth of my writing on this website.
For the most obvious of reasons, I can’t open up an OnlyFans account like this tart did. Most distressingly, the market for the model in the pic below would be embarrassingly small.
…even though I’ve lost quite a bit of weight since then. And I think I’ve punished my tiny pool of Lady Readers enough anyway.
You all know what to do. My sooper-seekrit mailing address for Going Paper is:
6009 W. Parker Rd, Ste 149-141, Plano TX 75093
…and then there is Venmo (no PayPal, sorry) or Zelle via [email protected]
Anything you can send will be hugely appreciated, because quite frankly, this is the only way out for me if nothing else comes to the fore (e.g. a lottery win, and you know the odds against that).
Thank you all in advance,
I’m grateful for this opportunity to voice a question which has nagged me for many years: is Kim Du Toit really an American?
Look, I know you faced the choice: legally immigrate to America or be beaten to death in a cargo container. Anyone who has not faced that situation has no standing to say which is the moral choice. Nevertheless, your choice is questionable.
No reasonable person can doubt your commitment to constitutional, republican governance; to the public order so essential to the thriving of civilization; to entrepreneurship and the creative power of capital; to national defense; and ultimately to the rights and prerogatives of the individual.
However, you have certain… cosmopolitan tendencies, which cast doubt on your true allegiance. You have traveled to England and maybe even to Stockholm; places where child molesters are tolerated. We patriotic, heartland Americans might overlook such peccadilloes… except for one thing.
We can’t pronounce your name. Americans have made no secret of this: we cannot hear or pronounce French vowels or terminal consonants, and we understandably become violent when anybody points this out.
Previous generations of immigrants had the good sense to Americanize their names, is all I’m saying.
All good stuff, and it gave me much amusement. Let me take them in reverse order. Firstly, here’s the story of the name.
When I became a U.S. citizen — I mean, on the very day I was sworn in — I was asked if I wanted to change my name.
It was the first I’d heard of this option; nobody had ever told me I could do it when I became a citizen. All I had to do was give a new name right there, and that would be the one on my passport and naturalization certificate (and SocSec database, automatically).
Had I changed it — one option was “Dalton” because it sorta sounds like “Doo-twah” and had two syllables, but I needed to think about it — it’s a big deal, changing one’s name — and I had to make a decision right there and then.
So I didn’t.
And lo and behold, I found over time that people liked it — they said it sounded really cool and exotic — and it was quite a hit with the ladies, along with this kinda-fake Brit accent that I picked up at school.
Interestingly enough, when I asked both my American wives (Son&Heir’s mom, and Connie) if they wanted to keep their respective surnames instead of being saddled with this strange French thing, they not only refused, but refused loudly and emphatically. (New Wife, when I asked her the same question, just gave me That Look so I changed the subject hastily.)
As to the other charges:
However, you have certain…cosmopolitan tendencies, which cast doubt on your true allegiance. You have traveled to England and maybe even to Stockholm; places where child molesters are tolerated. We patriotic, heartland Americans might overlook such peccadilloes…
(I chuckle helplessly again, even as I type this.)
I realize that the charge of “cosmopolitanism” is a serious one, especially to Middle America (the class to which I aspire, and the one with which I identify the most strongly).
But FFS, just because I speak several other languages that most Murkins can’t, and I like visiting foreign lands, and can tell the difference between Baroque- and Norman architecture, and likewise between Academy- and Romantic art, and Chopin and Schubert’s music, does this make me less American?
I even admit to preferring croissants over Wonder Bread, sausage rolls over hot dogs, and Victoria sponge cake instead of apple pie. (I draw the line at BBQ, however: no other food can compare.)
And I’m really sorry, but Wadworth 6X is just a better goddamn beer than fucking Budweiser or Coors.
Frankly, I think that Americans could do with a little more cosmopolitanism, if for no other reason than to break the bonds of bullshit American marketing of mediocre/awful products like the above (and let’s not forget “American” cheese, which is truly fucking horrible and no man should).
And I’m happy to do my bit to advance that cause, on these here pages and on this back porch of mine.
By the way: I’ve never been to Stockholm, and I think child molesters should be burned at the stake, after extensive torture.