I received this email from a friend today. I just felt the need to put this out where (hopefully) more people can see it.
SOMEONE FINALLY SAID IT! Hip Hip Hooray!! Finally, someone has said what I think has
been on every American's mind!!!!! This is an editorial written by an American citizen, published
in a local newspaper.
"IMMIGRANTS, NOT AMERICANS, MUST ADAPT!!" I am tired of this nation worrying about
whether we are offending some individual or their culture, here in the USA. Since the terrorist
attacks on Sept. 11, we have experienced a surge in patriotism by the majority of Americans.
However, the dust from the attacks had barely settled when the "politically correct" crowd
began complaining about the possibility that our patriotism was offending others. I am not
against immigration, nor do I hold a grudge against anyone who is seeking a better life by
coming to America. Our population is almost entirely comprised of descendants of immigrants.
However, there are a few things that those who have recently come to our country, and
apparently some born here, need to understand.
This idea of America, being a multi -cultural community, has served only to dilute our
sovereignty and our national identity. As Americans, we have our own culture, our own
society, our own language and our own lifestyle. This culture has been developed over
centuries of struggles, trials, and victories by millions of men and women who have sought
We speak ENGLISH, not Spanish, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, or any other
language. Therefore, if you wish to become part of our society, learn the language! ENGLISH.
"In God We Trust" is our national motto. This is not some Christian, right wing, political slogan.
We adopted this motto because Christian men and women, of Christian principles, founded this
nation, and this is clearly documented. It is certainly appropriate to display it on the walls of our
schools. If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new
home, because God is and always will be part of our culture.
If the Stars and Stripes offend you, or you don't like Uncle Sam, then you should seriously
consider a move to another part of this planet. We are happy with our culture and have no
desire to change, and we really don't care how you did things where you came from.
Remember, "Delta is ready when you are and they can have you there by nightfall".
This is OUR COUNTRY, our land, and our lifestyle. Our First Amendment gives every citizen
the right to express his opinion and we will allow you every opportunity to do so. But, once
you are done complaining, whining, and griping about our flag, our pledge, our national motto,
or our way of life, I highly encourage you to take advantage of one other great American
freedom, THE RIGHT TO LEAVE. If you agree with this message, pass it on
If you don't agree, pass it on anyway. What the heck! This is AMERICA, after all!
Agree? Disagree? Your option. I can't help but notice, however, that no where else in the world that I'm aware of does the government bend over backwards to accomodate non-native-language speakers. How many street signs do you see in France in both French and English? (note to Bigwig
: I learned a new French word yesterday - "surrender").
Is anyone else having the problems with the heat that I'm having? Geez, the older I get, the hotter it seems to get in the summer. Granted, I think my metabolism is screwed up anyway; I can break a sweat in the middle of January playing outside with the kids, but gimme a freaking break here! It was 100 degrees outside yesterday, and the heat index ("it's not the heat, it's the humidity!" No, asshole, it's BOTH AT THE SAME FREAKING TIME!!) was over 110 degrees. And don't tell me how much better it would be if the humidity were less. Hot is hot, baby. I was doing the father/husband thing after work yesterday (at least as much as my better half will let me do; I'm not sure she really trusts me alone with the kids for too long), and of course I had changed from my work clothes to my hanging out duds -- loincloth, moccasins, feathered headband, coup stick -- don't look at me like that! I like being comfortable! Anyway, when the better half asked me for my help, I was only too happy to oblige. Within five minutes, I was soaked in sweat, and I was inside the house. Yes, Virginia, the air conditioning was running (actually, last I looked, the AC unit had a white flag flying from the fan center, but that might have been a heat-induced hallucination), and it was still hotter than hell.
Upon reflection, this might have something to do with the body type that the better half says I possess -- gorilla. She doesn't mean this in a bad way (at least I hope not), and no, my knuckles don't actually drag the ground. Close, but close only counts in horseshoes and thermonuclear weapons. She is referring to the copious amounts of hair found everywhere on me except the top of my head. Yeah, if I ever decide to get hair transplants (not bloody likely), there will be no problem deciding where to harvest the hair to transplant. Sucks, don't it?
Bottom line here -- somebody turn the damn thermostat down, howaboutit? And we could do with some rain here, too! It's so dry now that on the rare occasion we DO get a thunderstorm, I can stand on my front porch and hear the grass going "Aaaahhhh!"
Ugh! Me try post blog three times now. Blogger not let Caveman Dad post blog. Uhhh . . . me know! Me take club and pound Blogger! Pound, pound, pound! Ah! Caveman Dad feel better!
Make that four times.
I know, I know, the last post talks about Monday but wasn't posted until Wednesday. I'm slack; sue me. I really tried to post on Monday, but Blogger spewed it back at me. Makes you wonder if Blogger installed a taste editor on the system.
Question at large: When do teenagers revert to human beings again? Yeah, I got one at home. Pain in the ass does not begin to describe this kid. Where did the better half and I go wrong? This is the kid we raised? I'd rather trade him in for a Harley.
Work is intruding on my world again; more later. Film at 11.
Monday, Monday, I love Monday! It's so nice and quiet at the office. I know I said on Friday that I love my kids. I should have said that I love my kids in small doses. Two days in a row does not constitute a small dose, that's more like an overdose. Yep, that's me, Caveman Dad, produce 'em and let the better half raise 'em. No, not really!
It was Saturday at the zoo, also known as the Sledge household, and everything was moving along at its usual pace. Dad got to sleep in until about 8:30 or so, that's when Jackie Chan Adventures came on the tube and the three boys (who I shall refer to in this post as J, P and K) started playing out what was showing on the screen. Yes, sir, no better way to wake up than to three screaming kids. Instant Excedrin headache. So, after stumbling out of bed and schlepping to the back porch for the wakeup smoke (we don't smoke in the house), it's time to start the day. Oh joy. I just remembered I have to cantor at Mass tonight. So the better half lets me know that she's going out "shopping", and that I'm going to have to keep the kids from killing each other.
A little note about the little angels. The better half and I have been foster parents for the past 13 years or so, so at any given time we have between one and three foster kids in the house. Our specialty is "medically fragile infants", so at this particular time we have three children in diapers at the home. Sounds like a lot except when you consider two of the three are immobile due to medical problems, the least of which they are fed through tubes in their stomachs. Only one of the infants is mobile, and he has a set of lungs that won't quit, so there's no chance we'll forget he's there. The three at home which are mine and hers are all adopted. J is going to be 12 in a few days; he was a preemie, and at age 11 he's about the size of a typical 8 year old. He has ADHD and is moderately retarded. P will be 11 in a month; his birth mother was a drug addict, and he exhibits some mental problems, nothing serious yet. K is 4 and typifies the definition of a small boy: a loud noise surrounded by dirt. We also have our 19 year old living at home, but since he's usually out with his friends, we'll leave him out of the equation for the moment.
So Dad's trying to maintain order at the house (in my next life, I'm going to be a referee for WWE, by the way) and get a little work done to keep the house going. Yeah, right. Anyway, I get to Mass, come back home, and then the better half and I head out to Home Depot (her second home) to pick up a new string trimmer for the yard and new flooring for the kitchen. Gee, sounds like Sunday is going to be a lot of fun!
Sunday morning: hot and still. You could cut the air with a knife and still not be able to breathe it. So here he is, Caveman Dad, out in the heat and humidity, trying to assemble the string trimmer he purchased the night before. And who's helping him? Of course, J! Luckily it's a one man job (or so I told him), so he just stays back and watches for the most part, with a string of questions of course. Well, I get the bugger assembled, then I think, well, it's put together, might as well gas this sucker up and use it. It's already in the 90s outside, it's not quite 11 a.m., the humidity level is outrageous even for North Carolina this time of year, and Macho Dad is going to be out in the sun running a string trimmer. Never said I was long on brains. To make a long story short (what do you mean, it's too late? Bite me!), P now tells me that I'm REALLY a redneck. Great.
And people wonder why I love to go in to work in an air conditioned office building in beautiful downtown Raleigh on Monday mornings.
Oh yeah, I see that Meryl
survived the Blogathon. Wish I coulda been there for y'all, but as you can tell, my weekends are not my own.
I don't believe it. Another little girl kidnapped and killed. What is wrong with these people??? There is no penalty harsh enough for someone who would deliberately kill a child. However, give me a baseball bat and five minutes alone with the creep, and I guarantee you he will not do it again.
Faugh! I'm going to go wipe the foam off my mouth now, go home, and spend some time with my children, thanking God the entire time that I have them to love.
Little Samantha Runnion, who was kidnapped from her home the other day, has been found dead. Police at this point believe she was sexually molested before being killed and dumped in a shallow grave. You want monsters? People (and I use the term loosely) who would do this to a five-year-old girl are the monsters in our society. It makes me wish that there was a penalty more severe than the death penalty. The police believe it is the work of a serial rapist/killer. If it is, when they find him, I hope he "accidentally" gets roughed up before being booked; or maybe we'll get lucky and the sonofabitch will try to shoot it out with the police and get his head blown off.
I have lots more to say about this, but right now, my hands are shaking too much for me to type coherently. When I calm down, which probably won't be any time today, I'll probably have more to say. Pray for Samantha's family; they are going through hell right now. I lost a daughter myself, so I know how they must feel.
Here I sit, all broken-hearted
Tried to blog but couldn't get started.
I'll try again later; wish me luck!